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#finweans deserve to laugh more
azaisya · 6 years
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galadriel and finrod sharing a laugh !
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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years
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you mentioned your headcanons on when and if other finweans forgive maedhros... if you wanted to share some (or all) of them I'd be very interested!
Okay, wow, I have a lot of thoughts on this….it basically covers large parts of a fanfic that I’ve had broadly plotted out in my head for a long time but am completely incapable of actually writing.
This is going to be very long (EDIT: extremely long, apparently) - and rather messier and more scattershot than my usual posts - so I’m putting it under a cut.  This one only covers events in the Halls of Mandos; I would need another one to lay out post-Mandos headcanons, if I can put it together.
Fingon is deeply conflicted and unhappy about Maedhros; he’s horrified by Maedhros’ actions, but he can’t stop caring about him even if he wanted to, and he doesn’t know what’s happened to him after death and isn’t sure he wants to know. For at least the first couple hundred years that Maedhros is in the Halls, he’s in extremely bad shape and is not communicating with or visible to anyone. (This is not unusual for elves who are wrapped up in their own thoughts or deliberately avoiding others.) And between Maedhros’ actions, and the manner of his death, and the Oath, Fingon can’t be sure of whether he’s even in the Halls, or if he refused the Halls and is a lost spirit, or even if he’s in the void.
Fingolfin is sympathetic to his son’s pain but doesn’t really see any hope for Maedhros, and tries to say that it’s hard, but that sometimes you have to accept that you’ve lost someone you love to evil and they’re not coming back. Fingolfin’s lost his brother (who he still has complicated feelings about. Aulë has lost people. Even Manwë has lost his brother -
That comparison doesn’t go over well and from that moment Fingon isn’t speaking with his father anymore.
When Fingon decides that not knowing is worse than anything he could know about Maedhros’ fate, he goes to Námo and asks whether Maedhros is in the Halls, and Námo tells him that yes, Maedhros is.
He looks for Maedhros. He seeks quiet corners of the Halls, and sings, and hopes Maedhros will hear him, and one day he senses in his spirit that someone else is present near him. He continues to sing, simple things, and then moves to the song he sang at Thangorodrim -
- and Maedhros is there, ragged and shaking and trying with all his might not to look at Fingon. Stop he says. Please, stop. Why must you torment me?
The last thing Maedhros wants is to be reminded that once, he had a chance to do right, that once, he had a chance to recieve mercy and he has thrown it away, to be reminded of the gaping gulf between the person he wanted to be and person he is. You still think you can rescue me? he says with a twisted smile, and holds out his hand. Across the entire palm and to the first knuckle of the fingers, it is charred black. Fingon’s expression goes stubborn and he takes Maedhros’ hand in his own - and then releases his hold in shock. The hand is hot - not as with fever, but as metal newly withdrawn from a forge. Maedhros gives a bitter laugh and disappears.
Fingon cannot find him again.
This brings the story roughly to the start of the part I wrote in response to your last Ask, where Maedhros goes to Nienna and recieves, beyond his hope, mercy and forgiveness and help and healing. That’s not the endpoint of his journey to recovery, but it’s the beginning; it gives him the knowledge that there is someone who can love him absolutely unconditionally, that he’s not beyond redemption. And that gives him the foundation he needs to start facing the people he knew and the people he’s harmed and answering to them and seeking their forgiveness.
The Halls have a will of their own, if you let them; their geography is as much spiritual as physical, and they’ll lead spirits to the people whom they need to resolve things with. Fingon isn’t the first person Maedhros talks to, but he’s one of the first.
*****
FIc snippet
It would have been easier if the Halls had brought him to the Teleri, or even the Sindar. He could bear condemnation from them.
He did not know how to bear it if Fingon turned him away. As he had every right to.
He wanted to flee to some abandoned corner of the Halls and never face Fingon again.
He wanted to lay at his friend’s feet for a year, for a yen, for an Age, and beg Fingon not to despise him forever.
He forced himself to do neither of these things.
Fingon had still not seen him; his eyes were shut, his head bowed to his knees and his lips moving wordlessly, and it was the evident misery in his hunched shoulders that gave Maedhros the courage to kneel down beside him say softly, “Fingon.”
He did not seem to hear. “Fingon. Fingon.” Fingon looked up, made a choked noise of surprise, and grabbed Maedhros by the shoulders, staring into his eyes for a long moment, and then pulled him into an embrace. “Thank you,” Fingon said, low and fervent, and Maedhros knew it was not him that Fingon was addressing.
“You’re all right. I mean - not all right, but - better.” A spirit’s appearance in the Halls drew on both their true condition and their perception of themself. Maedhros was clothed in rags, his hair matted, but his hand no longer burned and he could meet Fingon’s eye with a look that, though still deeply ashamed, was no longer tormeted.
“The Lady of Sorrows has been very kind. Far more than I could ever deserve. Though in truth even to be in the Halls is better than I deserve.”
“Maedhros, surely you cannot believe that you deserve the Darkness?”
Maedhros’ laugh was rueful. “Deserve it? I believe I specifically requested it. Demanded, even! What does it say, that the very worst anyone could do to us would be to take us at our word? But by the end I earned it more in keeping the Oath than in breaking it.”
The question refused to be suppressed. “Maedhros, why? We beseiged Angband for over four hundred years without attempting regain the Silmarils, and the Oath did not trouble you then, yet the moment one was in the hands of Elves - ” Fingon paused. “Maedhros, please tell me it was not because of my death.”
Maedhros’ words came halting. “I blamed myself. I blamed the Valar. I blamed the Doom. I told myself that abandoned you again, this time to your death. I told myself that if this was how I was repaid for trying to win the war, if the Powers had mandated that any attempt to do good could only turn to evil and the destruction of all that I loved, then they had no right to judge me for doing ill.  I told myself that I had chosen war on Angband to avoid war on Doriath, and if they were going to punish me for that choice, well, then they were in no position to complain when I made the other.
“I was wrong. We were not wrong to fight Angband, but on my part the Fifth Battle was waged in service of the Oath, and everything done in its service turns to ill. Good becomes evil. Evil becomes…worse. The words we intended to drive us against Morgoth turned to his service, and we did his work.
“I am sorry for what I have done. I will spend the rest of Time being sorry for it. We should have thrown ourselves against the walls of Angband and died there rather than ever again raising our swords against our kin. You have every right to despise me.”
Fingon, lacking words, took Maedhros’ remaining hand and lifted the burnt palm to his lips. “I will not leave you. I hate what you have done - I would rather have seen you dead on my blade than do any of, though that would have killed me - but I will not leave you.” He wrapped his arms around Maedhros again. “Please don’t disappear again.”
“I won’t.”
The dead have times of rest of thought, even if it not what the living would call sleep. A little time later found Fingon resting with his back against a pillar and Maedhros curled on the floor, his head pillowed on Fingon’s feet and an expression of deep contentment in his face.
*****
My thoughts on Aredhel and Maedhros are in the Halls are largely covered in this post.
*****
Turgon, in contrast, is exceptionally angry at Maedhros, especially about the Third Kinslaying, and not at all inclined to forgive or to care for apologies. This is also wrapped up in Turgon’s own guilt about the Fall of Gondolin. He feared that he had left the remnant of his people defenseless against Morgoth, but Ulmo found a way to protect them through the waters at the Mouths of Sirion; instead, they were defenseless against Maedhros and his brothers. And to Turgon, Maedhros’ renunciation of both the Oath and the Silmarils after his death is meaningless, because he did so only after he had lost any possibility of achieving the Oath or obtaining the Silmarils. How can it mean anything to renounce evil only after you’ve lost the ability to commit it or to gain anything from it?
Maedhros and Turgon have an intense conversation on these points (well, intense on Turgon’s part) while Maedhros is in the Halls. Maedhros, for his part, while he does want to apologize and beg forgiveness, does not really have any expectation that Turgon will forgive him; his hope in his early conversations with both Turgon and Fingolfin is mainly to arrange a detente where the Nolofinwëans can get back on good terms with each other by dint of all of them agreeing to just not talk about Maedhros (who is the primary subject of contention between them). This, he does succeed at.
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avantegarda · 5 years
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@irissearfeiniel said:  Congratulations on the 500 follows! Your "Fraternity" fic was one of my favorites because I love how sweet the Feanorians are to their siblings but ugghhh, I really, really want to see them with a baby sister! I always find it unfair that they were the only Finwean family without a girl. I hope this request is okay for you. Thank you so much!
(I’m reposting this as a text post rather than an ask so as to be able to put a readmore in there! Anyway:)
Thank you pumpkin! Presenting Fraternity Bonus AU Chapter 7, which I am calling “The Unexpected One”
(In which Feanor is back on his name-reusing bullshit)
--
It was universally acknowledged in Tirion that Prince Fëanor was absolutely mad to suggest to his wife that they try one more time for a daughter, and Nerdanel was even madder to agree to it. But Fëanor and Nerdanel had never been ones to listen to gossip (or advice), and set about producing a new child with all due expediency.
And so it was that, a year later, all of Fëanor’s children (with the recent addition of three-year-old Celebrimbor) found themselves nervously waiting in the sitting room during the birth for what each of them secretly hoped was the last time.
“Do you suppose this will be the one, then?” Maedhros asked, as the minutes dragged on. “The time we finally get a sister?”
“It had better be,” Maglor declared. “I’ve been waiting nearly a century for a baby sister, and if it’s another dratted brother I am abandoning this family to live in a cave by the sea for the rest of eternity.”
“Don’t get our hopes up, Makalaurë. Everyone knows you could never live without attention for that long,” said Celegorm, who was, as usual, channeling his nervous energy into brushing the dog. “But Mother was very certain that this time will be a girl. And you know they say mothers can be prophetic about that sort of thing.”
“I wouldn’t call Mother’s predictions prophecy so much as wishful thinking, at this point,” Caranthir snorted. “She thought the twins would be a daughter too, and look how that turned out.”
“I beg your pardon, we were a blessing on this family that absolutely none of you deserve…”
“A-hem.”
The boys fell silent at the sight of their father, leaning against the door frame and giving  them a weary but utterly joyful smile. “Well, lads. Your mother is fine and the baby is healthy, and I have some additional good news: it’s a girl.”
Maglor burst into wild, delighted laughter, which soon turned into noisy, equally delighted sobs. His brothers, used to Maglor’s theatrics, merely chuckled, though little Celebrimbor appeared deeply concerned.
“Papa,” he demanded, pointing one chubby finger at his uncle, “why he cry?”
Curufin laughed, kissing his son on the top of his head. “Don’t mind your uncle Makalaurë, dear. He’s been wanting a baby sister for a very long time.”
--
The baby, all the boys agreed immediately, was all any of them could have wanted in a sister. Her large green eyes that gazed about the room with calm intelligence her just like Nerdanel’s, and her strong nose and wide mouth were just like Fëanor’s. But what was truly astonishing was her hair, which was a bright, shimmering silver, seeming to glow with the light of Telperion.
None of the boys had gotten that hair themselves, but they all knew exactly where it had come from. This little girl was the spitting image of their late grandmother.
“She’s absolutely beautiful,” Maglor said, wiping his eyes. “Gorgeous. What are you going to call her, Father?”
“And don’t forget, she can’t have Finwë in her name, because you already declared me the Last Finwe,” Amras pointed out. “You’ll have to use one of our other grandparents as an inspiration.”
To everyone’s great surprise, Feanor looked embarrassed. “As it happens, that’s exactly what I’ve decided to do. I know it is generally frowned upon to reuse names, but then I did reuse my own for Curufinwë, and the original owner of the name isn’t in any position to object, and considering her hair and everything…”
“Is this going where I think it is going?” asked Maedhros. “Are you really planning to name her…”
“Miriel,” Nerdanel said, stroking the little girl’s soft silver hair. “We’re going to call her Miriel.”
--
Of all her adoring relatives (of which there were a great many), Miriel grew the closest to Celebrimbor. He was, after all, the only one close to her in age, and if he thought there was anything odd in having an aunt three years younger than him he was polite enough not to mention it. Their uncles and brothers, respectively, doted on them nearly enough to spoil them completely, and it was generally agreed that they were the cleverest children in Tirion.
By the age of ten, though, Miriel was becoming concerned. One couldn’t grow up in the house of Fëanor without realizing that each of its members had at least one incredibly specialized talent, and thus far, hers hadn’t made herself apparent. She adored reading, could sing well, and was reasonably skilled in sewing and crafting, but not one of these things had risen above the others.
“What will you be when you grow up, do you think?” she asked Celebrimbor, who sat next to her in the garden, watching as a beetle carefully made its way up his trousers.
“A smith, like Father,” Celebrimbor said without hesitation. “He and Grandfather both say I’ve got the gift. What about you?”
Miriel shrugged, her small face scrunched up in worry. “I don’t know. I think Mother wants me to be a sculptor like her, but Father wants me to do embroidery like Grandmother Miriel did, and Makalaurë thinks I’d be a good singer, and I think Tyelko would like me to grow up to be a horse but I don’t know if I can do that. I think I’m a little good at everything but not really good at anything.”
“Well, that’s all right, isn’t it?” asked Celebrimbor. “I mean, surely you don’t have to be good at just one thing. You could do lots of different jobs when you grow up. A different one every century, maybe. After all, it’s not like we are going to run out of time.”
Miriel contemplated this, nodding thoughtfully. “I think you’re right, Tyelpe. That seems very sensible. What job do you think I should do first?”
“That is easy,” Celebrimbor declared. “Your job right now is to close your eyes and count to twenty while I go and hide, and then you can come find me. If you’re as clever as Grandfather says you are, you won’t have any trouble.”
“I won’t have any trouble, because you’re rubbish at hiding,” Miriel said, hopping to her feet and sticking out her tongue. “And I’m just as clever as Father says. I’m his daughter, you know.”
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