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aregebidan · 3 years

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the nice one

Or: A small (1.6k) pile of angst featuring a darker take on the two eldest Feanorians, based on the popular fanon that Maglor is only known as “nice” because he’s good at propaganda and my own Discord Maglor headcanon.

tw: mentions of blood and torture

“Maglor?”

“Hmm?” he says, never taking his eyes off the worn parchment. The ink has smudged, the corners of the scroll damp and ragged from being carried through the battle, but the writing has somehow managed to survive both the clash of blades and the fell songs of the golden one. Now, safe in Himring, he must copy it down before some other danger strikes the precious notes.

The act also serves to calm him, drawing him into the familiar scratching rhythm of quill and ink, all delicate lines and quiet chords in the air that speak of peace safety honor. He is loath to separate himself from it, this piece of home, and so he does not make any further reply until his brother calls for him again: “Maglor.”

He should have noticed straight away: the way Maedhros stopped just outside the threshold of his new chamber instead of coming in, his awkward stance and slight shuffling, the fact that he called him by his Sindarin name instead of Kano or brother.

But it is past midnight, and they are both exhausted by the loss of the Gap, so he expects nothing out of the ordinary when he turns around and gives Maedhros his full attention. “What is it?”

Maedhros shifts, again, and he finally realizes something is wrong and puts down his quill. “Are they attacking us again?”

“No...”

“Well, then.” Maglor pitches his voice lower, tries to speak as clearly as possible. He hasn’t used his “King-Regent voice,” as the Ambarussa call it, in years, but he senses Maedhros needs someone else to be responsible now. “Tell me what you need me for.”

His brother fairly squirms. The only candle in the room flashes in Maedhros’ eyes, making him flinch, and Maglor reaches over to put it out, pulling back his hair with the other hand. Having it loose in the dark would bring back memories of... well. Suffice it to say it is not an option, especially on the bad days.

“We took some-” Maedhros’ jaw clenches, seemingly involuntarily. Maglor watches, concerned but strangely fascinated with this rare loss of control. For a moment he just looks like Maitimo-Nelyo again, frustrated with his brothers’ antics and able to express it.

That is, until the next words make it past his throat. “We took several of the orcs captive. I need you to make them talk.”

Maglor stills and glances up at his brother again, a tall shadow against the well-lit corridor outside. His brow is twisted in an emotion none would ever expect to see on a kinslayer, and it makes him look young again. Pity.

Make them talk. The others would not put it this way: they would say break them, or question them, or when Maedhros was away break them in, like a new weapon. But break him and question him further, then is what Thauron said in the pits of Angband, as far as Maglor could tell from his brother’s feverish sleep-talk in those dreadful few months after his rescue.

Maedhros, he realizes with a jolt, still considers himself to be in danger of becoming like his captors. The mental image slithers in- Maedhros standing over the orc prisoners, comparing himself to them, seeing some warped reflection of his stupid, beautiful self in them, avoiding the best decisions for their sake- and he is reaching for his swords before he knows it, pausing only at the stricken look on his brother’s face.

“Kano.”

Ah, it’s Kano now, is it, now that you have been reminded of what I am. He pulls back the words- even he has enough sense to keep that particular thought in his head- and smooths down his tunic as calmly as possible, if only to stop making fists.

“You may question them yourself, brother,” he says curtly. “You captured them, therefore they will fear you the more.”

Maedhros lets out a sudden, harsh laugh and takes a few more steps into the chamber. There you are, son of Fëanor. I have missed you. “You of all people should know that can easily be remedied.”

It hurts, how eager his heart becomes at these words. He shoves any more treacherous thoughts aside and lets some of this indignation into his next words, punctuating them with the kind of wild gesture that he thought he had left behind with the rest of his adolescence. “It is not my job to torture these prisoners at your beck and call-”

“So you admit it is torture?” Maedhros’ voice rises. “If you knew what this means for me, why in Arda would you want-”

“You have done plenty worse!”

“Nothing is worse to me.”

“They are the Dark One’s servants, not his foes- they are not as you are! I am trying to help you understand that, Nelyo-”

“And I,” Maedhros snaps, “am trying to do you a favor.”

Maglor freezes mid-gesture. Moonlight streams in through the window, showing the satisfaction and shame mingled on his brother’s face, and he has the absurd urge to slam the door shut, as if someone could be listening in on them at this hour.

“You go too far,” he whispers, hearing the terror in his own voice. It has been centuries since they agreed never to speak of this again; is Maedhros so sympathetic to his captives that he is ready to break his word to his own brother?

“I go this far because I am concerned for you, because you are not the only one who worries,” Maedhros retorts. “I have heard the tales of your fight with the golden beast.”

Maglor spits out a curse and ducks his head; the weight of Maedhros’ most disappointed stare is too much for any single elf to bear, oath-bound and insane or no. “They were not meant to tell you…”

“Your people spoke of darkness and sounds of death.” Maedhros advances in small, careful steps, aiming his words like the Ambarussa aim their arrows. “How long will it be until your veneer breaks again, brother? How many have you convinced that your false face is your true self, now? The kind one, the nice one, the soft one, the only one here with a conscience. What would they say if they could see you for yourself?”

Maglor finds that his eyes are suddenly stinging. “I do have a conscience.”

“And it only comes out at the worst possible moments.” The shadow of Nelyo comes into Maedhros’ face again as he reaches out to push back Maglor’s hair with his left hand, loving and brutally honest in equal measure. “I do not know much of what happened to you at Alqualondë, but I know that it pains you to keep it locked in after a battle. I do not want to see you hurt, brother. I cannot say that is the only reason I avoided speaking to the prisoners, but it is by far the most important.”

Ah, so they are getting to the heart of the matter now. Alqualondë.

Alqualondë, where he had used his music as a weapon for the first time, half mad with the ease with which his voice flowed, his darkest thoughts translating perfectly into the realm of sound. Alqualondë, where the bodies were piled high and the crimson color of the blood on his swords had matched the blood from his own throat, dry and torn up by the first battle-song he had ever dared bring to life.

They had all died and come back in some way during that first battle, but something else had come back with Makalaurë, something cruel and sharp-toothed and hungry that Maedhros couldn’t stand to come near in these first terrible months after Angamandi.

The Discord, he had called it, the song of the enemy. The very essence of him, carried on his own voice.

And Maglor, deep in denial, had built up his reputation, only to ruin it by facing the golden one.

He has to fight to keep himself in the present; the memories have grown too strong now, hissing in his ears, burrowing into the cracks in his mind. “You are trying to distract me.”

His brother’s face is unflinchingly understanding, as frightened by their many hard truths as the Calacirya may be by a summer wind. “I am trying to help.”

It is easy, so easy to yield when he puts it that way. Maglor inhales slowly and feels the walls of his mind come down, letting the beat of fire-blood-ruin and the cold notes of his swords wash away all other thoughts like waves smoothing out the sand of a beach. The moon has hidden itself again; he looks up from the floor and absently notes that his hands have grown paler, and the ache in his throat has disappeared.

“We will speak of this again soon, brother.”

Maedhros tenses at the sound of his real voice, and a last pang of guilt lodges in his heart before it is swept away again. His brother knew that was coming; he is not to blame for his fear.

The prisoners’ fear, on the other hand…

He sighs, thrilled and embarrassed at himself in equal parts, and takes up one of his swords, letting the tip of the blade scrape against the floor as he heads out. “Tell your guards to go to sleep. You don’t need them anymore.”

His brother calls him again, softly, but he refuses to bring Lady Nerdanel into this mess by answering to the name she gave to her son; instead he merely raises his free hand and turns a corner, putting Maedhros and the ink and parchment behind him.

If anything, he means to find out what they call the beast from the Gap. Perhaps he can repay him for his people’s pain if they should ever cross paths again.

#my writing #fanfiction #maglor #maedhros #tolkien #silmarillion #feanorians #discord maglor au #this was written at 11pm and i am sorry #they're both disasters that's all i wanted to say and then it exploded

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macabretrees · 4 years

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In which Maglor volunteers his services to the Fellowship, and Elrond has his opinions.

Elrond has a habit of forgetting that Maglor is a Son of Feanor, regardless of the years he’s spent in Imladris. And when the opportunity comes to face Sauron again, Maglor seizes it.

-----

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Elrond rounded the corner before Maglor could make his escape to his chambers.

“No, but you certainly are,” sidestepping his foster son, Maglor pushed opened to door, “Halflings? Elrond? Hallfings? And yes the Ranger and the other man are helpful, but against legions of orcs?”

(Elrond had wanted to make a case for Aragorn, being from Elros’ line and all. Though he knew it would fall on deaf ears. All men were the same to Maglor. He’d lost hope after Isuldor.)

He spoke through clanging and banging, as he knelt down and sorted the objects from one of the many chests he kept in his bedroom. Elrond peered over him, taking notice of the relics he hoarded. As expected, he was selecting his armor.

“There is...an elf.” Muttered the lord, in an attempt to defend his choice.

“A child, Elrond.” Maglor corrected, “And a dwarf.”

There was little point in trying to defend the latter, though Elrond persisted nonetheless.

“That dwarf volunteered when no one else would! They all volunteered when no one else would. Does that not speak of their courage--of their strength?”

“Your wisdom won’t work on me Elrond, not when it was me who you learned it from,” he stood to full height surveying what he’d picked out. A traveling cloak, armor--though very little, a sword, and knives.

“And if anything, it speaks of their naivety.” He added as he began looking again.

“And you are not being naive? Do you truly believe that your addition to the company can make a difference?”

“Remember who you speak to, Elrond.” Maglor looked over his shoulder, “I don’t believe I can make a difference alone, but I believe they all have a better chance of surviving if I come with them.”

Elrond sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t meant to come off as so disrespectful, but the mere idea of losing someone else was heart-wrenching. He had already known Arwen’s fate and known that his sons would refuse to sail.

And now Maglor had volunteered himself for the Fellowship of the Ring. He didn’t doubt his father’s strength, but he doubted his restraint. How far would Maglor go to ensure the safety of the group? Just what would he sacrifice?

“I meant no disrespect,” Elrond apologized, earnestly, “I’m simply…”

“Afraid?” Maglor suggested, “it’s alright. We’re all afraid. I’ve been afraid since I left home.”

Elrond smiled sadly. Maglor always had a way of capturing just what he was feeling. It’s what made it so easy to come to him and seek counsel. The mere thought of that going away, on some fool’s journey, terrified him.

There was a large clang that brought Elrond out of his despair, and he turned his attention towards a large, obnoxious looking blade. It was certainly aged, but had lost none of its luster or edge.

On the hilt was a Feanorian star.

“Is that Maedhros’ sword?” Elrond’s eyes grew glossy and wide, “I’ve been looking for it...for ages.”

It had been crafted by Feanor himself, or so the Feanorians had told him.

“It was my father’s first,” Maglor corrected, “The power it has…”

“Perhaps you could use another,” Elrond’s hands were on the blade before he realized it, the tips of his fingers kissing the cool metal. He nearly jolted at the sensation of power that coursed through him, “It’s a shame to bring such an artifact to war.”

“And what will you do? Hang it on a wall?” Maglor snorted, “just as you do every one of my weapons?”

“Let’s make a deal,” the weapon had found itself in Elrond’s hand, having disarmed his father with practiced ease, “Come back in one piece, and you can take this blade, and the rest I’ve mounted on the wall.”

“I don’t need your deals to survive this journey, Elrond. I’m a Son of Feanor,” he smiled, “I’ll survive this with spite.”

“And besides,” the elf knelt once more and began surveying the chest, “That is not my greatest weapon.”

He stood now, and in his hand was silver harp with golden strings.

He handed the harp to Elrond, and the elf took it gently. Unlike the blade, no power radiated from it. Aside from it’s beauty, the harp was utterly harmless.

“This harp is plain, father. There is no power to it.”

“Was the world not forged of music, my son?” Maglor smiled as he took his harp.

Elrond raised a brow.

“The harp isn’t the weapon, Elrond.” He clarified, “It will simply amplify what already is.”

“And what is that, Maglor?” Asked the elven Lord.

He turned and looked at him, his eyes darker than they had been before, “Me.”

“And I’ve owed Mairon a visit since the First Age.“ For Finrod. For Celebrimbor. For Celebrian. For Maedhros, went unspoken, though Elrond could hear it as clear as day.

So Maglor’s journey was not entirely selfless?

Good, Elrond thought to himself.

“By the time this War is over, you’ll have more than swords to hang on your wall, my son.” He smiled, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Elrond found himself unable to speak, left in the wake of his father as he exited the room.

Though he wondered where in his home he’d be able to put the head of Sauron.

#maglor #elrond #lotr #lord of the rings #the silmarilllion #silmarillion #beware of the spelling errors but no one but my profos get my best spelling #my writing #maglor fucks it up with music

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fuckingfinwions · 4 years

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AU: In Noldorin culture, starting at his majority at age 50, an elf sexually serves his father. After all, so much was putting into raising the child, it’s only fair that he gets to see what came of it. It would be abhorrent for a father to physically force or to sexually torment his son, but the son is expected to come to his father’s bed whenever requested, until the son reaches his second majority (age 100), or marries and starts a family of his own.

This fulfills the “leather/rubber” square of my season of kink card.

Gil-Galad and Maedhros sat across from each other. They had met at an abandoned village halfway between the two camps so that Elrond and Elros could go to the large, safer force. The main negotiations had been completed by letter, but now the two commanders were finally seeing each other face to face. Both had left their swords outside to demonstrate truce, though there were guards close enough to make betrayal costly.

Gil-Galad said, “Thank you for releasing the boys. What did you want to speak with me about?”

“That’s all the warmth you have to welcome your father?” Maedhros replied.

“As you are a murderer who hasn’t spoken to me since I was twelve, yes.”

“I sent you away for your safety after the war seemed hopeless. Do you really wish you had fought alongside me these past fifty years?”

“No!”

“Anyway, that touches on what I wanted to speak with you about. I have missed you, though even without me you have grown into a strong king.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

“I have also missed the chance to see how you’ve grown as a man, as the reflection of my lover and myself. I would have that tonight.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Why not? You are my son, and I have the right to you. I’m not even considering repayment for the decades you stayed away from me.”

“It is a perverted tradition, and you are worthy of nothing.”

“This has nothing to do with your opinions of my actions. It is a part of Noldorin tradition as much as the crown; you can’t claim one without the other.”

“What would my other father say of this if he were here? Would Fingon be as willing to bend me over the nearest scrap of furniture?”

“You’ve truly been among Sindar too long! The homage of a son to his father is perfectly reasonable and honorable, not merely the refuge of immoral creatures such as you consider me. Fingon and I discussed that we would raise you to understand Noldorin customs and responsibility, and he would be grieved that you turn your back on them.”

“If being among Sindar allowed me to see clearly what is unnatural and marred about having sex with someone you raised from a child, I am glad of it.”

“Unnatural! What could be more natural than to wish how to see the person you find most beautiful in the world combines with yourself? And if you object to sex with someone who raised you, that should make me more appealing rather than less.”

A terrible thought occurred to GIl-Galad. “If you think this way, I assume your brother does as well, and he raised Elwing’s sons. Were they forced to pay for their care the same way?”

“You are phrasing it in the worst possible way, but no. Though the twins call Maglor 'father’, he does not claim any rights over them. And besides, as Peredhel it is hard to know when they are of age.”

Gil-Galad let out a sigh of relief.

“You, though, are my son, and I am growing frustrated that you will acknowledge that but not your duties.”

“Why should I? What benefit will I get out of pretending you deserve anything from me?!”

“Benefit! Fine, then, if you want to cheapen yourself by bartering your body I can hardly stop you. First off, I won’t have my men shoot you tomorrow as you ride away, even though it would help me a lot for the Beleriand Noldor to have no king. Second, I will not tell your followers who curse my name whose son you are, nor will I tell Arafinwe either that you’re mine or that you have less respect for tradition and law than Feanor himself, even though it’s true.”

“So you put me in your bed through threats and blackmail.”

“It could have been out of your own desire and respect, but you decided that was not enough. I you need to be bribed with a treat though, I will tell you in the morning all the tactics that Morgoth has employed in the past five hundred years, so you can better defend against them.”

“You paying only after me? Hardly fair.”

“I am already paying for what is mine by right. I think you have heard quite well what happens to those who try to extort me.”

“Fine. For tonight, I will obey you, Father.”

“Good. Start by taking off your armor, I can hardly see the shape of you.”

Gil-Galad did so, setting each piece off to the side and wondering if this was all an attempt to get him vulnerable enough for an assassination. He struggled with the buckles on the back of his thighs, usually having a squire to help with them.

Maedhros approached, and Gil-Galad tensed. Maedhros undid the buckles that Gil-Galad had been having trouble with, then moved upwards. Maedhros kissed the back of Gil-Galad’s neck as he undid the buckles on his shoulders.

When Gil-Galad was down to his tunic and hose, Maedhros said “very good. Help me with mine now; as I’m not wearing full plate it should be faster.”

Gil-Galad pulled the mail tunic over Maedhros’s head, and wondered aloud, “Even with each other’s help, are we going to be able to put all this back on?”

Maedhros gave an uncaring shrug once he was down to his leather riding pants and jerkin. “Probably not.”

“But people will know!”

“Maglor will guess, but no one else knows you’re my son. You can say that we were working late into the night and sleeping in armor is uncomfortable. Or you can say that the vile kinslayer threatened you into sex, I don’t particularly care. Just know that if anyone tries to avenge your honor their death will be on your conscience.”

“Are you-” Gil-Galad bit off the comment he was going to make. “Don’t joke about that tonight; not if you want me to stay polite.”

“If you inherited the family temper, you ought to practice controlling it more, especially as a king,” Maedhros chided. “But very well.”

Maedhros stepped back and looked at Gil-Galad; he made a pretty picture. His clothes had been disheveled by the armor’s removal and Gil-Galad had not bothered to put them back in place.

“You look pretty, but I’m sure I’ll enjoy what’s under the clothes even more. Undress for me, slowly.”

Gil-Galad began to unlace his shirt. He looked Maedhros in the eye for a moment, then hastily glanced away. Once the shirt was unlaced at the neck he lifted it a few inches, paused to glance at Maedhros without making eye contact, lifted it an inch more and paused again. Maedhros was about to yell in frustration when Gil-Galad yanked the shirt up until was all bunched between his nipples and chin and wiggled his shoulders, perhaps to show of their breadth.

Gil-Galad was so obviously nervous that he nearly got his arms stuck in the shirt, but Maedhros was far too distracted to help. Maedhros had been right about how much he would enjoy seeing his son’s body. The breadth in the shoulders was all Fingon, but light skin dotted with freckles was barely a shade darker than Maedhros’s own. Gil-Galad’s height came from him as well, and that lovely chest several inches closer to Maedhros’s gaze than when he was with Fingon.

Their similar heights also made Gil-Galad’s lack of eye contact extremely obvious. He wasn’t looking up from his lashes and playing the ingenue, but rather staring at a fixed point a few inches past Maedhros’s left ear. It couldn’t be the ear itself, as that had been gone for centuries, and most people didn’t find it’s lack interesting after a moment or two of shock.

“There’s no need to be nervous. Even if I’m not your first choice of lover, I assure you that I will not cause you pain and have every intention of bringing you pleasure alongside my own.”

Gil-Galad blushed and mumbled for a moment.

“What was that?”

“Not my first choice, but my first all the same.”

“Really? You’re a virgin?”

“Yes. It hasn’t seemed worth the headache pursuing anyone.”

“Are there none who pursue you?” Maedhros asked as he walked closer.

Gil-Galad shook his head.

“You mean that a beautiful, brave, noble young man such as yourself has not yet been recognized as the treasure you are?” Maedhros was now standing with his clothed chest less than an inch from Gil-Galad’s bare one, still refraining from touching. He leaned close and whispered in his son’s ear, “That is a travesty I will thoroughly make up for tonight.”

Gil-Galad shivered and turned his head to look Maedhros in the eye. Maedhros held his gaze for only a moment before leaning in still further, capturing his lips and pressing against his front.

Gil-Galad had remained soft until now, but the leather laces rubbing against his chest began to stir him. He reached for them to try and get the two of them back on equal footing, but Maedhros caught his hand.

“Lately, I am more beautiful while clothed. You are magnificent though, and I expect I’ll like what’s under your trousers even more. Take them of; I want to see all of you,” Maedhros said, backing up a few inches so Gil-Galad could have room.

Gil-Galad did. The tent was chilly, and he leaned back towards Maedhros as soon as possible. His cock brushed against Maedhros’s thigh, the leather sticking and releasing.

“You certainly get the length from me, but that curve is all Fingon. I wonder if liking your balls played with is a family trait as well.” Maedhros reached down with his right arm, the left being occupied tracing patterns on Gil-Galad’s back. Maedhros wore an odd sort of glove on the handless wrist, but he had a lot of practice and was very skillful with it. He caressed Gil-Galad’s sack, letting the leather glove drag along the sensitive skin while never pressing too hard.

Gil-Galad moaned.

“It seems so,” Maedhros said, drifting his fingers lower as his right arm maintained its place.

Gil-Galad started forward when his father’s fingers found their goal. Even one finger was more than he had ever had inside him, and he was scared of how large a cock would feel.

Maedhros said, “Deep breaths, relax and just focus on what you’re feeling right now.”

Gil-Galad let his head rest on Maedhros’s shoulder and did so, inhaling the musky scent of the leather overlaid with the oil worked in to keep it clean. It was heady.

Maedhros was starting to sweat, but he had no intention of undressing beyond what was necessary, and not until the time it was necessary. He let the sweat run down his face and into his collar as he trailed kisses across his son’s face.

Gil-Galad was practically overwhelmed with sensation. The finger inside him had found a spot that made him see stars. Every time he tried to move away his cock rubbed against the firm leather of Maedhros’s pants, or against the sleeve where Maedhro’s arm was still toying with his balls. The kisses were a light contrast, until Maedhros began kissing his lips as well.

Gil-Glad came the moment is father’s tongue parted his lips. He threw back his head and moaned. Maedhros looked sweaty but still fully dressed as if he had come in from the training yard - with the exception of a very obvious white stain on one thigh and halfway up his belly. Gil-Galad thought he could have come again from the sight alone.

“I’d say this night is off to a very good start,” Maedhros remarked, making no move to wipe away the mess.

#season of kink #incest eromenos au #fucking gil galad #this scene takes place in F.A. 555 and Gil-Galad was born in F.A. 460 #making him 95 and definitely an adult but not seen as societally mature #warning for incest advocacy by one of the characters #things that are relevant in this au:#feanor and arafinwe both married young #Feanor didn't like the association with Indis #and although the norm is only for same-gender parent and child to have sex in this au #there's some showing off that's expected between spouses #and Feanor was not going to let Indis see him naked and vulnerable #Arafinwe married young because he believes he's Finwe's least favorite son and didn't want to keep being aware how he was falling short #once you've had the fire of Feanor and the strength of Nolofinwe in your bed why would you want him?#Arafinwe wanted to avoid hearing Finwe reassure him that he was familiar and cozy #(and he was in love with Earwen and such but there's no reason they couldn't have waited a decade if he'd wanted to)#one day late but happy father's day ;)#not archived yet

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outofangband · 4 years

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Second Celegorm and Maedhros snippet for the astoundingly talented @huanhoundofvalinor

This one is a little more sad. Celegorm during Maedhros’s imprisonment, unsure of his brother’s fate.

First one is here.

This could be seen as a continuation of my piece where Maglor, Celegorm, and Caranthir get news of Maedhros’s capture but you don’t have to have read that one either! (if you want to though, the link is here!)

Celegorm scowled as he glanced up towards the distant mountains, kicking a rock as he continued down the overgrown path. He knew he was being foolish. Childish even. Though his ears still stung as this particular word rang through them. For the first time since he was very small, Huan had put his being in front of him to prevent a reckless blow Celegorm was planning on throwing at his older brother. But Maglor was right and he knew it. After the evidence of the massacre they had discovered, it would be disastrous to spend more time and elves on another search. Even if the search as for their own king, the only member of the party that had set off to treat with the Moringotto (Celegorm’s scowl turned into an even darker grimace of mingled resentment, grief, and guilt) Nelyo was the only one not found. They had searched all throughout the land, of course but with little hopes. And the scroll they had received not long after had barely seemed to have come as a shock to some of his advisers and family. Celegorm had known what their answer would have to be even before Maglor spoke aloud. He didn’t want to think it was right, though. Yes, it likely was not wise to attempt a protracted correspondence with the Dark Foe (even if there were many things Celegorm wished to say to him), but he could not stop the frantic fluttering feeling within him as he remembered the words on the scroll. Celegorm kicked another rock, looking up with some guilt as an unseen creature, probably one of the long, ring tailed bandits, scrambled further up their tree in alarm at the elf’s gesture of anger and distress. He was unsure how their situation could possibly get any worse.

(the next snippet will be more cheerful!)

#Celegorm #Maedhros #The Silmarillion #short writings #silmfic

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celebrimbooooor · 6 years

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HC or fic (whichever you'd prefer) request: the Feanorians + fashion sense

Ok, going in birth order without exact specifics because I don't totally know what the Noldor Aesthetic that I picture is, exactly:

Maedhros: tends to be a bit more understated. He gets a lot of attention for being very tall and red-haired and Fëanor's eldest son, so he tries not to add to that with whatever he's wearing. There will, however, be small but very present Fëanorian stars on a lot of things (like breastplates but even embroidered onto tunics).

Maglor: dresses simply in terms of design--much of his look tends to be made of flowing fabrics with little embellishment. However, he puts a lot of thought into what he wears: the colors and patterns mesh very well together, and one can tell that the fabrics themselves are all of fine quality. He's a fan of florals and subtle stripes.

Celegorm: always looks good even though his clothes are seemingly only designed to be functional and comfortable. Never fastens his tunic all the way, or at all. Some of his robes should probably have buttons, yet they don't. This is rarely questioned. He's a fan of leaf and vine patterns, though he doesn't often wear them. If the Noldor had camo, he would wear it.

Caranthir: the most shiny. Has a large collection of jewelry that he wears frequently, and is good at embellishing all of his outfits with it, even to an unnecessary degree. His favorite color is a very deep red, even though it can bring out the red in his face, which he isn't a fan of. Realistically, he most often wears black (it's practical, and sets off the jewelry).

Curufin: did not care very much about his clothing until he felt the responsibility of Representing The Family. Most things match. Most of it is in neutral tones. He embellishes it with pieces of jewelry he's made, so you can be reminded that he's a very good smith, like his father. Fëanorian stars are very present.

Ambarussar: do not wear exactly the same thing at the same time. It's not fun anymore now that Amrod's hair is darker so exactly no one will confuse them. When they aren't in the forest, they like bright colors and patterns--they'll wear whatever weird patterns are available. Not jewelry fans since that can easily get in the way (and is noticeable if you're trying to hunt). If they're joint rulers of a kingdom in the southeast, they have "official" outfits that are fairly similar but do not match. If one died earlier that's not applicable is it

#fëanorians #silmarillion #concepts #i had so much fun thinking about this #jane-ways

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doodlecharme · 4 years

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Should A Star Fall, The Sky Won’t Go Black (Part 1)

Written for TRSB2020! This fic is based on artwork done by the wonderful @arlenianchronicles and can be found on her new tumblr page here and on her DeviantArt right here. Her AO3 can be found here.

AO3

Part 2

Rating: PG 13

Warnings: Mentions of violence, major character deathRelationships: Maedhros & Elurín, Eluréd & Elurín, Maedhros & Maglor & Amras

Characters: Maedhros, Eluréd, Elurín, Maglor, Amras

Summary: The stars may be sacred to all of the eldar, but for some, they may have a little bit more meaning.

or: Elurín has a nightmare that leaves him lost and confused, and Maedhros helps guide him back onto his path with the help of the night sky.

A/N: This was my first time writing anything longer than 2k but I’m pretty happy with how it turned out :3 it’ll be updated and adjusted in the near future once it’s done being beta-read and edited, so watch out for that!

Chapter 1

Shrieks echoed through the halls of Menegroth.

Elurín and Eluréd sat alone on the floor in the throne room, just at the foot of Díor and Nimloth’s thrones. Other than the clattering of wood pieces on the floor, the whole room and surrounding halls were silent.

Eluréd stared down at what little remained of the wooden fortress they had built, scowling. “I told you not to put that block there. Look! You knocked it down!”

“And now we can build something else,” Elurín answered easily, piling the fallen bricks to the side. Eluréd’s shoulders slumped. “A better castle, or something new. What do you want to do?”

Eluréd shrugged. “I guess we could build a new fortress… oh!” He sat up, eyes bright. “We should see how tall of a tower we can build before it falls over!”

Elurín smiled in agreement and started placing blocks for a base.

Elurín! Eluréd!

Elurín sighed and stood, leaving the blocks where they were. They could come back and put them away later… he made a face as he realized Nana would not be happy with them if they did, and looking down at himself, realised she wouldn’t be happy with the dust on his nice blue robes, either. He turned to look back at his brother as he tried to brush off some of the dust.

Eluréd had yet to move, and now stared up at Elurín, frowning. “Is something wrong? Do you not want to play blocks anymore?”

Elurín just blinked at him. “Nana called us- did you not hear her?” Eluréd continued to frown at him. Elurín looked to the exit, waiting for her to call again, but when he heard nothing, he turned back to his brother.

“If you wanted to do something else, you could have just said so,” Eluréd replied, eyebrows drawn tightly together as he came to his feet. Not a single speck of dust rested on his clothes, Elurín noticed, even though some of the dust had smeared black on his own. Eluréd crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “You did not have to knock down our fortress for that.”

“Nana called for us,” Elurín repeated with a frown. “We should go find her. You know she does not like to yell for us unless it is important.”

Eluréd! Elurín! Where are you?

“Come on, Nana and Ada are waiting!” Elurín grabbed his brother’s arm as he took off running, Eluréd in tow. “Coming Nana!”

Something flashed across Eluréd’s face as Elurín glanced back– Elurín wasn’t sure, but his brother almost seemed to become glittering white for just a fraction of a moment – until Elurín blinked and his brother was simply frowning at him in confusion.

“Elurín – Elurín, wait!” Eluréd wrenched his arm out of Elurín’s grip once they were in the hallway and the pair stopped. The large tapestries around them fluttered like leaves in the wind, and candlelight flickered off the richly colored threads woven into them. Elurín turned to face his brother. “Where are you going? We are not supposed to leave yet, Adar told us to stay here and play until he came to get us. We do not even know where he is!”

Elurín grabbed Eluréd’s hand and started pulling him along once again. “They are probably with Elwing. Come on, we can go check there first.”

Eluréd smiled mischievously. He suddenly pushed Elurín into a tapestry, breaking the hold Elurín had on his brother and immediately taking off down the hall with a cackle while Elurín righted himself and gave chase. “Race you there!”

“Hey!”

The two boys raced down the hall, laughing good-naturedly. Elurín remained just a little ways behind Eluréd though he tried as hard as he could to catch up, but that did not matter too much to him. He loved the feeling of the wind in his hair, on his legs… he didn’t care about winning. He was having fun.

As they ran, the halls started to dim, and the turns and landmarks became more and more unfamiliar. Elurín’s laughter died off as he started to slow, growing worried that they had taken the wrong path. “Eluréd… Eluréd, I think-”

“Come on, run faster! I will leave you behind if you cannot catch up!” Eluréd whooped. He did not slow down at all, and the distance between them began to grow. “Hurry up!”

“Eluréd, wait- I think we made a wrong turn, we should go back-”

“Come on, Adar is this way! We are almost there!”

Elurín came to a halt, watching his brother disappear around another corner. “Eluréd! Wait-!”

Eluréd’s laughter echoed through the halls as his footsteps faded, bouncing off of the floor, the ceiling, and every wall. “Catch me if you can!”

Footsteps tapered off into silence.

“Eluréd!”

“Nana!”

“ADA!”

With no answer coming from any direction, Elurín took off running again, following the general direction Eluréd had gone. The halls twisted and turned, and even though Elurín thought he knew his home well, in whatever area he was in every tapestry and hall looked the same and Elurín quickly realized he was completely lost in the maze of hallways.

Eluréd! Elurín! Where are you?

Where have you gone, boys? Where have you run off to?

“Ada! Nana!”

Elurín came to another stop, panting and out of breath. He was lost. Completely and utterly lost; even Nana and Ada’s voices were no help in guiding him, as they seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Tears blurred his vision with the frustration of the situation. Nana had called for them, and not only had he fallen behind and lost his brother but had also managed to get lost in the hallways of his own home!

Though the tapestries fluttered beside him, Elurín no longer found relief in the form of a cool breeze. Rather, the air around him had become warm and heavy. It reminded him of the warm hearth of his bedroom, and he took a seat on the floor, just to rest his legs for a moment, and wished that that was where he was now, with his Nana tucking him in and kissing his forehead goodnight. He closed his eyes and relaxed, letting a tear or two fall into his lap. Just a quick nap, perhaps, and then I will keep looking…

Elurín heard faint crackling emanating from the hallway he had just run through.

He opened his eyes again and looked back down the hall. Nobody seemed to be coming; all was silent, save for the quiet crackling, and the whisper-light whooshing of the tapestries as they swayed in the breeze Elurín had created. Elurín sighed and stood, backtracking towards the crackling.

He paused a few steps away.

Why were the tapestries still moving?

Elurín looked around, and sure enough, even though he was still, the tapestries seemed to sway and move and dance as though a strong breeze was passing through the hallway. That was definitely not the case. The air in the hall was thick and cloying, and now that Elurín was paying attention, the ends of the hallways were starting to look a little hazy.

A flicker of light caught Elurín’s eye, and he looked to the tapestries once again. Small motes of light danced on them, making the images of soldiers in battle seem to come alive. An echo of clashing metal and screaming bled into the hall, and Elurín gasped, turning to look down the hallway… nothing was there. He looked the other way, and found nothing there, either. The echoes faded away. Hesitantly, he turned to face the tapestry once again.

One of the orcs depicted in this particular tapestry seemed to turn to ash right in front of Elurín’s eyes. The golden threads of the soldier’s armor waved as though he walked in sunlight... until he, too, turned to ash, the patch of blackness spreading through the tapestry, and Elurín realized that light was not reflecting off of golden thread and the tapestries were not waving on a breeze.

The halls were on fire!

Elurín! Eluréd! We cannot find you!

Where have you gone, boys?

Elurín turned and ran, away from the crackling. Behind him, the sound only grew louder, and tapestries caught fire and burned to ash alongside him. The smoke grew thicker, the air hotter, and the halls darker as he ran, looking for a way out.

Eluréd! Elurín!

“Nana! HELP!”

Tears streamed down his face. What was he supposed to do? He did not know where he was, and he had no idea how to get out; nobody seemed to be around to help guide him. He just kept running, barely paying attention to where he was going so long as it was away from the now roaring flames he could see behind him.

A cool breeze washed over his face, and he almost cried tears of joy, until the path abruptly grew so dark Elurín could not see a thing in front of him.

Something brushed his cheek and he let out a startled yelp, flinching away from it. Something else scratched along his arm, caught in his hair, and tore at his clothes, and when he batted it away it poked his hands with sharp points. When another of these things whacked him in the face he was finally able to get a brief look at it.

A tree branch! He was outside!

Whispers started to rise from behind him, and looking back, Elurín saw tendrils of smoke, darker than others, start to roll into the path behind him. When he glanced back again as the whispers grew louder, the smoke was still collecting, still pouring in, but strange lumps had appeared above it, and the way it moved…

Something black glinted in the light of the fires, and Elurín caught sight of what looked like a sword, just as the first roll of smoke solidified into a person.

The cool breeze he had felt quickly turned bitterly cold as he continued to run, more and more of the smoke people gathering behind him. He could no longer hear his Ada or Nana over the unintelligible whispers of the smoke people, who continued to grow in numbers as more and more joined in from the shadows of the burning trees around him. Some reached for him, trying to pull at his hair or robes, but Elurín was just too far ahead of them yet, dodging them with ease.

His feet suddenly felt cold and wet as something started to stick to them. He looked down only to see snow under his feet. Flakes started to fall gently from the sky.

The fires of Menegroth still raged behind him, consuming the trees and throwing sparks up into the night skies. The shadow people ran through the blaze, caring little for the flames that licked at their ghostly forms nor for the cold wind they ran into. Elurín kept running as fast as he could for what felt like hours, gasping and shivering and sobbing as the wind and the snow picked up and whipped painfully at his face and arms. His feet and hands had gone numb some time ago, but he could not stop, the whispers and cries and shrieks behind him kept growing louder and louder and he sobbed, he just wanted it to stop –

His foot caught on something hidden under the snow, and he cried out as he stumbled, falling face-first into the snow. He had to keep going; he pushed himself to his knees, only to shriek and fall back into the snow, scrambling away from what lay before him as everything fell still.

Silver hair fluttered like a breeze on the wind. Tattered blue robes glistened with a million tiny crystals, and new ones piled on top as the snow continued to fall, coating the body in a thin sheet of ice. The skin of the hand that stretched out from them was so pale it was practically the same color as the snow beneath it, the tips of the fingers blue and waxy. A gust of wind whipped up the hair, revealing the sleeping face of a boy nearly identical to Elurín’s own.

“NO!”

A snarl erupted from behind him and Elurín whirled around, immediately coming to face a pair of silver-grey eyes peering out through the shadows of the trees. Dark as stone but sharper than a blade, they did not waver or break his gaze, nor did they blink.

Massive wolves, easily ten times Elurín’s size, emerged from the shadows in the trees and began to surround him. The largest left the shadows last, body mottled with scars and matted fur. Saliva dripped from their snarling mouths, flecks of gold glinted on their muzzles, moonlight glistened off the copper-red fur, and the snowflakes sizzled as they landed on their backs. Only the way back into the halls of Menegroth remained open in the circle they had made, but even that offered Elurín no escape as the shadows that had followed him came running out of the flames still flickering along the path, joining the ranks of the wolves as they closed in.

Elurín was surrounded.

Ghostly hands grabbed at his hair, his arms, his clothes, anything within reach as they closed in. they tore at his clothes and pulled his hair. Elurín began to shriek at them to get off and fought back as best he could, but the hands would just dissipate and more would reappear in their place. They pulled him back, into the shadows, and the red wolves snarled and barked, lunging forward-

Elurín! Eluréd!

Yips and whines pierced the air, and the shadow figures drew back, dissipating one by one into the snowy air. Elurín glanced around, his heart hammering in his chest as he watched the wolves shrink back into the shadows, cowering. What made them so scared? Why would they leave, what would make them leave?

His eyes locked on two dark figures that walked slowly through the corridor of flames, and Elurín felt his stomach drop.

Elurín, my son...

The figures looked familiar. One, a man with dark brown hair and a silver circlet on his brow, tall and strong. The other shorter with flowing silver hair similar to Elurín’s own. That was where the familiarities ended.

Ada Díor’s crown was tarnished and bent, not shining bright like Elurín remembered it. Both elves’ skin was pale and translucent, their faces gaunt, and their eyes sunken. Their once-beautiful robes were tattered, torn, and hanging off them, and their hair was matted and filthy. The figure that was once Nana Nimloth limped forwards, one hand outstretched.

My son…

I loved you, my son. Why did you run from me? Why have you abandoned me?

Elurín scrambled away from the thing, pressing back against the tree. Their voices were wrong; Nana’s voice was grating and painful, not the musical tone he remembered, and goose bumps rose on his arms. “No- Nana, no, I did not abandon you-”

You left me. You and your brother left me, and replaced me.

“Nana, no, I could never replace you-”

The figures stopped and tilted their heads, regarding Elurín with empty eyes. What’s wrong, Elurín? Don’t you love me?

Is he better than us?

Elurín froze, everything inside him suddenly growing cold. He? Who were they talking about? He had only had them, and Elwing, and Eluréd. But these figures – everything about them was wrong, their voices, their faces, their movements – did he truly have them?

He looked to the spot beside him, but Eluréd was gone. All that remained was his imprint. He looked back up to his Ada, who stared at him unblinkingly.

Your brother has already chosen.

Whatever these things were, they were not his parents.

“A-ada… Nana…”

An unnatural smile split across his Nana’s face, pulling her face in all the wrong ways, and she lunged at him like a cat pouncing on its prey. A bone-chilling screech erupted from her.

Elurín screamed.

#TRSB20 #elurin #elured #silmarillion #nightmare #angst

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