“Then Maedhros alone stood aside, but Fëanor caused fire to be set to the white ships of the Teleri.”
I’m experiencing Silmarillion feels again somebody help
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
“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?”
“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.
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.
DAY FIVE: ladies who married in- Telperaiwë (silver lace) wife of Curufinwë Atarinkë and mother of Telperinquar (click for higher quality)
So she obviously exists in canon, but beyond her actual existence, we can pretty much make up whatever we like. So on to some headcanon:
Olorien Telperaiwë tends to go by her mother name. She’s a little embarrassed by her father name as she gets older, she doesn’t want to be thought of as dreamy - which she is but that’s beside the point- she wants to be taken seriously.
As her name would suggest she is a lace maker, as a Noldo it’s expected that she will find a craft and she does; delighting in making beautiful pieces and intricate designs.
At a certain point she branches out a little into lacework jewellery, she learns a little from her father who works with metal (specialising in jewellery for piercings) and starts to try applying lace making techniques to fine wires. She struggles to get the same level of detail and delicate finish in this medium, so embarks on a quest to find a metal or wire so fine she can treat it almost as a thread.
This is how she meets Curufinwë, and they become quite the power couple both creatively - her dreamy idealistic approach supported by his scientific knowledge, her attention to detail and love of beauty enhancing his practical and unquestionable skill- and socially.
She comes from a good hardworking family of Noldorin artisans, which Curufin and his family respect, and though the Noldor haven’t properly split into factions yet, Telperaiwë’s family have always skewed to the Fëanorion side. So the match pleases both families, even though both Curvo and ‘Pera are still a bit young to be getting married.
They are very much sickeningly in love. Which prompts endless teasing from brothers both younger and older, but they can all see the way he looks at her. Telperaiwë coaxes honesty and vulnerability from Curvo, he tells her his secrets and his feelings and everyone he knows can see that he’s finally found someone who brings him piece.
For her part Pera is head over heals, a charming prince, clever and handsome, whose softer side is only for her, who’s devoted to her, who works with her. A dashing gentleman who dances with her, teaches her about his craft, let’s her hands guide his in creating delicate and beautiful things. It’s like something from a story. Or a dream.
Fëanor is thrilled to have a skilled, creative craftswoman as a daughter-in-law. Nerdanel is apprehensive about her young son and this young girl marrying so soon (stars above she knows how hard it can be) but Telperaiwë is so sweet and brings out a much warmer, more personable side to Curufin that it wins her round.
The wedding is extravagance incarnate- in a beautiful and tasteful way, of course.
Though they’ve married young and are happy about it, they’re going to wait to have children. Curufin is insistent that he’s not going to have lots of them- he’s the second youngest, the twins are still children themselves, he’s been raised in a big family and would be quite content with one child thank you very much. Maybe two, since it would be with Telperaiwë.
Mairafinwë Telperinquar is probably the closest elves have to an accidental baby. They weren’t planning on having children yet but the intention was there and they weren’t exactly doing anything to prevent it. So whoops.
“Awww you named him after his favourite uncle!” “Fuck off Nelyo!”
When the time comes she goes with them to Formenos, of course she does. Her parents are very supportive and besides, if Curvo and Telpë are going, how can she not? She doesn’t judge Nerdanel, but she can’t understand how she would remain behind.
Its Nerdanel she turns to when they decide to go across the sea.
The night? (It’s so hard to tell in the darkness) before they leave Telperaiwë wakes with a start from the worst dream- of screams and burning and blood and an army in darkness bearing the broken, mutilated body of an elf on a pole like a gruesome standard.
She’s back in her bed in the Fëanorian house in Tirion, they’re staying there while the Noldor prepare to leave. Curvo isn’t there, he’s with his father finalising plans, but her son is curled up beside her. So she slips quietly from the room and wanders to a balcony overlooking the courtyard.
He mother-in-law is there, looking out, she turns to Telperaiwë and takes both of her hands.
“You saw something too?” She murmurs.
“I don’t want to go, I’m afraid.”
“Then stay. They can no more force us to leave than we can force them to remain.”
“But he’s my husband.”
“And you’re still your own person. Atarinkë doesn’t own you anymore than his father owns me.”
“I love him!”
“As I love Fëanaró, and all of my children. But I still won’t go. I, too, can be wilful, and loving them can’t force me to go against my better judgement.”
“Telpë will go with them, he wants to go. He’ll think I’ve abandoned him. And they all admit it’s dangerous, they can’t protect him from everything.”
“Telperaiwë, I’m not here to convince you to stay or to leave. There is no good outcome to this that I can see. Hearts will be broken whatever we choose. This is beyond us. I’m only able to choose for myself what I think is best for me. That’s all you can do too.”
“My parents, my whole family, are going. If I stay I’ll be alone.”
“You will always have a place with me. You’re my daughter.”
They stay there until Curufin comes to tell her to get dressed, they’re leaving as soon as they’ve eaten. When she tells him she’s not going she expects him to be angry, to scream, to call her a coward. But instead he begs, and cries, and pleads. They hold each other until the tears are all but gone and he whispers “what about Telpë?” “He wants to go with you. He won’t forgive me for keeping him here.”
Their parting is one of the most bitter. She kisses her son and helps him onto his horse, he sobs the whole time but she doesn’t, she won’t until they’ve gone.
Curufin doesn’t cry again either as they embrace. Nor when she reaches out and grabs his hand. Not even at her final words.
“I know what you’ve sworn already. Just swear to me you’ll keep him safe. I’ll be here. I’ll be waiting. Until the breaking of the world if that’s what it takes. All you have to do is make sure you both come back. Please. Just come back.”
But they don’t. And her dreams are shattered.
Hello, i hope you are safe and doing great!
For the Fëanorians ask game: 4 with Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir. 14 and 21 with Caranthir and Maglor. 23 with Curufin, Caranthir and maglor.
I know its so much 👉🏻👈🏻 but i really like your writing. Please take your time.
Thanks in advance 🖤
Thank you so much, I’m glad you like my writing, that means so much to hear ❤️❤️❤️
04. What is the biggest secret that this character keeps from their siblings?
Maedhros: Maedhros doesn’t like keeping secrets from his siblings if only because he feels like his brothers are his best friends and he should treasure that. Definitely, the biggest secret he kept from them was that he had a crush on Fingon, and that was only a secret he thought he was keeping because he made it blatantly obvious despite his best efforts. Sorry Nelyo, but it kind of gives it away if every time you see Fingon you turn bright red and start tripping over your words.
Maglor: Maglor’s secrets tend to be things that he is either embarrassed about or worried his brothers would laugh at (which most of the time, and depending on the brother, they probably would). The biggest secret Maglor has ever kept from them was in his childhood when he felt like he was not good enough to be his father’s son because he didn’t have the same general area of interest as his brothers, all of whom seemed to enjoy being in the forge and outdoors and adventuring. While Maglor could enjoy these things every once in a while he tended to prefer sitting inside with his music and instruments and spent a long time trying to conform and hide his passion and self-consciousness from his brothers
Caranthir: Caranthir hides a lot about himself from his brothers. He tends to be a more private person by default but all the same, he doesn’t like to open up even to his family and as a result, he is the one with the most secrets. Out of those secrets that he purposefully kept from the others, the biggest one was by far his relationship with Haleth. No one really knew that what they had between them was more than a political alliance until after she was dead by virtue of his personal nature and the fact that his brothers rarely heard from him apart from his monthly reminders to pay their taxes.
14. Which sibling is the most jealous of this character?
Maglor: Celegorm. Celegorm wishes that his passions and pastimes were as accepted as Maglor’s who seems to have gained their father’s approval simply through being judged the best of his chosen career. Celegorm meanwhile can hardly be counted the best follower of Oromë and as a result, often finds himself getting snappish and angry at Maglor for seemingly no reason. He finds it unfair that everyone seems to love and support Maglor while he (less outwardly needing of it but none the less wanting support) languishes in the grey area between approval and disapproval without any sign as to how he can help their father to see that he really loves and deserves to have his family support his passions.
Caranthir: For this one, I’m going to go a little against the prompt but yolo I guess. Caranthir is extremely jealous of Finrod. He envies Finrod’s appearance as well as his naturally bubbly and effusive personality. Finrod seems like everything Caranthir could never be: outgoing and joyful and flirty and confident, and Caranthir is --to say it plainly-- extremely jealous of him. Finrod seems so comfortable in his own skin in a way that Caranthir can’t emulate and wishes he could reproduce and despite the two being good friends Caranthir often comes home from hanging out with him feeling down and upset with himself because he sees Finrod as a paragon of perfection that he himself could never hope to achieve.
21. What is the best present this character has ever gotten from a sibling?
Caranthir: Amras once gave Caranthir a small polished green rock because he said it reminded him of his older brother’s eyes and Caranthir pretended he hated it but in reality kept it for the rest of his life. He is sure that Amras doesn’t remember giving it to him and that to his little brother it was simply a trinket that he gave away as a moment of generosity before promptly forgetting, but to Caranthir it is a symbol of how much he cares for his littlest brothers and he treasures it.
Maglor: His first harp. Maedhros hand-crafted and gave Maglor his first harp when Maglor was about the human equivalent of 5. He thought that his brother’s voice deserved accompaniment and it was the best gift that Maglor ever received. From the first day he got it forwards he and the harp were inseparable and he would pluck each string in no particular order making up discordant melodies that he said were songs for Maedhros.
23. For which sibling would this character spend multiple days learning how to make their rare, difficult favorite food?
Curufin: This one is a little bit surprising but Caranthir. Curufin and Caranthir have the kind of quiet friendship that simply exists in gestures of affection rather than words and both tend to get awkward when required to speak to each other. Still, Curufin would do almost anything for his brother as long as it doesn’t involve telling him to his face that Curufin actually loves him.
Caranthir & Maglor: Caranthir would cook for Maglor and Maglor alone. He is too worried about being compared to Maedhros for whom cooking and baking is a passion but he knows from experience that Maglor doesn’t judge and he and Maglor have an unspoken agreement that when the other is upset they cook food to help them feel better. Both Maglor and Caranthir tend to eat as a comfort activity and they have devoted themselves to learning each other's favourites no matter how hard they might be.
For the angst sentence starters 4 for Russingon or Angbang, whichever you prefer if you don't mind. Thanks!
!!!! i,,,, mightve made this a little longer than i planned,, i am so weak for russingon
i hope u enjoy!!
Prompt: “I won’t hurt you.”
A thump. A dull pain blossoming in his side.
Tangled in the hefty blankets, Fingon blinked his eyes open, once, then twice. He felt a rustling against his side, restless and choppy. Like waves battering a boatside, his mind offered blearily, as awareness crept back into his senses. And with that awareness - oh.
Fingon flipped over, his eyes taking in a sight his mind now processed much more quickly, though his heart wished it did not. There, face twisted in fear, writhing, whimpering: Nelyo. Oh, Nelyo.
Gently - gently, gently, he had to be gentle, except he had to not treat him like a broken thing, he had to give him space, but how could he not be anything but feather-light in wake of such wounds - gently, Fingon rested a hand on his trembling shoulder. “Nelyo,” he called. “Nelyo, please wake up. You are in Hithlum. You’ve been here for six months, now. You are free.”
Nelyo shuddered. His eyes snapped open. They darted to Fingon, flicking over his form again and again, as if trying to comprehend the very sight of him. Fingon merely removed his hand and waited, the silence stretching between them.
He would let Nelyo have all the time he needed - they had plenty of it. Outside their window, the night remained draped over all things like an inky shadow.
Finally, Nelyo sat up on the bed, the blankets curling around his hips - still so gaunt, Fingon couldn’t help but notice. He breathed once, deeply, and exhaled through his nose. Again. He spoke, the words rasping out in the silence. “I’m sorry for… I’m sorry. That must have been unpleasant to wake to.”
Fingon shook his head. “It’s alright. But... are you alright?”
Nelyo laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Alright is… a word. I will be fine. Dreams. Just dreams.” But he looked back at Fingon then, and his eyes wavered, as if still uncertain he could believe what he saw. “I am sorry,” he repeated, the apology leaving him in a rush. “I can find other rooms. You will not have to suffer my melodramatics. I am sorry for waking you.”
He began to raise himself up. “Wait-” Fingon darted a hand out, lightly grasping his forearm. Nelyo froze, every muscle gone rigid. Fingon gave a small gasp and quickly snatched his hand back. “I am so sorry, I should have asked-”
“It’s okay,” Nelyo breathed, lowering himself back onto the bed. “It’s okay - you can -” Slowly, he reached his left hand across the covers and entwined his fingers with Fingon’s. He pressed their palms together - warm, so warm, yet still a bit slippery with sweat.
For a moment, they simply held their hands like this. Fingon could barely make out the room in the dim moonlight, but he could see Nelyo’s chest steadily rise and fall. He could still see that, so it was alright.
Soon, that chest stuttered, and Fingon felt the fingers around his tighten. “Sorry,” Nelyo gasped, as his eyes began to shine, and then flooded with tears. “Sorry, I’m sorry-”
“Shh,” Fingon soothed. He drew Nelyo close to him and carefully, carefully wrapped arms around his quaking form. With slow strokes down his back and a steady voice, Fingon tried his best to offer the comfort he could. “You will never be there again, not so long as I can help it. You are safe. You are loved,” he murmured into auburn locks. “You are free.”
At this, Nelyo stiffened. “I am not,” he said, voice thick, his face buried in Fingon’s chest. “I never will be.”
“I... cannot know what you must be going through,” Fingon said, continuing his path up and down his spine. Up and down. “What you experienced sounds,” Fingon paused, considering his words. “Awful. Changing. I do not wish to offer empty promises or insist that everything is fine when you are in so much pain. All I can tell you is this: I will be here, by your side. When you need me, when you want me, I will be right here.”
Nelyo withdrew his arms to wipe at his face. “I do not deserve it,” he wept. “I am sorry, I do not deserve it, or you, or any of it.”
Fingon opened his mouth to protest, but Nelyo waves him off with trembling arms. “It was not Angband I dreamt of,” he admitted. He wipes his eyes again, insistently, the knuckles digging and pulling at his skin. His cheeks still glisten with fresh tears. “Well, it was, in a way. They - sometimes, Þauron would - he can shift form, and sometimes, he-” Nelyo seemed to be both pushing the words out and gulping them in at the same time. “He would - but it’s true, isn’t it?”
Though Fingon couldn’t make much sense of the words, he smoothed a hand down Nelyo’s copper tresses anyways. “I am not sure any word from the mouth of the Deceiver is true, but-” He lightly scratched his scalp with his fingernails. “What is true?”
A great shudder overtook the body in his arms. “That I am doomed to destruction. A kinslayer I was and a kinslayer I will be. I love you, I love you, but the silmarils are still out there. I will never be free. I must choose evil, when it comes, and I must, but I still choose, already chose-”
Fingon felt his hands freeze, much as he longed to offer comfort. This was - true, yes, but the maybe kind of true, the kind of true that didn’t have to be so, but if it did it did, and what hope could he offer? “Right now,” he heard himself say. “Right now, you choose this. And that matters.”
“I won’t hurt you,” Nelyo whispered, then again, over and over as if lost in prayer. His body returned to full, quaking tremors. “I won’t, I won’t hurt you, I promise, I want to promise, I’m sorry, I won’t, I won’t-” At last, his body gave out a shuddering sob. “I will.”
“We cannot know for certain,” Fingon admits. “As we cannot know most things. But right now, you are here.” He felt his voice crack - foolish, wasn’t he supposed to be the one offering comfort? - and he ran his hand through Nelyo’s hair once more. He could barely see past the shadows of his beloved’s trembling form. Their room really was so dark. He could barely see anything. “And you bring healing, and love, and comfort. You bring so much joy, Nelyo, my Maedhros, so much joy, and though I cannot promise an endless future, I will see whatever future we will by your side. For as long as we have, and we have it now.”
Gradually, he felt Nelyo calm in his embrace. When at last he gave out a great sigh, Fingon felt the warm puff of air against his neck.
“Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords…” Though his voice was weary, Nelyo spat out the words as if venom on his tongue. “Nothing can defend us from the inevitable.” He wrapped his arms around Fingon’s torso once more. “But for now… for now, I will be by your side as long as I could ever hope to be.”
Fingon hummed, and they remained like that - still and quiet, if not serene - for a long while.
“Mm, I promise I will not be so dreary in the morning,” Nelyo mumbled as sleep slowly retook him, hopefully to kinder dreams. His arms relaxed around Fingon. His head lowered and nestled on his chest. “I am sorry for the commotion.”
“No need for apology,” Fingon assured, gazing up at the shadows reaching along their ceiling. Not now, at least. “When you need me, I will be right here.”
thanks @arofili for the tag!!
here’s a few lines from my modern au
“Our family was so fucking messed up,” Tyelko said savagely. “Is so fucking messed up. You know. Moryo told Turukáno shit before he told any of us, and then they’d bring buildings down on each other’s heads. Findaráto and Curvo had that thing, where they kissed like they were trying to kill each other. Írissë and I never stopped loving each other, not even through everything, not even when it wasn’t the kind of love other people thought it should be.”
Aredhel, his best friend. The day to his night. Their hands, stained with blood, and on the other side of the door, little Maeglin. Their love was for arms wrapped around shoulders, for finding each other when they were lost, for that iron set to Aredhel’s mouth that said I will do anything for you because you have done everything for me.
Fingon, here. Those dark, anguished eyes, no different from Aredhel’s.
"It was hard to hate you,” Tyelko finally said, “when Nelyo loved you so damn much.”
ill tag @fairwell-fair-cruelty, @areyoutrueorfalse, @8lottie8, @lemurious - if you guys have already done it/don’t want to that’s fine i am too tired to check if yall have already been tagged lmao (sorry!)
FROZEN - What is your muse’s relationship with their siblings like?
Pitya spoke first, “I guess currently? Nelyo and I are doing okay, though I think that is because we are dancing around some issues. I’m gonna properly fight Laure, he knows it though he might pretend otherwise. Tyelca and I are fine, I think he is the only one who wants to understand and maybe because he was the one there when I was having the most issues,” He sighed, “I adore Carne, he is a steady relief like cool water on a burn. Curvo and I have to talk, and maybe get the swords out. Telvo and I are balancing back into place, it is nice. I love all my siblings though, its just sometimes we fight.”
Telvo looked a bit sad at how much grief there seemed to be with his brothers, “Maitimo is wonderful, he has painted me pictures and offers great hugs to make me feel like I belong again. Cana is always a delight, he sings and gives the best advice and wisdom. Tyelca is usually busy with Pitya, but I don’t mind because we got to talk and things will be well. Moryo is cuddly and warm and willing to listen to me talk about nothing and it helps, he is learning my numbers as well,” He looked so happy, “And Curvo I am trying to help so he will talk to Tyelpe again because he needs it. Pitya is less angry and that is good for us both, we are Ambarussa again.”
So technically this snippet is kind of a sequel to a fic I haven’t finished yet but can stand on its own. This is probably similar other fics I’ve written recently. What can I say? I love this trope.
Warnings: Nothing graphic, but it’s post-Thangorodrim, so Maedhros isn’t in the best state of mind.
Maedhros awoke shivering. He was cold. He was always cold up here on the mountain, but at least he didn’t feel it when he was unconscious. He was lucky that there was no wind for now, the hated icy wind that sawed through his bones and swung him back and forth like a pendulum.
He tried to open his eyes but was unable to. A dull fear rose in his chest and died down immediately. He had been getting weaker, he knew that, but he had lost hope that he would ever get weak enough to leave his chains.
He hoped he still had the strength to lift his left hand. He needed it to reach his hair and wrap it around his body. It has grown so long that it could entirely cover him. It brought him a little comfort against the cold, served as a barrier between him and the hostile land he was trapped in.
He could move his left but when he reached for his hair, there was nothing. Fear was slow to rise this time but hit him stronger. His hand shook and found his head almost by accident.
He would have screamed if he could. All he could touch was short stubble. He felt more naked than ever and snatched his hand away from his head as if it would poison him. Why, why, why? Had his hair just fallen off, weak and brittle like the rest of him? Had someone shorn it off? Who? He had been alone on the mountain for so long.
Only now he could feel that whatever was behind his back was decidedly softer than the rock. His heart thudded, and he felt it painfully in his temples, in his throat, beneath his ribs.
He wasn’t hanging anymore, he was quite sure he wasn’t, even if it had become so hard to be sure of something. He still couldn’t move his right arm, he was still unable to feel his fingers, and his shoulder was still burning, but he wasn’t up there.
Relief flooded him and he nearly passed out again from its force. He was filled with overwhelming gratitude for whoever had brought him down. No matter who it was, no matter where he was, no matter what awaited him, no matter the shock of losing his hair. He wasn’t on the mountain, and for the moment it was enough.
By immense force of will, he pried his eyes open. He could see a dark room, he could see a mug on a low chair and he could see his brother Maglor, sitting in an armchair, his eyes half-closed and his gaze absent.
Another vision, then.
How much of it was real? He couldn’t tell. Maglor surely wasn’t. He had seen his brother before and talked to him and listened to him sing and... He shuddered. His brother had been wearing a crown in the last vision. He wasn’t now. He looked exhausted and lost.
For a moment, Maedhros wanted to call for him, to ask what was troubling him, and he knew if he gathered all his strength, he could force sounds through his throat and past his lips, but he stopped himself in time. It was a foolish idea, which would only add to his suffering. There was no telling what form the vision would take, if it would be similar to the last time or turn out even worse.
He stayed silent and waited. His visions rarely left him alone, but he prayed he could just look at his brother for a while longer without interruptions. He didn’t really believe he would get his wish. Prayers were never answered here.
Sure enough, soon Maglor stirred and fidgeted in the chair. Maedhros’s eyes shut involuntarily. His heart was beating faster than it had in a long time. He didn’t want another vision so soon after the last one. He couldn’t take it.
“Nelyo?” Maglor said carefully.
Maedhros shook and didn’t answer. He would have to sooner or later, but maybe he would be lucky and the vision would stay kind for a little longer. He willed Maglor to stay in the chair and continue sleeping, he willed himself to keep hallucinating a bed and a room, even if it was still cold, even if he had to give up his hair, but it was not to be.
Maglor stood and blinked, looking around. “Nelyo?” he repeated hopelessly and receiving no answer, sighed and started walking to the bed.
Maedhros’s world started spinning. With every step Maglor took, it spun faster and faster until it shook off Maedhros, who was trying desperately to clutch at the edge of consciousness.
He fell into darkness just before Maglor pulled up the covers he had pushed away in his uneasy sleep.
Another Fab 500 Fic
as per a Professional Business Agreement with @bunky-barnes, here we have Maedhros, Fingon, and Maglor being smol dumbasses together. Bless them.
(Mae is about the equivalent of a human 10 year old; Mags and Fin are the equivalent of 4-5)
There were few people in the world Maedhros loved more than his brother Maglor and cousin Fingon. As he would tell just about anyone, they were his best friends. The only trouble was that, seeing as they were both just ten years old, attempting to actually plan anything with them was like herding cats.
“All right, everyone. We are playing the Outer Lands game today,” Maedhros informed Fingon and Maglor, who were listening intently and attempting to whistle, respectively. “I’ll be Grandfather Finwë, Makalaurë can be King Olwë, and Findekano can be King Ingwë. And we can fight wild animals and orcs and things.”
“Why do you get to be Grandfather?” Fingon said, pouting.
Maedhros sighed, trying his best to remain patient. “Because I’m the oldest, of course. And you have to be King Ingwë because you’re part Vanyarin, and Makalure has to be Olwë because he likes singing.”
“I don’t want to be King Olwë, Nelyo,” Maglor piped up. “I want to be King Elwë.”
“Why would you want to be Elwë?” asked Maedhros, wrinkling his nose. “He got lost in the woods.”
“Exactly,” said Maglor seriously. He began drumming absentmindedly on his legs, singing “Lost in the woods, lost in the woods…”
“Oh, fine,” Maedhros said with a roll of his eyes. “You can be Elwë and get lost in the woods and then Finno and I will come find you and bring you back to Valinor. And then,” he added, “we will go inside and have bread and butter. All right?”
Both smaller boys nodded eagerly, and Maedhros smiled in satisfaction. “Good. Let’s get to it.”
The small copse of trees on the edge of the estate was hardly a forest by adult standards, but to the children it seemed very large and mysterious indeed, especially in the center where the canopy of leaves was so thick barely any light shone through. Maedhros and Fingon had had a grand time at first, waving sticks at squirrels and shouting the most fearsome battle cries they could invent. But as Laurelin’s light dimmed and there was still no sign of Maglor, Fingon’s enthusiasm for the game was clearly fading.
“Maitimo, it’s been hours, can’t we…”
“I’m not Maitimo right now, I’m Finwë,” Maedhros said irritably. “Remember? We’re not done with the game yet.”
“Finwë, then. It’s been hours and we still haven’t found him. Couldn’t we go back to the house and eat now?”
“No, we have to keep going. Because it’s the right thing to do, and poor Elwë will be eaten by wolves or orcs or something. Besides,” Maedhros added, “if we leave Makalaure in the woods Mother will be cross and won’t let us have anything to eat until we find him.”
“We’ll never find him,” Fingon grumbled, kicking at a root. “He’s so small he can hide anywhere. Why couldn’t you have been the one to hide? You’re easy to find anywhere.”
“Because I am busy being King Finwë, and...never mind,” said Maedhros. “We’ll find him soon. If he gets tired of waiting he will just start crying and then we’ll be able to hear him from a league away.”
Sure enough, nearly as soon as he had finished speaking, a piercing wail resounded from a nearby tree, loud enough to send several birds scattering. Maedhros and Fingon rushed towards the sound to find little Maglor perched halfway up a gnarled oak tree, cowering in fear from a shaggy gray creature about the size of a large cat. Maglor had clearly disturbed the beast’s home or something of that kind, as its teeth were bared and it looked ready to tear the small boy limb from limb.
“Oh no,” Maedhros whispered. “I’ve seen one of those before, they like to come into the garden and dig up the vegetables. They’re awful. Did you bring your slingshot? Maybe we can hit it with a rock and it will go away.”
Fingon shook his head sadly. “Mother took my slingshot away after I broke Father’s glass of wine with it. But maybe…” His eyes lit up. “Nelyo, give me your stick, yours is bigger. I have an idea.”
Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Maedhros’ stick, shimmying up the tree as best he could one-handed and perching on the branch just next to Maglor’s. The animal turned to snarl at him, preparing to pounce, but barely had a chance to move before Fingon gave it a good whack on the nose with his stick.
“Go away, you horrid animal!” Fingon shouted. “Leave him alone!”
The beast hissed and retreated, scrambling up the tree trunk until it was out of sight. Grinning triumphantly, Fingon dropped back to the forest floor, reaching up to help Maglor to the ground.
“Finno, you’re brilliant!” Maedhros cried. “That was incredibly brave. Don’t you think our cousin was brave, Makalaurë?”
Maglor, who was still fairly shaken from his frightening experience, nodded, leaning against Maedhros’ side. “Uh-huh.”
“You’re much braver than old King Ingwë,” Maedhros went on. “You need your own hero name for our next game. How do you feel about Findekano the Valiant?”
Fingon tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. “I like that, I think. Yes, I like it very much. But can we please, please have something to eat now?”
Celebrimbor is his father’s son.
(Snapshots in the life of a more Fëanorian Celebrimbor)
Canon compliant, general warnings for canon character death, violence and mentions of torture.
Tyelpë is excited. The smithy is a place he has known since he was very young, sat in a corner as a chubby baby on a blanket, smashing away at things with a soft toy hammer in imitation of his father. And now, he is to be instructed in how to make his first item of jewellery.
He spends a long time carving out the mould, attempting to get every detail right. It’s difficult to carve it into the wood, but he wants to do his absolute best to show Father and Grandfather that he can follow in their footsteps. Father presides over him as he carefully removes the crucible with the molten silver from the roaring furnace, then pours it into the mould.
After a short while, Father tells him to tap the design out of the mould and carefully quench it in the trough of cold water kept for that purpose.
Finally, Tyelpë holds his creation in his hands. “It’s- It’s wonky!” Tyelpë says in disappointment. Grandfather and Father come over to look.
Grandfather raises an eyebrow. “It’s a first attempt!” he says, plucking the silver from Tyelpë’s hands to inspect it. “And for a first attempt, it’s a very good one! I’ve had apprentice hopefuls who give me worse things than this.”
At his side, Father is nodding happily. “This is wonderful Tyelpë! A lovely design choice, and an excellent start.”
Their praise helps, but Tyelpë is still unsatisfied. The design is an eight-pointed star, but certain parts of the mould hadn’t filled properly, and some areas hadn’t been carved with the precision necessary so the finished product is wonky.
Still, their pride creates a warmth in his chest.
“Yes, and it’s a difficult choice for a first time,” Grandfather is saying. “Very well done, Tyelpë.” He places the piece back in Tyelpë’s hands, pats him on the head and returns to his work.
Father stays. “What will you do with it?” he asks.
Tyelpë hasn’t thought about it. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I was going to show Uncle Turco and everyone else but after that I don’t know.”
“If it’s alright with you,” Father says, “I would very much like to have it. Your grandfather kept my first piece, and I would very much like to have yours.”
Tyelpë blushes. “Of course! But, wouldn’t you rather have something else I do later, that’s better?”
Father’s eyes are warm as he takes the star from Tyelpë. “No, there’s nothing I’d rather have than this.”
Great Grandfather is dead, and the world is dark now. Tyelpë’s father and uncles have sworn an unbreakable oath to retrieve the Silmarils and have their vengeance on Moringotto, or die trying and be damned to eternal darkness.
“We will have to leave,” says Father. “Already we make for Alqualondë to petition Olwë for his ships.”
Tyelpë nods, still feeling numb from everything that has happened. He was in the house with Great Grandfather and the others when he came. He remembers seeing the sky turn black, then hearing the shouts, then running to see Uncle Nelyo and Uncle Káno kneeling next to the body, blood pooling around them.
Great Grandfather is dead, and Grandfather is mad with grief. Tyelpë wants to climb into Grandfather’s lap to receive warm cuddles and to attempt to give succour, but Grandfather has gone already to Alqualondë. So he hugs Father instead.
Gently, Father asks, “Will you come with us?”
“Of course I will,” Tyelpë replies before even thinking. “I need to say goodbye to Mother first but of course I’ll come with you.”
Tyelpë only sees his mother twice a week. He loves her, but staying with her as opposed to leaving with his father is almost inconceivable.
His father leans over to pat him on the head, and his necklace swings out from beneath his tunic. The lumpy eight pointed star pendant on it gleams in the lamplight.
“I will come with you,” says Father, “and then we will journey to Alqualondë together to meet everyone.”
It is cold, and Tyelpë is hungry. Himlad has fallen now, in the Dagor Bragollach, and its people wander now, their path blocked on several sides. The lands the refugees travel through are barren and even Uncle Turco is not returning with much to eat.
Huan whines next to him, and Tyelpë huddles closer to his warm fur. Spitted over the fire are two sad looking birds that Uncle Turco managed to shoot down. He shares his catch with the others in their group, and this is what is left for them. It’s not very much after days of walking, and more to come.
Father drops a whole bird into his hands. It is warm, and greasy with cooked fat and is everything Tyelpë has ever wanted.
“Wait,” he says, “what about you and Uncle Turco?”
“We’re sharing,” says Father, in a tone that brooks no argument. He fishes for his knife to slice the other bird in half.
Next to him, Uncle Turco nods. “Yeah, we can manage. We’ll feel better knowing that you have a full stomach,” he says.
Tyelpë tries to offer a leg to Huan who huffs and whaps him with his tail, before giving up and eating the whole thing. His stomach silenced, he lies back to stare at the stars above them, the night lit by the light of Tilion. He is asleep in minutes.
The corridors of Nargothrond are silent, save for Tyelpë’s own frantic footsteps as he runs to Father and Uncle Turco’s quarters. He reaches them, to be met by Father exiting, carrying his pack.
“No,” says Father before Tyelpë can even speak. “You’re not coming.”
“I have followed you through fire and blood,” says Tyelpë. “I will follow you even now.”
“I said no,” replies Father. He reopens the door, and gestures Tyelpë inside. Uncle Turco is packing a few last items, and looks up when they enter. “Turco agrees with me. You’re staying.”
Tyelpë’s fists clench, and he fights back tears. “But I-“ he starts, interrupting himself with a sob. He should not be crying, he is an adult many times over. But the thought of being left here alone is almost overwhelming.
He starts as he is hugged both front and back. Father is shorter than him now, by a long way, and his arms wrap around Tyelpe’s chest, while Uncle Turco loops his around Tyelpë’s shoulders from behind him.
“I do not do this lightly,” Father says, voice wavering.
“Nor I,” Uncle Turco murmurs quietly.
“I want you to stay safe,” Father says. “I want to fight knowing that you are in a safe place, and that I can rest easy. You have no Oath. I would never retract this Oath for myself, but you are not bound by it as we are. Please, stay here.”
Tyelpë swallows, and gently returns his father’s embrace. “They will not trust me. Why would they let me stay?”
Father looks up, and he is crying. “There is a way,” he says, “though I do not like it.”
Tyelpë knows what he will say before the words leave his lips.
“You must denounce us,” says Uncle Turco behind him. “Say that you renounce our actions and that you will not leave with us because you think we were wrong.”
“No!” cries Tyelpë. “I don’t want to-“
“Please,” begs Father. “I need you to stay here. I need you to stay safe.”
Tyelpë is crying now too, and he can feel wetness seeping into his hair from where Uncle Turco’s face is pressed into it.
“Will they even believe me?” he asks finally.
Father scoffs, breaking the hug to wipe at his eyes. “They are weak-willed fools here, so simple minded that anyone with the slightest bit of authority can sway them. They will believe you.”
Tyelpë wipes his own eyes on his sleeve as Uncle Turco breaks the embrace too, to finish packing. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he says.
“You can,” says Father, “for us.”
He hears of his father’s death on a clear morning, and it is like a punch to the gut. Uncle Nelyo’s face is grim.
“I came to find you,” he says. “It was difficult but I managed to locate you in the end. I wanted to tell you personally.”
Tyelpë nods. “And Uncle Turco and Uncle Moryo too?” he asks.
“Yes,” says Uncle Nelyo. He holds out his arm, and pulls Tyelpë into a one-handed hug. His armour is cold against Tyelpë’s skin, but it is still a comfort. After a while, Uncle Nelyo pulls away, reaching into a pocket to remove a chain with a lumpy eight pointed star on it. Tyelpë recognises it immediately, and his heart sinks at the full proof of his father’s demise.
“We took it off his body,” says Uncle Nelyo, as if from a great distance as Tyelpë reaches for the pendant. “I thought you might want it.”
Tyelpë looks up into Uncle Nelyo’s impassive gaze. “Thankyou,” he says, moving to clasp it around his own neck. “I appreciate your forethought.”
Uncle Nelyo claps his gauntleted hand onto his shoulder. “It’s what he would have wanted. What will you do now?”
“I think,” says Tyelpë, “I will go East. I am done here.”
Uncle Nelyo nods. “His last words were that he was glad that you were not there.”
Tyelpë watches Uncle Nelyo return to his guards and climb onto his horse. “I know he was,” he says, and even though it is true, he does not hurt any less.
“What is that?” Narvi asks, blunt as always.
“What is what?” Celebrimbor replies, distractedly. They are drawing up plans for the doors of Khazad-dûm and it will be a shining symbol of their friendship and the relationship between the smiths of the dwarves and the elven crafters of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, so Tyelpë is paying extra care to the design plans.
“The eight pointed star,” says Narvi. “You’re putting it on these doors, you wear a slightly wonky version around your neck, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how the streetplan of Ost-in-Edhil is laid out in a similar shape!”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Celebrimbor says, smiling. “They’re laid out in a nice geometric pattern that just happens to coincide with an eight pointed star.”
Narvi laughs. “Oh, of course! But I mean it, what is it?”
“At one point, everyone would have known it,” Celebrimbor says, tracing the star on the door plans. “It is the symbol of my house, of my father and my grandfather.”
“Ah, of Fëanor?” Narvi asks. “I had heard of his star before but I did not think to link it.”
“Yes,” replies Celebrimbor. “I always thought it was a shame he did not live long enough to meet any dwarves. He would have loved your people.”
“Really?” asks Narvi, laughing again. “You are not just saying this to get on my good side, are you?”
“No, I swear!” says Celebrimbor. “You are a people whose language is sacred, who value craft and smithing above other things. He would have loved to meet you.”
He does not know how long he has been here. Time has blurred into a constant mess of pain. Annatar- no, Sauron has only allowed him to keep one thing. The pendant with the star, the first thing he created.
Sauron sees it as a mockery, a reminder of Celebrimbor’s beginnings and also enjoys the symbolism of allowing the last of the House of Fëanor to wear an imperfect version of the eight pointed star.
Celebrimbor does not let him see the warmth it brings him to still have it, here in Barad-dûr. Sauron has attempted seduction, has attempted niceties, has tried torture. Still, Celebrimbor holds fast.
“Look at me,” Sauron says, tilting his head up from where he kneels with the toe of a boot. Sauron sits enthroned above him, a mocking smile on his face. “Still you deny me, despite all this pain. Where are the rings?”
Celebrimbor shakes his head, and is knocked backwards as Sauron’s boot kicks him in his throat, and Sauron rises to tower above him, one foot on his heaving chest.
“You are a fool, Celebrimbor,” the Dark Lord says, pressing down until Celebrimbor’s ribs ache. “A naïve fool. You were so innocent and ignorant, and your trust was so easy to gain and your city so easy to take.”
Celebrimbor begins to laugh, and does not stop until the hall is echoing with his hysterics. Sauron removes his foot to kneel down and wrench Celebrimbor’s head up by his pendant.
“What is so funny?” he hisses, and Celebrimbor gasps his reply out, looking into those sulphurous eyes.
“You really think I didn’t know?” he laughs. “How naïve. You think you fooled me so completely? If you had, there would be no rings that you did not know of.” He chokes as Sauron twists the chain tighter in his anger. “Whose son am I? I knew the moment you came to me that you were not as you seemed, and what followed was almost directly from my father’s playbook. I knew, and now you will never find the three.”
Enraged, Sauron pulls the necklace even tighter, and Celebrimbor can feel himself dizzying. He does not fight it, and welcomes the rushing darkness as his spirit finally slips free of Sauron’s grip, all necromancy forgotten in the Dark Lord’s blind rage. His last thought is that he hopes his father would be proud.
Rating: General Audiences
Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo, Maglor | Makalaurë
Maglor is preparing for his first big concert. Or, more specifically, Maedhros is helping him prepare, like the caring big brother he is.
Written for the @feanorianfunbingo prompt "Time will remember us".
"Ouch. Don't pull it."
"Then don't move your head."
Makalaurë mumbled something under his nose, and Maitimo tried to concentrate on his task again. He did become quite good at braiding hair over the years, but he never did anything that elaborate. Kano's heavy dark curls were glistening in the warm light of the fireplace, woven into an intricate pattern that must have been the latest fashion. Of course, Father would have done a better job…
"Speaking of which," his brother must have caught his trail of thought. "Where are our parents? Will they come?"
"Of course they will," Nelyo assuerd him. "Father is just making sure that he has notified every living soul in Tirion about your performance."
Makalaurë laughed. "Good. Then I don't have to worry about having an audience."
They sat in silence for a few brief moments, while Nelyo added finishing touches to Kano's hairstyle. He wasn't quite content with the result, but there was no time for a second try. And his younger brother had a rare talent of making everything look good on him anyway…
"Are you nervous?" Maitimo asked, reaching for a hairpin.
"No." Makalaurë shrugged. "Oh- wait, no. Take that one instead."
"You had to pick the shiniest," Nelyo chuckled. The hairpin was rather heavy from countless little diamonds and silver ornaments. He carefully fixed the hairstyle with it, hoping that he won't ruin everything at the last moment. "…Wait, not at all? If I were you, I'd be scared to death right now."
Kano sighed. "Why would I be nervous or scared? It's not even a contest. All I have to do is sing - and you know I can sing."
"Many great performers would attend this concert - Aimenel, Fanellewen… Don't you wish to impress them?"
"I don't need anyone's approval to do what I love. Though it would be nice if someone like Aimenel took me as his protégé." Makalaurë pondered that thought for a moment. "Are you finished? Let me take a look."
Maitimo watched his brother almost jump from the chair where he has spent almost an hour. Even though Kano was as confident as ever, Nelyo couldn't help but worry about every detail he could control.
"Are you sure you can breathe in this… thing?"
"Don’t be ridiculous, brother, it's not even boned," Makalaurë said, while struggling to look at the back of his head in the mirror. "And you barely laced it."
"Why do you even need a corset-"
"It's called 'fashion', my dear Nelyo, and you should try it one day," he sighed. "So. How do I look like?"
Maitimo tried his best to look at his brother with a critical eye. All friendly snips aside, Kano has always had a much better eye for style. And tonight, draped in the most exquisite fabric Mother had let him buy, adorned with shining jewellery, with that glittering excitement in his eyes, he looked especially beautiful and - Nelyo felt a weird sharp feeling in his chest - mature. Not so long ago he could easily pick his little brother up and carry to bed - and suddenly he sees a bold young man standing before him, his still tender features almost hidden behind a confident smile. He used to complain so much about being a babysitter, but now he wished those times would last forever.
Makalaurë must have felt a change in the mood. He slowly came closer and took older brother's hand in his own.
Maitimo made a deep trembling sigh. "You look gorgeous," he whispered and pressed a kiss against Kano's forehead, holding back sudden tears as he felt arms wrapping gently around his waist. "Go shine, little nightingale. Don't make your accompanists wait. The rest of Tirion, too."
"Don't worry," Kano chuckled. "We'll make everyone remember us for a long time."
"Sure. Just promise me you'll hire a stylist when you become famous."
Fëanorian week: Maedhros
A Silmarillion fanfic @feanorianweek
Summary: On a warm summer's day, young Maedhros and Fingon leave Tirion behind but find themselves discussing their family anyway.
Length: ~2,000 words; Rating: General audiences
Some keywords: family relationships, friendship, Years of the Trees, some mild angst and some fluff
A/N: I've been thinking a lot about my own grandmother who has been unwell for a while now and how much she means to me, and grandmothers in general, which prompted me to write this little fic about young Maedhros/Maitimo and Fingon/Findekáno discussing their grandmothers.
Maitimo is (in human terms) in his mid-teens here and Findekáno in his late tweens and precocious. There are very gentle hints of pre-slash here if you are inclined to see them, but they shouldn't be too oppressive if you're not.
Read on AO3
It is one of the rare days that both of them have managed to persuade their fathers that firstly, they do not have any important lessons or other duties to attend to, and secondly, they are old enough and responsible enough to ride out of the city on their own. So Maitimo and Findekáno do ride out though the morning is hot enough to be uncomfortable. They wear light clothes and joyful expressions and head for one of their favourite spots, a little river-valley close enough to the sea that if the wind is right, they can smell the salt in the air.
Today the wind is right, and as soon as they can smell the sea, Findekáno jokingly suggests that they ride all the way there. 'For it is guaranteed to be cooler there', he reasons.
'I think that would be a rebellion too far', Maitimo says wryly and leads his horse to the stream to drink. Findekáno follows, guiding his own horse proudly, basking in the responsibility.
For years, Fëanáro used the excuse that Findekáno was too young to be included in whatever activity Maitimo was planning. Maitimo wonders what new excuse his father will soon come up with now that Nerdanel has vetoed the old one. Maitimo doesn't doubt it will be better one, and he doesn't doubt that he himself will fight it politely but tenaciously, like he did the old excuse.
Setting his horse free to graze in the sparse grass, Maitimo banishes the thoughts of his father and how badly he gets along with his half-brother, turning his attention back to Finno. Finno who is so easy for Maitimo to get along with, never mind their difference in age and their quarrelling fathers, and at the moment taking out an enormous amount of various sweets and sweet pastries from his pack.
Maitimo raises his brows and asks, 'How long do you think we can stay here eating?'
'Until they are all eaten. We can't hurt grandmother Indis' feelings by bringing back any.' Findekáno grins.
Maitimo snorts. 'You always have an excuse for eating, don't you?'
'I don't know what you're talking about', says Findekáno, indistinctly for his mouth is already full of pastry.
An hour or two later he lounges on the riverbank next to Maitimo, looking faintly ill.
'I told you to stop eating the sweets earlier', Maitimo scolds. Their age difference means that Maitimo has accrued some wisdom that Findekáno hasn't, such as knowing when to stop indulging himself.
(What he hasn't learned yet is not being smug about it.)
'I told you, it would be insulting to grandmama Indis if I came back with any of them left', Findekáno says, holding his stomach.
Maitimo plucks up crumbs from his lap and flicks them at his cousin. 'You need to work on your argumentation skills, Finno.'
'She would be insulted.' Findekáno's repeated argument is hardly spoken seriously, and his face is relaxed and content as he stares up into the cloudless sky.
'It would be easy enough to hide any leftovers.' Maitimo enjoys the inconsequential, often nonsensical arguments he and Findekáno have.
Findekáno clearly agrees on the unimportance of their debate, for he concedes easily. 'It would be', he admits. 'But grandmama really would be disappointed if she found out somehow. Nothing pleases her more than feeding her grandchildren.'
Maitimo mumbles his agreement, then sits up straight and enunciates more clearly as his father taught him. 'My grandmother is the same, in principle at least. She specialises in ridiculously large portions for 'growing boys', as she says, rather than sweets.'
Maitimo is very fond of his only grandmother. Tyelpefindien keeps an iron grip on the many apprentices of her husband's that live in their house and on all affairs of the household, but her stern, angular face softens whenever she talks to her grandchildren. They are always welcome to stay.
'I think I prefer the sweets', says Finno. His ever brighter smile reminds Maitimo of Indis.
Maitimo's returning smile is a little wistful and aimed at the river that seems to flow slower than usual on this still, bright summer's day, as if even the water itself is caught up in the too-hot day's laziness.
There is a long silence as Findekáno dozes after his heavy meal and Maitimo thinks of grandmothers. Usually their silences are as light and comfortable as their little debates, but this time Maitimo's heart is a little heavy.
Findekáno notices it eventually and asks, direct as ever. 'What it is that is weighing on you?'
'It is not a heavy thing, exactly', Maitimo says, because he isn't always as direct. 'I was – since we were talking of grandmothers… Sometimes I wonder what kind of a grandmother my father's mother would have been. If she would have stuffed me with sweets like yours does, or with too much soup, or if she would have been reasonable with food. Is that even possible for a grandmother?'
'It must be, for only one of my grandmothers does this', points out Findekáno and holds his protesting stomach. 'Grandmother Aistallë would have rapped me on the fingers with her fan rather than let me eat that eleventh torte.'
Maitimo doesn't know much of Findekáno's mother's mother, only what she looks like, and that Findekáno inherited his stubborn chin from her. From what Findekáno has told him, Aistallë sounds like formidable lady.
'She taught you to ride, didn't she?'
'Yes, she did. And she bought me my first pony, that grey-dappled rascal that liked to bite me when I didn't give him treats. I'm glad Turukáno has him now.' Findekáno sits up, still holding this stomach, and twists around enough to check that their own horses are still grazing under the copse of trees a short distance away. Findekáno's steed these days is a handsome black stallion, very different from his first, mischievous pony, but exactly as beloved.
'I've been keeping an eye on them', Maitimo points out as Findekáno lies back down. 'No need to worry.'
'I should have known.' Findekáno smiles up at Maitimo in a small way, the smile more in his eyes than on his lips. His eyes are blue like Finwë's, bluer than Maitimo's own, and fringed by long, long black lashes. 'That I don't need to worry about anything when I'm with you.'
Maitimo occupies his hands with tugging out blades of dry grass. 'I'm so used to looking after my brothers that I suppose I do it with you too.'
'Mm', Findekáno agrees. 'Only you are gentler with me. Less impatient.'
'You are not as irritating.'
'It's only because I don't live in the same house with you.' Findekáno chuckles. 'Let us agree to never live in the same house, so we'll stay good friends.'
'Neighbouring houses, perhaps?' Maitimo suggests lightly.
'That's a good idea!' Then Findekáno grows more solemn. 'Nelyo, we have deviated from our original after-lunch discussion of grandmothers. Would you like to speak of them more? You said that you sometimes wonder what Míriel would have been like as a grandmother.'
Maitimo shrugs again, trusting that Findekáno will know not to interpret it as real indifference.
After a moment, he finds words. 'It feels odd to think about her. I have heard many things about her but they are about her looks and her accomplishments. I can't use those things to build a picture of what she would have been like with me and my brothers in everyday moments. With little things like mealtimes or sending off for a ride with advice.'
Findekáno's eyes are on Maitimo but he is quiet and intently listening. Maitimo appreciates it, that Findekáno strives to understand and empathise, even though as Maitimo's half-cousin, he wouldn't exist as he is if Maitimo's father's mother was alive. It isn't necessarily easy for Findekáno, Maitimo can tell, but he does it anyway.
'I think she would have taught us some of her craft', Maitimo continues after a moment. 'Since all of our other grandparents have taught us at least a little bit of their craft or occupation. But I don't know if she would have enjoyed teaching children who might not have any special skill or interest in her beloved craft that she was unsurpassed in. I heard once that she often grew impatient with her less talented apprentices.'
'Grandchildren are special to their grandparents', Findekáno says sagely. 'I'm certain that she would have loved even your most mangled attempts.'
Maitimo considers for a moment defending his short-lived studying of needlecraft that he'd stopped pursuing out of lack of passion rather than any particular ineptitude, but gives up on it because he believes Findekáno was only trying to make him cheer up rather than insult him. He is too loyal for that, so ardently loyal that sometimes it is a little disquieting and at others seems childish, but mostly Maitimo appreciates it.
'I think she was a different sort of queen at least', he says at length.
Findekáno nods in agreement. 'From what I have heard, she was a craftswoman to her core and had little interest in being a politician.' He picks at his clothes. 'Grandmother Indis was a princess from a young age. She grew into ordering people around so it comes as naturally to her as running and singing.'
'And she has been teaching you all three.'
'And I can't decide which one I like best.'
That does make Maitimo smile, and the new silence they slip into is comfortable and warm like the riverbank they're sitting on. Findekáno shakes out the tangled mess his braid descended into during their ride here, combs through it with his fingers, and begins to braid it anew into several plaits. Maitimo stares at the river still, at the moving water and the mother bird there teaching her numerous young to dive for food.
Findekáno breaks the quiet eventually by offering, 'I could ask grandmama Indis. She knew Míriel and I think she would tell you about her.' What he leaves unsaid because they both know it is I would do this since our grandfather never speaks of his first spouse, or, because your father never speaks of her but fiercely, and as you say, from those things is difficult to form an idea of how grandmother would be with a beloved grandson.
Maitimo considers it. He knows that Findekáno would ask, wouldn't think of it twice, and wouldn't mind it being potentially awkward or embarrassing.
'And, you know, I don't think grandmama Indis dislikes you or your brothers.' Findekáno's restless fingers unravel the messy braids he'd just finished. 'So you could come with me some time when I visit her. I wouldn't mind sharing her with you.'
'My father would mind', Maitimo replies, wondering if Findekáno doesn't yet realise the realities of their complex family or if he only chooses to disregard them. At Findekáno's little frown he adds, 'Don't worry about it, Finno.' And because generosity should have its reward, Maitimo takes the ribbons from Findekáno's hand and offers, 'I can do the braiding for you.'
Findekáno shuffles closer at once, shaking his hair out again. Maitimo runs his fingers through it and sets to work braiding it neatly.
'I don't think you should wear more than one braid until you can manage it neatly yourself', he teases gently. 'I didn't.'
'That's unfair, Maitimo! Your hair is more biddable than mine. And pretty no matter what you do with it. Anyway', he turns his head and grins, until Maitimo tugs at a strand of hair to make him look forward again and stay still, 'what is the point of being the king's grandson if one can't rely on servants to help with one's hair?'
Maitimo isn't in the mood for disagreeing so he says lightly, 'What indeed', and ties another braid, and another, thankful that they have enough in common to be able to talk of the things they don't.
A/N: Thanks for reading! :)
I headcanon that Nerdanel's mother, Maitimo's only living grandmother, has silver hair because I have a feeling that for several of the sons of Fëanor to have other than dark hair, they needed to inherit a light-haired gene from several grandparents. Thus the name Tyelpefindien, silver-haired. To Findekáno's maternal grandmother I chose the name Aistallë, one who blesses, without any particular deep thought. Perhaps she has something to do with service of the Valar.
I am (apparently) using the B2MeM as the impetus to get myself back into writing and posting fic. Amazing.
This piece draws heavily from @dawnfelagund‘s Another Man’s Cage (and other Dawn-canon), which is always and forever at the top of my rec list.
Summary: Macalaurë often has trouble sleeping. After the birth of the new baby, he finds he’s not the only one.
If I were Maitimo or Tyelcormo, I might have just climbed out the window, nestling my feet and hands amongst the ivy on the trellis and so finding my way down. As I am, I dare not; the ivy is a rare and delicate albino breed, and both Father and Mother have expressly forbidden us from treating it like a ladder. Tyelcormo has been caught at it often enough for me to know that I never want to be. Maitimo, of course, and even Findecáno when he is here, manage the infraction well enough to get away with it. (I do not mind being bested by Nelyo, but it rankles in ways I cannot put into words to be beaten by our half-cousin.)
Having ruled the window out, I am still left with my original problem: getting downstairs where I can escape with my harp to the field and pick out the melody keeping me from sleep. All that stands between me and relief is the nursery, whose half-closed door tells me that Mother is in there with the new baby. While I am old enough to come and go as I please, she will want to know where I think I am off to this late into Telperion’s glory, and I would rather not—cannot, truthfully—explain. Any reticence on my part would make her worry, and likely add to what I know is her growing suspicion that we, her sons, trust Father more than her. And Father says—has been saying, for months now, as though we are all blind and cannot see for ourselves that this birth has been particularly hard for her—that Mother has enough to worry about.
So I stand, poised between the hall leading back to my room and the stairs, unable to go back for restlessness and unable to move forward for fear. The paralysis reminds me unpleasantly of Findecáno, who, for all that he is only ever a guest in our house, teases me about my tendency to think my actions through as though I were the visitor and he were Nelyo’s brother, not just a child so clearly star-struck that Maitimo cannot but tolerate him. The days when I had taught him to play the harp seem very far away now.
(Nelyo insists that Findecáno does not mean to imply that I do not belong in my father’s house when he remarks on the oddity of being reminded that not all of Fëanáro’s sons are as reckless as each other. But Nelyo has been acting as peacekeeper for so long that I sometimes find myself wondering what is true and what he only wants to be true.)
I can be reckless too, I think to the shadow of Findecáno in my mind, and stride resolutely past the half-open door—
“Macalaurë, where are you going?’
—and freeze. The flat tone is exhausted, but the voice is not Mother’s. I turn, slowly, to face my father.
After experiencing the birth of two siblings, and knowing that before them there was Nelyo’s birth and mine, I sometimes forget that this baby is different. Father and Mother used to take turns sitting up with us at night, as much as they were able (sometimes a baby just needs its mother). But Father will not let Mother sit up with this baby, insisting that she needs her rest and that he is more than capable of caring for his newest son when he wakes in the night. (Moryo says this is far from the only reason, but I try not to listen to Moryo and his theories.) I doubt Mother would have stood for this sort of coddling, save that Father seems to have the uncanny ability to know when the baby will grow tetchy before he starts to fuss and carries him off to the nursery before he has a chance to wake Mother up.
And so I am standing in front of my father, clutching my harp and feeling guilty, though I know my nighttime wanderings are not the cause of the spreading bruises beneath his eyes. I offer up the first defense I can think of.
“I didn’t climb out the window.”
Father raises an eyebrow at this redundant non sequitur, and glances to the window in question as he pushes the nursery door fully open.
“So you didn’t,” he agrees, running a hand down the baby’s back. “It is nice to know at least one of my sons respects the rules of this house. It’s bad manners to treat windows like doors.”
I wince and know where he intends to lead the conversation—it is equally bad manners to tramp around the house at night with a newborn in residence, and to dance my way around answering a direct question. But he does not immediately follow up, so I take the brief opportunity to attempt to explain.
“I was going for a walk. There’s a melody,” I add; Father is no stranger to inconveniently timed inspiration.
“There’s always a melody, filit,” Father sighs, not half as understanding as I had hoped, or perhaps too tired to sympathize, and I scowl down at my bare feet.
I jump when his hand gently lifts my chin; however tired he is, Father always moves with grace to shame the proudest cat. He smoothes my hair behind my ears, trailing one knuckle down my cheek.
“I don’t know why you insist on hiding such a beautiful face, yonya,” he murmurs. Even knowing it is far from the truth—my mouth and forehead are too wide and my brows too thick to be more than comely—I stand straighter at the compliment. As one of his sons, I enjoy the rare honor of being one of the few people Father judges to be beautiful; otherwise, it is a term he uses for things and ideas.
Father smiles at my smile, and shifts the baby to his other arm, gesturing for me to continue downstairs. He follows me, whispering to my littlest little brother all the while. He has never been one for nonsensical baby talk, but, as far as I remember, this is the first of us with whom he has tried to converse so early.
I stop once I clear the lower landing, not sure I have his blessing to go off in to the night. He turns toward the kitchen, so—with one last longing glance at the door—I trail after him.
He lights one of his lanterns, for the room is dim even with Telperion’s glow, and begins putting together the mixture he prepares for the baby when Mother is sleeping. I hover at the table, resting my harp on the worn wood gently, and watch him tend to the infant Mother named Atarinkë and whose essë Father has not yet declared.
Atarinkë does not much live up to his amilessë as far as I can tell. There is very little about the tiny, helpless person to remind me of Father. Perhaps he will grow into it, but I find myself hoping, selfishly, that he will not. I want to believe it is my imagination, but Father already seems to care more for this son than those who came before. If Atarinkë does become more like Father as he ages, what hope is there for the rest of us? How could we compete for a father’s love against another Fëanáro?
Father looks up as he sets the bottle’s nipple to the baby’s lips, and then immediately back down as Atarinkë turns his scrunched up face away, whimpering mutinously.
“I know, yonya; it’s not as good as Mother’s. Let her sleep now and she’ll feed you properly in the morning.” Atarinkë turns back to the bottle and I wonder uneasily whether he actually does understand everything that is said to him. Father slides into the chair across from me, crossing an ankle over a knee and rocking gently.
“So? Play your melody.” He winces almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, and he amends, “If you would,” but I am too caught between joy at his interest and deeply ingrained habit.
“Play now? In the house? At night?” Father rolls his eyes, and I wish I had let those words become one cohesive question before blurting them out.
“If anyone is disturbed, they can lodge their complaints with me,” he says wryly. I grin. Very few people in Arda would fault anyone for following Father’s lead. And Nolofinwë does not live with us.
Still I hesitate, not sure if I can—or want to—do as he asked. I have never composed to an audience before, and I half worry that allowing someone else to hear it in its unfinished state will prevent it from reaching its final form, or ruin the magic I am told is in my music. I avoid Father’s eyes, watching Atarinkë worry the bottle—more mouthing than suckling, I see. Whatever my misgivings about this littlest of my brothers, his show of infantile disobedience brings another grin to my lips.
The first note falls into place, then the next, and I begin to pick out the melody that has kept me awake for hours. It is slower than I imagine it will be when done, for I am considering the way each note fits together with its fellows as I go, and softer, as I do not want the sound to carry beyond the kitchen, but I recognize in it the beginning of something wonderful.
Atarinkë cranes his little head in my direction, eyes wide and wholly captivated, and I realize, with something a bit like joy—if joy were full of unending terror and sharp pain—that this is the first music he has heard since leaving Mother’s womb. The melody trembles, grows sweeter, and Atarinkë smiles at me. He reaches out one pudgy arm, flexing his hand as though to catch the music as it falls off my harp strings. Father chuckles, setting the bottle aside, and I glance up at him, but he is staring down at the baby in his arms.
“Have you decided his essë yet?” I ask cautiously. Nelyo goes tense whenever he catches Moryo and Turko bickering over what it will be, so I have grown wary of the topic, but I am no less curious than anyone else. Father half-hums a tune that fits nicely into the crescendo I am building, and I weave it into the song.
“Perhaps,” he murmurs. “Though your mother takes exception to it.” I smile weakly, and do not voice my sympathy with Mother’s exasperation with his –finwë theme. “But she has already named him, so I do not see why I—“ he stops, and I can tell by the way he rubs a hand over his eyes that he did not intend to say that out loud. My fingers find the melody’s beginning and I start over, incorporating Father’s accompaniment from there this time.
Atarinkë’s eyes, the only part of his that remind me of Father, blink slowly, more frequently as I grow more certain of the song’s composition, more sure of my mastery over it. His small hand goes still and Father tucks it back into his blanket. Then he shifts his hold on the baby, laying Atarinkë up against his chest, one arm crooked to support him there. Atarinkë curls a fist around a lock of Father’s hair, and then moves no more. The melody turns melancholy as I wonder whether Father ever sat with me in that chair, if his face had ever been that serene when he looked upon me. Still, there is a strength to my song that gives me the courage to voice what has troubled me since I heard it.
“Moryo says he will be your favorite.”
I look up after a moment, when no answer comes.
Father has fallen asleep, Atarinkë in his arms.
Silence reigns in the ruined halls of Menegroth as I make my way to the throne room. The Oath still calls, a thrum I can feel aching in my bones, but already it is growing fainter, becoming once more something bearable, and I can again spare a thought for other concerns.
The Silmaril is gone, leaving only death and destruction in its wake. Someone will have to help restrain Carnistir and Tyelcormo from their more violent impulses when they realize we have failed. Someone will have to steady Russandol in the wake of this second Kinslaying. (A second Kinslaying, when there should have never been a first. A second Kinslaying, and this one far more calculated, far more deliberate. My stomach turns, my thoughts wanting to skitter away from that horrific truth, but I have had more than enough time to accept it. We planned this one, after all.)
There is no one standing guard in the cavernous throne room when I arrive, an oddity—Tyelcormo and Atarinkë had been holding it with their men when I had last come this way. I expected there to at least be some men left behind, guarding it, even if my brothers themselves have moved on—and it seems unlikely to me that they would have moved on. Seizing King Dior’s throne is just the sort of metaphorical victory Atarinkë savors, and Tyelcormo has been his creature now for centuries. They will not have gone far. I round the shattered doors into the cavernous expanse, expecting at the least to see my brothers.
Tyelcormo lies on his side, the center of a ring of corpses, his fair hair fanned across the floor and slowly turning red. His armor is rent and punctured, the broken haft of a spear jutting from his armpit, and his throat is a gaping ruin. He is furious and snarling even in death, his lips drawn back from his teeth.
Atarinkë is positively peaceful by contrast, propped up against the throne, eyes closed, one hand clasped around the knife in his gut.
I stumble as an odd, animal noise echoes through the empty hall—me, I realize, my voice, a wretched, ugly croak of disbelief and pain. The sight of them crumpled, the smell of blood and decay—I can feel my knees trembling. Two of my brothers are lying dead, and all I feel is a horrible, dreadful relief that it is not Russandol or Pitya lying there—
Atarinkë—Atarinkë the schemer, Atarinkë the monster—stirs at the sound of my voice. His head lolls to the side, his eyelids shivering faintly, and I am at his side faster than blinking.
His eyes will not open all the way, but even half-closed I can see relief in them as I kneel, my hands hovering uselessly over him. He sucks in a weak, wet breath, not enough for speech, and I know—if I had even doubted—that I cannot save him. I ease him gingerly into my lap and pull the dagger out of him. His hand is slick with his wasted blood, but I imagine I can feel him squeeze mine as I lace our fingers together. As I sit there, cradling him, a new sound echoes in the too-still air—a soft tune, and sweet: an infant’s lullaby, composed long ago in Aman. My throat is raw from the battle, from grief, but I hum the tune all the same.
His lips curl, his fingers twitch. Atarinkë sighs softly against my throat and dies in my arms.
Extra CW: ableism, mention of restriction of stimming
This could apply to a number of your AUs or it could be its own thing.I actually headcanon both Maedhros and Fingon as autistic. Maedhros’s autism though is quiet and constrained. His ability to physically stim is heavily restricted by Naro. Unsurprisingly, as tends to happen when autistic kids are abused like this, Nelyo is a nervous wreck. Nolofinwë puts none of these constraints on Finno. He’s allowed to flap, rock and vocalize to his heart’s content and Fëanor HATES this
Anyways that’s the relatively boring just mean ableism stuff
There are a million different ways or scenarios that the incest part of this could happen. Again it would depend on the verse/AU but I’ll just throw out a few thoughts:
1. Naro wanting Nolofinwë to know. For this to be a punishment for him for everything. Fëanor gets Fingon drunk. Finno is confused but so relieved that his uncle isn’t being cruel to him like he usually does. By the time he’s worried and wants to leave it’s far too late and he can barely move.
2. If he’s trying to get away with it it’s more difficult. He doesn’t trust Fingon to keep quiet, he’d probably have to resort to threatening someone and even this isn’t fool proof. But he could more easily put himself in a good position to say that any accusation is fabricated.
(Thanks for letting me share my thoughts! I’m having a weird night so this isn’t very well organized but I’ll try to bring something more coherent later)
Oh, I love those ideas! They feel like they work best in a basically-canon-Tirion to me, where Feanor and Nolofinwe are rival princes but neither of them officially is allowed to harm the other. And one of the ways Feanor tries to prove that he is the best is by having the best family, who always perfectly follow all rules of proper behavior (except for the rules Feanor personally dislikes).
(Writing the next bits from Feanor's point of view, which is very ableist. Also involves societal ableism of the "this neurodivergent individual obviously needs a minder, but if they have one we can ignore the whole situation" variety.)
Feanor would hate Fingon being allowed to express himself like that. Both because it disrupt Feanor's big fiery speeches if someone is neither being politely silent or cheering at the applause lines, and because he thinks Nolofinwe is insulting him. Feanor put a lot of effort into teaching Maedhros "good behavior" and correcting Maedhros every time he failed. Feanor doesn't like making his eldest son miserable, but it's obviously necessary. And then Nolofinwe just allows Fingon to do whatever he wants? As if the rules for society are unimportant? It's not that being the "better" royal family isn't important to Nolofinwe, he and Feanor are always competitive. So it must be a deliberate insult, Nolofinwe claiming to be so much better than Feanor that he can win even with an "obviously defective" heir.
I don't have great ideas for how Feanor could convince Fingon to hide it, but scenario 1 is intriguing. Feanor can punish Fingon for being disruptive and Nolofinwe for letting him at the same time. Also it reminds Maedhros that everything Feanor did to him was "for his own good" so that he didn't "end up like one of those people."
Feanor uses the fact that no one expects Fingon to act normally so that no one stops him form getting Fingon incredibly drunk. If a non-autsitc person was slurring their words and making incredibly expansive gestures but the person with them was giving them more drinks, people would be concerned. But Feanor says "Oh, you know my nephew's always a little odd, he's fine," and people leave them alone. Then he takes Fingon to his bedroom, saying it's too loud and bright here, he'll bring Fingon somewhere quiet because "you know crowds are too much for his delicate mind."
(This is the part that Feanor believes Maedhros would be safe from. Maedhros has never revealed his "weaknesses," so people would be concerned and step in if Maedhros was in Fingon's place and a stranger in Feanor's.)
Fingon is aware that he's drunk more than normal, but Feanor is being nice for once, and actually referring to him as a family member. And there's too much noise and too many strange people all around, drinking is at east something to do with his hands. Even Feanor's "nice" remarks are sharp and on the edge of insults, to the point where it's hard to respond without insulting Feanor or admitting fault, so Fingon drinks to avoid having to say anything.
When Feanor suggests they leave, Fingon is grateful, though he hadn't been sure how to suggest it earlier without Feanor thinking Fingon disliked his company. A quiet place sounds nice. Fingon is surprised to end up at Feanor's room rather than his own, but when he thinks about it Feanor probably doesn't actually know where Fingon lives. Fingon focuses on being grateful that Feanor is willing to invite him into such a private place, even though he feels antsy in the strange place. He tries to relax, knowing that Feanor might have been polite tonight but he doesn't like Fingon stimming, but that just makes Fingon anxious and need to stim more.
While Fingon is focused on his thoughts, Feanor locks the door. Fingon has started rocking in place. Feanor guides him to the bed, and between the alcohol and the sensory overload Fingon goes along with it.
Feanor finds it very convenient that Fingon freezes up when overwhelmed.
Feanor doesn't worry about any consequences of raping Fingon. Sure, Nolofinwe will notice something's wrong, and Fingon will tell him what happened. But who else will believe it? Even if Fingon is traumatized afterwards, and starts shivering and whimpering around Feanor, "everyone knows Fingon moves for odd reasons and makes odd sounds." The only thing witnesses saw was Feanor and his Fingon enjoying an evening together and then leaving out of consideration for Fingon's needs. If it does go to a trial, it will be Fingon's word against Feanor's and Feanor is confident of his ability to sound more convincing than Fingon, especially in a high stress public setting.
Fic Writer Tag Game
@arofili tagged me. Thank you so much <3 I loved writing this and spent way too much time on it :D
AO3 name: HewerOfCaves
Fandoms: Silmarillion, but HewerOfCaves is actually my 4th reincarnation on Ao3, the other three were for other fandoms.
Number of fics: 27 under this username
Fic I spent the most time on: Has to be Sins of the Father, I spent months on it. Though when/if I post a couple of fics I’m working on, they will break the record :/
Fic I spent the least time on: Well, I have two triple drabble fics, so probably those. Light In Their Eyes, Blood On Their Lips (Russingon, sorry, I suck at titles) and Black Horse (tw: cannibalism). If drabbles don’t count, then it’s Your Name and Only a Fool Would Wear a Crown. I just was struck by the idea, quickly wrote it down and posted it. The best feeling until you start thinking that it’s rubbish.
Longest fic: For the World’s End (6055 words). It’s also the first fic I wrote for this fandom.
Shortest fic: Red and White (89 words). It’s a poem written for the Ambarussa day of last year’s Fëanorian week.
Most hits: For the World’s End again. 800 hits at this moment.
Most kudos: And again it’s For the World’s End. 111 kudos at this moment. I guess people like reembodied angsty Maedhros.
Most comment threads: It’s Light’s Out of Sight, part 2 of my Fingon stays alive canon divergence AU. 16 comment threads.
Most bookmarks: To no one’s surprise, it’s For the World’s End. 22 bookmarks.
Total word count: It’s just 41.400. If I counted my fics for other fandoms, it would probably be over 250.000, but I have no desire to go back and check, sorry.
Favourite fic I wrote: This is hard! Do I have to choose one? No, I don’t. I’ll choose three. I’m gonna say:
- Bricks, it’s a kid fic about Caranthir and Turgon, written for the Caranthir day of last year’s Fëanorian week. I started writing it as soon as I saw the announcement for the Fëanorian week in January 2019. I’m very fond of it.
- Bitter, it’s a surprisingly fluffy fic about three times Maedhros and Fingon had dinner together.
- Jester, written for the Maedhros day of last year’s Fëanorian week and B2MeM 2019. Maedhros talks with Maglor and Fingon after the deaths of their respective fathers.
Special mention to Tale of Wanderer, which is a poem. I’m definitely not a poet, so I surprised myself by making it as long as it is. Written for the Maglor day of last year’s Fëanorian week and B2MeM 2019. That was a good week for me as a writer. A good month really. I wish I could say the same for this year.
Fic you want to rewrite/expand on: Well, I do want to write more for my Fingon stays alive canon divergence AU series, which still doesn’t have a proper name. I have posted three parts and I have ideas for others. I just have to write them. Yeah.
There’s also We Live a Lie, which is honestly more of an idea than a real fic about Arda Remade without Indis’s descendants. I probably won’t expand on it, but @venwe did. Check out her Lands Beyond, where Maedhros realizes that something’s wrong with their perfect world.
I’d love to expand this snippet, a canon divergence AU, where Finwë stays in Tirion instead of going to Formenos with Fëanor, but I most likely won’t.
Share a bit of a WIP or a story idea you’re planning on: I have a few. First of all, the aforementioned canon divergence AU, which I have ideas for but not even a word written.
Something about Fingon and the children of Finarfin after the First Kinslaying. Not a word written.
I also want to write something about Finarfin. I have exactly two sentences written for it and it’s about Fingolfin :D
“Too much of a Noldo, that one,” Ingwion said after retreating Nolofinwë. Arafinwë never forgot that.
A fic about Celebrimbor visiting his uncles pre-Sirion. It was supposed to be a Third Kinslaying fix-it, but it’s going to be canon-compliant. There’s no fixing the Third Kinslaying :/ Here’s a bit from it:
“What about the King? Fingon. What about him? What would he think?”
“Tyelpë, that is enough,” Maglor said sharply.
Celebrimbor knew he was crossing a line, but he was ready for the consequences, he would bear them if it meant stopping the massacre.
“Do you ever think about it, Lord Maedhros?” he asked. “Do you ever wonder what King Fingon would do? Do you ever think if he would regret saving you?”
Maedhros looked at him. The flames were gone from his eyes. They were dark as a starless night.
“The King is dead,” he said. The strength of his words broke over Celebrimbor, and he was almost knocked down by a wave of grief. “You cannot change anything, Tyelpë. It will be done.”
And a Maedhros on Thangorodrim fic, which I have been writing for almost a year? Maybe more? God, I’m slow. An excerpt from that fic (mention of injuries and hanging from a mountain):
Maedhros jolted and drew back. His legs folded, his feet trying and failing to find leverage. The rock behind him, sharp as broken glass, cut into wounds still unhealed.
“The elf saw a great rider on a silver steed, and he was afraid and yet drawn to him for he could perceive his immense power. But he needed not be afraid for the rider was not evil and his power was of light. Do you know who the rider was, Nelyo?”
Was he losing his mind? He looked around, searching for the speaker, as if it was possible that he could be here, somewhere on this mountain.
“Nelyo? Do you know who he was?” asked his grandfather Finwë’s voice.
“Oromë,” Maedhros croaked. His throat was parched. He wondered when it would rain again.
“Yes, it was Lord Oromë. Very good, Nelyo.”
A familiar gentle hand caressed his head. Maedhros leaned into it without thinking. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe that he was in his grandfather’s arms, in his palace in Tirion. If he tried really hard, he could feel the golden warmth of the waning Laurelin on his hair, as he listened with rapture to the stories he knew by heart. He could hear his grandfather’s slow and steady heartbeat as clearly as he had ages ago, when he had been a child, Finwë’s only grandchild for a while. He used to put his ear over his grandfather’s chest and let the comforting thud lull him to sleep. He had been so content, basking in Finwë’s undivided attention.
If you’ve read up to here, thank you so much. I’m tagging @calendille, @amethysttribble, @venwe, @avantegarda. I have more writer mutuals, but I’m too shy to tag them, so if any of you guys sees this, know that I thought about you and consider yourselves tagged. Seriously, I checked my Following list, but I’m just very socially awkward even online.