#looking at Kurvo

[aamuusva]

Celegorm

#Celegorm #tyelkormo #turcafinwe #the silmarillion #silmart #tolkien #dior eluchil #cw blood #looking at Kurvo

[kiatheinsomniac]

Hi :) your silm stuff is so hot - feeling silly for asking on anon but a girl is shy. Could i request reader x curufin with 9 of the smut prompt list? Maybe when they just got married in valinor, he strikes me as having to almost mechanically figure out what does it for his partner. Hoping you have a nice end of the year <3

──── 𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ˊˎ -

☾ ⋆ ﾟ𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 / 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: The end of my year was great, thank you! I hope yours was too :)

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Curufin x Reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 0.8k

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: NSFW content, MDNI, smut, fingering, dry humping

Your sheer robe had been untied and was thrown open, the nightdress ridden up to your hips with how your thighs caged either side of Curufin’s ribs where he hovered above you. His lips were hot and needy against yours, his palms smoothing up and down the curves of your sides. 

This was familiar enough to things that you had done before, albeit without going any further, and you appreciated that he was trying to give you that sense of familiarity to soothe your anxieties. His hands roamed down to your hips, squeezing before a moan escaped your lips when he rolled his hips against yours, grinding against your clothed cunt with how your legs were parted to bring him as close as possible. 

“Is this ok?” He asked softly, lips grazing against yours. 

“Uh-huh.” Was all you could utter out with a nod of your head as you curled your arms further around his neck and tangled your fingers in his dark hair. 

“Good…” The word left his lips in a groan and his mouth met yours once more to swallow each of your sweet moans as he rocked his hips against yours, not caring in the slightest about how your wetness had seeped through your satin panties and was now staining the tight-fitting trousers he had yet to remove alongside his shirt which had been cast to the floor, bearing his toned torso to you. He was so tall and broad and you had always adored how he easily towered over you with his fëanorian stature but now it seemed so seductive as opposed to simply protective and it had you squeezing your thighs on either side of him, pushing your hips up in search of more friction. 

His lips left your mouth to pepper across your jaw and press against your neck, looking for the softest and most sensitive spots that had you tugging his hair and tilting your head back to allow him easier access. Deciding that you were prepped enough for now, his fingers slid down just a little further to the bows over your hips that were keeping your panties together. He appreciated your choice of undergarments being so easily accessible. Oh so slowly, he began to pull at the little bows, giving you enough time to say that you weren’t ready but you made no move to stop him and so the fabric fell loosely at your hips and you let out a soft moan when he pulled it away from your body, revealing the sheen of your wetness clinging to the material and your drooling slit to his hungry eyes. 

You looked away bashfully, cheeks warm with your shyness but your husband’s hands simply squeezed your thighs as he dipped his head down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. A muffled squeak escaped your mouth when his fingers swiped through your folds, pushing your wetness upwards and brushing over your clit, causing your body to jolt up towards his at the unexpected pleasure. 

“Does that feel good?” You bit down on your kiss-swollen lip and nodded your head, reaching down to guide his fingers back to your clit. He watched in awe as you puffed out your breaths and squirmed beneath him, one hand having left his hair to feel over the hills of his abs while your thighs squeezed his waist, legs wrapping around him to keep him close. His fingers dipped down further and in response to the whine you let out at the loss of stimulation, his thumb began to rub at you where his fingers had just been as he sank one finger slowly into you. 

“More! More, Kurvo, please.” You whined as you buried your face in his neck, tears building in your eyes at the foreign pleasure. Your hands remained tangled in his dark hair as he kissed his way across your collarbone and down to your right breast, licking a stripe over your hardened bud before his free hand came up to tease your other breast. 

“Is it good when I touch you here?” He asked and you meweled at the lewd sucking noise of his mouth upon your breast, paired with the noises of his fingers now pistoning into your sticky cunt. “Or maybe here?” You let out a cry of his name when his fingers curled up – a piece of advice from Celegorm earlier on in the evening – and he brushed against that spongy spot within you that had your toes curling in pleasure, able to only nod your head to spur him on. His hand and mouth switched breasts and he felt your body writhe beneath him, walls fluttering around his fingers and your moans resounded like a melody in his ears. You were too high on your orgasm to protest when his fingers removed from you and instead the blunt head of his throbbing cock pressed to your hole, smearing your wetness and his own precum over your messy pussy. “Hey…” He cooed, reaching up to cup your face so that he could press a sweet kiss to your lips. “I love you…”

“Love you too…” You breathed out and he could feel your legs tighten around his waist, beckoning him into your body. He knew with just one taste of you that he could easily grow addicted to having you like this, his sweet, beloved wife. 

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#curufin #curufin x reader #kurvo #kurvo x reader #the silm #silm #the silmarillion #the silmarillion x reader #curufin smut #curufin x reader smut #kurvo smut #kurvo x reader smut #the silm smut #silm smut #the silmarillion smut #the silmarillion x reader smut

[alia-turin-fanfiction]

Title: The Ghost on the Shore

Rating: Mature

Fandom: The Silmarillion 

Characters: Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo, Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë, Curufin | Curufinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë, Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags: Loss, Memory Loss, ghost - Freeform, Haunting, Death, Sorrow, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Summary:  A human walks trough the beach, looking for shells and accidentally fins a ghost everyone on her village has been talking about. She ends up hearing the ghost' story, his grief and regrets, his memories about the family he has lost and the sacrifices he had made.

She walked down the shore, picking shells and digging through the cold sands, trying to find the largest. The wedding was just a week from now and she could barely find the shells she needed to make the decorations and the jewellery. Her eyes turned west, the sun was almost through and darkness would come soon. She had to go back, but that was when a song caught her ear. She looked around, but there was no one, yet the song rose with the waves and disappeared in the wind. She started walking in the direction of the song but with every step she doubted that was even real. Perhaps there was a strange echo at night, but she knew that was not true. That was an actual voice, the most enchanting voice she had ever heard in her life.

Time passed and she found herself at the furthest point of the beach she had ever been. It would take her an hour to get back home and the sun was gone now. Stupid girl, following the unknow. Then she saw it. A shape, maybe a man walking towards her. He was wearing robes that one time might have been blue, but now they were bleached from the sun and salt, mud and old sand was covering them, the fabric torn to ribbons in some places. She knew what that was. The old fishermen talked about it. The shore ghost, he could summon storms with his voice and drive sailors mad. She stepped back but she tripped on her own foot, as all the shells she had collected fell in the sand. She panicked. Damned be the shells, if that ghost could call the storm, what was he to do with her? In panic she started picking the shells, as fast as she could, she might not pick all of them, but as many as she could and then she should run. Run as fast as possible, in the night, in the darkness, until she reached her home.

“I had a brother once.” a strange voice spoke and she froze. Her eyes traced the sand to the man’s feet, he had no shoes, the skin was dry. She lifted her eyes, her teeth grinding in fear. She expected to see a terror, maybe a torn face, visible bones, gore and blood. Old fishermen said the ghost died in a storm, a ship mast hit his face and killed him, and now he wanted to do that to everyone. There was no mast nearby, but she was sure he could find something.

His face was not gore, however. Long black hairs reached way past his shoulders, his lips were cracked the same way she saw sailors’ lips cracked if they spent too much time in the wind. His cheeks were hollow, she could see the outlines of his skull, but it was still covered in porcelain skin. Long dark circles surrounded his eyes as if he had not slept for days.

“Yes.” he continued talking as he knelt, her heart was beating so fast, this ghost was going to kill her and she felt paralized. Was that his way? Was that how he did it? “He was fair, my brother. Fairer than most, at least on the outside. His heart...never mind his heart. It’s gone now, like all of them.”

She was so scared that only now she noticed that he was an elf, not human, but he was the strangest elf she had seen. Their kind sometimes came to the village to trade, but he was taller than almost any elf she had seen, his eyes were shining like gems, as unnatural as elves eyes were to her, his were completely different. Grey, cold and shining like stars.

Maglor reached for his forehead and rubbed his temples. These headaches were terrible, he would wake up and his head would be pulsing, splitting his skull in half. If he were a braver man he would smash his head in a stone and be done with it, but he could not face what came after. No, he was where he was supposed to be.

Something in front of him moved, and just now he realized he was not alone. His eyes fell on a human female, lying in the sand looking at him with terror in her eyes. He did not remember how he came to where he was. He looked behind himself. The cave where he slept was nearby, but he did not recall walking here and even seeing anyone. He was close to the human, he must have bumped into her or something but he could not recall.

“Who are you?” he got up, patting the sand of his robes. Not that it really mattered, more sand will just get stuck to him tomorrow.

The woman crawled back, shells falling from her grip, she was trying to get as far as possible from him. Maglor reached for her, offering her his hand, but then she screamed and started crawling backwards faster.

“Wait.” She made a step toward her trying to stop her, but it was too late. She hit her head on a rock behind her.

He had not done fire in a while. He was surprised he remembered how to do it. The darkness and coldness were part of him now so he did not need the light. Besides, he hated looking at the fire. Every time the flames danced he would see Maitimo, mad and broken. His eyes were fixed on the human, she was starting to awaken. Her hands reached for her head, where she had hit the stone. Slowly her gaze fixed on her and then a scream followed. The cave echoed, carrying her voice in the darkness.

“Don’t kill me, please.” she cried, trying to push herself further from him, but instead her back hit the cold stone walls.

“Kill you?” Maglor scratched his hollow cheek. “If I wanted you dead I could have left you on the sand. You would have bled to death or the wolves would get you.”

“Where am I?” His words did not seem to calm her, her body was still tense, her eyes looking around, trying to find escape. Funny, her hair reminded him somehow of Celegorm’s.

“In a cave.” Maglor answered, trying not to dwell on his dead brother’s looks. “You hit your head, I took you in.” That did not seem to calm the human. She was young, he had lost the ability to tell their age, there was a period when they all looked as if they could be sixteen or thirty. “What is your name?” she hesitated, but her eyes finally focused on him, not on everything else around. “If you want to leave, you can, but it’s dark outside and you humans have terrible sight.”

“Elean.” she finally responded. “My name is Elean. Are you a ghost?”

“A ghost?” Maglor was about to deny it but then he thought about it. He was a ghost. A shell of what he used to be, he wasn’t dead however, but he was not alive either. “Something like it.”

“The fishermen say you can call a storm.” her body relaxed a bit but she was still trying to keep away from him.

He winced. These days he could barely walk or sing, if he could call a storm that would make for good entertainment, his father might even be proud of him for once. If his father was alive and not an ashen pile or a prisoner of his own darkness.

“I’m afraid I posses no such power.” silence followed, but he could not stop thinking about how he found her. For the life of him he could nor recall how he ran into that human. It wasn’t uncommon for him to find himself wandering and forgetting how he got there, but usually he just thought he walked the sands and sang and his mind wandered. She was the first human he had seen in years and it wasn’t that he randomly saw her. He was kneeling in front of her as if he had been talking to her. “How...did you find me?'' He wasn’t sure that was the right question, but he had no idea what the right question was. He had no idea what anything was.

“I was picking shells and I heard a song...I followed the song and I saw you.” she responded slowly as if she was talking to a child unsure if her words made sense. “Then you came to me and you spoke of your brother.”

“My brother?” something in Maglor’s chest shrank. He did not remember that. How could he mention his brothers and not even remember that? “What did I say?” he asked. His voice betrayed his own fear and confusion. “What did I say?!” she shouted and she pulled back again, the fear returning.

“You...said he was fair. Fairer than most. On the outside.” her voice was shaking, her eyes frantically looking for an exit again.

He wasn’t surprised at his words, but he could not remember saying them. Why would he talk about Celegorm to a human he had just met.

“What else did I say?” his voice was calmer, but there was still that strange feeling in his chest. He did not remember any of that.

“Nothing...you said he was gone. That they were all gone.” her shoulders sank again, more relaxed. “Who are they?”

Maglor ignored the question, he had other things to worry about. His life was not worth anything for all he cared, but his mind. That was the last thing he had left. What if he was forgetting other things? Not just how he got from here to there, but what if he was forgetting who he was...what if he forgets Maitimo and Kurvo...all of them, his father, his mother. No, he could not forget them, if he forgets them, who will sing about their sacrifice, who will remember them as they truly were not as the stories made them to be?

“I was a king once.” he finally spoke, he could see in her eyes that she did not buy that. “No. I was a son of a king, then a brother of a king, then a king and then I was just me. I watched my brother burn.” his eyes stopped on the fire. He didn’t really see Amrod burn, he didn’t even know that had happened, not until Maedhros had told him. “My father set him on fire. He didn’t know.” Maglor bit his lip, the cracked skin broke under his teeth and he could taste his blood. “Then my father died and my brother was captured.”

He would never forgive himself for these years. The moment he became a king, the moment he dared take Maedhros’ place. He was broken, but in his head he thought he could do better. He would be a greater king than the great Feanor, he would be kinder than his father, more patient, he would listen rather than act...it was all rotten. His brothers barely listened to him and only when he agreed with them they did as they were told. His cousins did not want to hear about his rights and he sank. Every day was worse than the previous until Maitimo was back. Maglor did not cry when he left his wife and he did not cry when Amrod died, but that day, next to his brother’s sickbed he cried. Not of sadness, he was happy Maedhros was back, and he was happy the burden would be taken off him, but of shame. He had been too worried to be better than his father, he needed to prove he was a son of Feanor and better than the man, better than his brothers and he never even tried to save Maitimo. His brother bled and suffered and struggled and Maglor did nothing.

“My brother came back and did what I should have done. Took the crown off and gave it to someone who would wear it with pride.” years passed, friends and kin died, but it did not matter. He was with his family and his family, despite who they were and what they did was his family. Maedhros - proud and strong, with his ghostly nightmares haunting his own fortress. Celegorm, handsome and strong like any woman’s dream with the poison dripping off his heart. Caranthir, avoiding all of them, scheming away, Curufin, the copy of their father, his words and deeds making everything rot and despair and Amras, poor Amras who lost half of himself on these cursed ships.

“I had six brothers.” he continued talking, the human was looking at him with interest now. “They were great, cursed, but they were all I had. One by one they died. One in an accident, three as they were butchering our own kin, one trying to save our last hope and…”

He should have died. When Maedhros threw himself in the fire, he should have followed. He should have thrown himself in the sea and died there, but he could not. He was a coward.

“You are not a ghost.” the woman finally said.

“I am. A ghost of what I used to be, a ghost of what I was supposed to be. The ghost of my brothers’ memories and deeds, my father’s ambitions, my mother’s disappointment. I’m a ghost. But I also bleed.” Maglor licked his lips as if to illustrate his point.

In the morning Elean woke up, the elf was gone and she could see the light coming from the entrance of the cave. Her heart was heavy for that creature she found or more found her. He wasn’t a ghost, just a mad starved elf, living alone. She walked out trying to remember every stone, every dune so she can find her way back tomorrow. She would bring him food and maybe blankets.

#the simarillion #maglor #makalaure #tolkien #ghost #my writing

[jengajives]

Fëanorian week day 1

Some Maedhros breaking down before the third kinslaying :)

The stars shone brighter upon these Hither Shores than they had in Aman. It felt strange, to have lived at the foot of their maker and yet never have seen them in proper glory. It should have been otherwise. Perhaps, if the stars had shone brighter in that endless night, they would not have left.

His brothers were all resting, camped beneath the silver trees with what little following they had left. It was quiet. Very quiet in the grip of the night. Maedhros felt as though he was the only one awake in all the world.

Mirlach rested across his knees, carefully balanced as he ran his sharpening stone rhythmically down the length of the blade. The scraping of stone against metal was the only thing to break the profound silence, but he imagined flames crackling nearby, and laughter, and Maglor singing, and no heavy pain in his chest.

He could feel his fingers the handle of his sword, so when he looked down and remembered that he didn’t have fingers on that side anymore, it took him by surprise, as it always did. The phantom sensations took him more often now than in years past. In Doriath, he’d felt the cold press of armor against skin that wasn’t there anymore. He’d felt it when the arm was sprayed with blood, dripping through the metal to get underneath.

A splitting pain pierced his head. Mirlach slipped to the grass and laid there, ruby hilt gently shining in the starlight, as Maedhros gripped his forehead and pleaded for the sensation to pass.

Instead, he got a prickle across his shoulder blades. The uncomfortable feeling of freshly burned skin trying to figure out how to process pain again. He felt it in each one of the simple lines given to him for every year that passed in Angband, and in the cold, curling letters Sauron had scrawled along the line of his back. Nossënehtar, Kinslayer. Reminding him of what he had done for as long as his body lasted.

Maedhros tried not to think about the memories of pain making themselves manifest, and he closed his eyes and looked away from the north, trying desperately to see again the light-soaked courtyards and meadows of Valinor, but he couldn’t picture them. The vision of his home was lost. There was nothing left.

“Ever you wait in idle arrogance while the time to fight passes.”

The voice came from behind him, but he ignored it because he knew there was no one there.

“Why should the pride of Maitimo come before the honor of his house? Is it your desire for the sacrifice of your kin to be for nothing?”

The voice changed near the end, just enough so that Maedhros could not ignore it any longer. He didn’t turn to look- he knew his eyes would find nothing- but he did speak, so weakly that it almost felt as though he hadn’t.

“It wasn’t my fault what happened to you, Kurvo.”

“Not your fault?” Curufin’s voice laughed and it rang against his skull. “Not your fault. You trusted to the goodwill of some Dark Elf in a cave, rather than the strength of your people.”

“Thingol was ever our ally against the Enemy and I would not have us put that in jeopardy.”

“Greymantle the ally of the Sons of Fëanor? Now you deceive yourself truly, Nelyo, if that is what you believe.”

Maedhros pressed his palm to his face.

“Leave me.”

“The Silmaril is within your grasp even now, and yet you hesitate.”

“They’re refugees, they have children, and they are our kin.”

“We are your kin, Nelyo!”

It was different now. The clear and ringing voice of his father, just as it had been in Tirion that night. Just as it had been in better times when he stood in the light of the forge and spoke in hushed voices to his sons of the shaping of all things of the earth.

“You put these half-bred strangers before your people, your brothers- before me. Do you not love your father, Nelyo?”

Tremors had taken him, pain tracing the ghost of every scar that ever marked his body and his mind. He saw blood on a stone wharf, and red flames rising from the water.

“My father is dead,” he whispered.

A new voice now, again. The voice of secret hours in the hidden halls of Tirion, and that of doom and torment and ultimate pain.

“The Oath doesn’t die, Nelyo.”

So close he could feel the hot fume of breath against his ear.

“It burns in you. It burns right through your soul. It will not rest. It will not wait. You must win your precious Silmarils. Whether it be from the scattered remnant of weaker kingdoms, or from my crown, you will take them. You will come back to me, before the end.”

“Leave me!”

At last Maedhros stood, rigid and trembling in the cool of night. His breath rose in hot clouds, his heart ablaze within him. The pain wouldn’t go away. He feared it never would.

“You aren’t here,” he whispered finally, and sank to the dewy grass. “None of you are here.”

When he looked south and squinted just so, he could see the flickering lights of the dwelling at the mouths of Sirion. And if he really looked hard enough, he thought he could see in one of those lights the gleam and shimmer of the Two Trees.

In the morning they would march. He would go to battle again and to murder his kin and kill anyone who tried to stop him. And he would ask his baby brothers to do the same.

The hand that wasn’t there twitched in writhed in the endless cold of Angband.

#jenga makes junk #silmarillion #feanorianweek #fic #sons of feanor #maedhros #curufin #feanor #third kinslaying #morgoth #maedhros x melkor

[felixwhetsel]

42 with Maedhros and Curufin for the dialogue prompt, if you're feeling up to writing?

42. I’m only here to establish an alibi

“What did you do now?”

“Nothing! Well, nothing bad...”

Kurufinwë was truly and completely exhausted. After many long hours hovering in the shadow of his father in the forge, the time he finally got to himself was filled with one failure after another. After a day like that, where nothing seemed to go as planned, nothing sounded better to the young nér than a warm bath, a soft bed…

But perhaps the world had other plans for his night.

Just as he was beginning to disrobe, as soon as his shirt hit the ground a frantic knock came at his door. He sighed, and contemplated simply ignoring it. Except from the other side of the wooden door came the panicked voice of his eldest brother. 

“Come on Kurvo, I know you’re in there. I just need a minute of your time, I promise!”

It was unusual to hear Nelyafinwë’s voice convey anything but confidence or brotherly authoritarianism, and panic was especially unusual. He had always been considered the most levelheaded of the seven of them. Kurufinwë pulled a robe around his bare shoulders and only had the door open a crack when a rush of grey fabric and flaming red hair pushed its way into the candle lit bedroom. 

“Yes, of course you can come in,” muttered Kurvo, rolling his eyes and closing the door behind him. When he turned he could see that Nelyofinwe looked particularly frazzled. He stood beside the bed, visibly shaken, and while one hand massaged his temples the other was preoccupied with something in his pocket. His breathing was unstable, evidence that he had ran from… whatever it was he had been running from. “Good lord, what’s gotten into you tonight?”

“Look... I’m only here to establish... an alibi. Otherwise... I’m in deep trouble... with atya,” he said, in between attempts to catch his breath. 

“What?” In the flickering candle light he could see the mess of Nelyo’s hair, bits of leaves tucked in between the silky strands. The mud that caked his boots and the splashes of mud littering the back of his knee-length tunic told Kurufinwë that he had most likely come through the woods nestled behind their home.

“Nowadays it seems Atya will listen to you before he listens to me. And I need a favour from you.”

“O...okay?” It was true that ever since their father began to deteriorate he had been coming more and more to his fifth born with his thoughts and feelings towards those around him. It seemed their father felt that he could only put his trust into his namesake. ‘What would that be?”

“I know for a fact that he’ll be here any minute, and I need you to tell him that I’ve been with you for at least the last hour.”

“What did you do now?”

“Nothing! Well, nothing bad. Not normally, but you know how atya is now. He doesn’t trust anybody.”

“Nelyo. What did you do?”

Nelyafinwë sighed. “One of his guards caught me leaving Ñolofinwë’s home.”

Kurufinwë could only agree that his older brother would, indeed, be in deep trouble with their father. Really deep. 

“Were you visiting Findekano again?”

“Of course I was! Look, there’s no reason we should be dragged into his delusions! If I want to visit my friend, then I’m going to visit him. I’m not a child for him to control.”

“Do you really think your friendship is worth potentially inciting the wrath of atya?”

“Well, yeah. I cannot only see my own family day in and day out. It’s not like I’m the only one in this family - !”

Before he could get the rest of his sentence out, the door to Kurvo’s room slammed open, and in its place stood their clearly seething father.

“Is it true?”

Both brothers put on the best possible face of feigned innocence. Nelyafinwë was still in the process of attempting to catch his breath, though now he was doing his best impression of someone breathing normally. 

“Is what true, atya?” said Kurufinwë, trying his best to keep his face neutral.

“Not you. Nelyafinwë. Tell me if it’s true?”

Nelyafinwë was leaning against the post of Kurufinwë’s bed, his lips pursed as if he was thinking. “I’m not sure. What are you talking about?”

“Ríniel says that she saw you leaving… his home tonight. And there are only so many towering red heads in Tirion.

“Hmm… no. Why would I visit them? I’ve been with Kurvo all evening.” 

Fëanáro looked between his two sons. 

“Is this true, Kurvo?” the nér in question wasn’t particularly pleased with the accusatory way their father said his name. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“Of course it is. He was visiting me in the forge.”

“Tell me, then, why you’re caked in mud and leaves, Nelyafinwë?” 

“Oh, Turko invited me on a hunt earlier today. I didn’t get a chance to change.”

Fëanáro again shifted his gaze from one son the other, before letting his narrowed eyes settle on his eldest. “Hmm. Fine. I suppose Ríniel was mistaken. I’m sure Turkafinwë has an equally good story to tell.”

Their father shut the door behind him, and immediately Nelyo’s shoulders dropped.

“I suppose I should get a head start on him, then. Hopefully this is the last alibi for me to craft tonight.” And with that, Kurufinwë’s eldest brother slipped out the window.

#fanfiction #mallorn writes #maedhros #curufin #tolkien #silmarillion #huanhoundofvalinor

[valorsworn]

@kurvo sent this inevitable disaster : “You are trying to be forgiven for doing nothing wrong.” ( selectively accepting )

She did not care for her image in his eyes. 

Many years it had taken Írissë to find the words that would speak that truth, give it voice beyond the weight on her breastbone every time his gaze would rest on her. Fire, not hot, but cold, burning, biting, cutting. It quickens something in her own blood, white-hot, a wish to object, to rebel, to snap her teeth the way she does so oft at Tyelko, knowing it will not earn her even the seedling of a smirk. 

He is foreign to her. To feel seen in return is something she cannot abide. She, who runs to the altar that is the underbrush, who wishes upon freedom with fingers digging in the darkest earth, who whispers to the stones and screams simply to startle songbirds into flight. She, who claims to be so liberated from judgment, from expectation, shackled in place by a mere glance.

She did not care for her image in his eyes. She did not care for her image in her own eyes when near him. To look down and see the irons she had placed around her own self. To be made to feel like a child, playing pretend. A child, still eager for approval, for permission. Still wanting to belong, for all her insistence of the very opposite. Naïve.

How dare he be so calm? How dare he tell her as though he knew this truth before she did? One of her own mind, her own heart? Worse yet was the pleasure taken from her ; no crimson would be drawn from the act of her resistance. She thinks he knows this of her, too. How his conscious impassivity sets her teeth on edge. How she is wont to curl a delicate finger behind his brother’s ribcage just so for the mere satisfaction of watching his eyes darken and flare at the same time. That is their dance.

She does not know this one. Does not understand it. Is uncertain if there even is one. It would be better if there is not. If there is, he is the master, and she is the stumbling student. It is an infuriating thought. 

( He is an infuriating creature. )

The curve of her smile then, soft and cruel, traveling no further than the corner of her mouth, eyes steely as they gaze into his ( she refuses to be the first to look away, and despises herself for succumbing to the childish urge ). 

“ To wish for forgiveness is to be imprisoned by fear. By doubt. I embrace the right and wrong of all I do, and live thus. Leave the brandishing of justice to the High King, Kurvo, and make you your jewels. ”

#inquiries ( ANSWERED ). #aredhel ( THREADS ). #aredhel ( DYNAMICS ). #kurvo #him : chillin #her : whAT ARE YOU #this was a Lot asj;jfshg #her so used to wildness and a very particular brand of devil may care #IT IS NOT THIS ONE #newly discovered : he fuckin unsettles her #and the fact that she is unsettled UNSETTLES AND ANGERS HER #sO MUCH #heck !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! #give her tyelkormo's sarcastic silences #his smirks #give her hunger and quick tempers and breathless intensity #she DOES NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THIS #and i am living

[veliseraptor]

Would I Were As Steadfast, 1.5k, finrod/curufin, this is real rough but I’m sick of staring at it so here goes nothing

---

Finrod was up late, drafting a letter to his sister. Nargothrond seemed almost too quiet. The calm, he thought, before the storm.

The door opened quietly and he looked up, then back down. “I wasn’t sure whether to expect you or not,” he said. His cousin didn’t smile. Finrod sat up, set down his pen, and stood. “I suppose I shouldn’t have wondered.”

Curufin’s dark eyebrows arched, both rising ever so slightly. “Meaning?”

“Nothing.” Finrod sighed. “I suppose it would be useless to ask…” he trailed off.

“Ask what?” Curufin’s voice was deceptively gentle. Finrod closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Never mind. What did you want?”

“You’ve gained a suspicious nature, cousin,” Curufin said lightly. Finrod could see the tension in him, though. Before…in Aman, he might not have. Even three months ago, he might not have. They knew each other a little better now. Perhaps too well. Finrod shot him a tired look, and Curufin smiled thinly. “I have no intention of asking anything concerning the human whelp.”

Finrod drew himself up. “That ‘whelp’ had a father who was a good friend of mine.”

“The son is not the father.” Curufin’s voice and expression briefly betrayed exasperation. “You are being unaccountably foolish about this. What the boy intends is…impossible, on any number of levels. You must see, Findarato, that Elwë does not intend him to live. With things as they are-”

“Do not plead diplomacy with me,” Finrod said sharply. “I do not doubt Elu Thingol intended Beren to fail. That does not mean I am required to watch him do so and lift no hand, nor does it remove the bond of friendship and oath of aid between myself and his house. You know that.”

For a moment Curufin looked as though he would argue, and then glanced aside and exhaled, shaking his head. “I suppose I might have expected as much. We shall see what tomorrow brings, I suppose.”

What are you planning, Finrod thought. What are you going to do? You and your brother will never allow me to commit forces to retrieve a Silmaril for hands other than yours, not willingly. There was no point in asking, though. “I suppose we shall,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately neutral.

Curufin watched him, seeming to be thinking. “Come to my rooms with me,” he said, suddenly .

“I have a letter to finish,” Finrod said blandly. Curufin took a step nearer, gaze that intent, intense stare that nearly unnerved Finrod but also…

“Finish it later.” Finrod met his cousin’s gaze squarely and found a trace of unaccustomed impatience there.

“It’s to my sister.”

“All the more reason.” Finrod gave Curufin a sharp look, and his cousin merely looked amused. “I jest, Findarato. You have a long day ahead of you if you purpose to help your human. Allow yourself a few moments’ peace.”

“You seem a strange one to speak of peace,” Finrod remarked. Curufin smirked.

“Am I? I am hardly the brawler that – say, Tyelko - is.”

“A disinclination I suspect has more to do with the physical than the temperamental,” Finrod said, with a rather pointed glance down the few inches that separated his cousin from him. An old tease, and Curufin allowed himself just the slightest hint of a sardonic smile.

“I’d think by now you’d have come up with some fresher material, cousin.”

“Why should I, when the old is still ripe?” There was, he was aware, a strange sort of fragility to their teasing. An undercurrent of something unfamiliar. “Kurvo-”

“Don’t be tedious, cousin,” Curufin cut in. “You have duties, yes. You have letters to write and business to attend to. You always have. Is that what you want to do?” He took another step closer, near enough for him to reach out and brush Finrod’s jaw with just his fingertips, and then drew them away. Finrod caught his wrist before it fell to his side.

“A glass of wine,” he said, firmly. “No more.”

“No more,” Curufin agreed, with a slight glint of triumph in his eyes that frustrated Finrod, irked him. “Just a glass of wine, and then you may return to your duties, and I to mine.”

**

Curufin’s wine was slightly too dark for Finrod’s taste. He drank it anyway, a full glass in a few swallows. Curufin raised his eyebrows.

“Such eager consumption is uncharacteristic of you, cousin.” Curufin sipped at his glass. Finrod held his out for more, savoring the rush of wine to his head on an empty stomach, the warmth spreading from his stomach.

“It’s been a…trying day, I think you’ll agree.”

Curufin’s expression did something curious, but Finrod could not quite identify it. “I’d sooner not speak of that.”

Finrod didn’t really want to, either. He let it go, and as Curufin did not seem about to, poured his own second glass. He took a gulp, held it in his mouth, and swallowed. Curufin was watching him sidelong and Finrod cast him a look.

“If you are going to criticize…”

“I would never.” Curufin lifted his glass in Finrod’s direction and had a sip of his own wine. Finrod gave him a flat look.

“You seldom do anything but, in my experience.”

“Now. That’s not precisely true.” Curufin sounded delicately affronted. Finrod gave him a flat-eyed stare, and Curufin’s mouth twitched at the corners, though barely. “You don’t always find my counsel unwelcome.”

“When I want it, I shall ask for it.”

“You seem in a poor mood.” Curufin’s eyes were sharp, looking at him over the rim of the glass. “Perhaps I ought to leave you to your…brooding.”

“You invited me to join you, cousin. Not I.” Finrod looked down at the wine, deep red. The color of fresh-spilled blood. Be at peace. You need not run ahead to the worst.

It may come to you on its own.

“If you’re simply going to sulk…”

“I am not,” Finrod said, perhaps a little sharply. “And I will thank you to stop – whatever it is you are doing.” Sometimes he thought Curufin saw him as a piece of metal, to be hammered at until it bent into the shape he required. An unusually stubborn piece of metal, perhaps. Sometimes he wondered if Curufin saw anyone as anything else.

“Whatever it is I am doing. Indeed.” Curufin’s voice was almost a drawl, and his eyes remained opaque, nearly expressionless. Finrod set down his glass and stood in a sharp motion.

“I am in an ill mood to entertain your games, Atarinkë.” The choice of name was deliberate, perhaps a bit petty, but he felt tense and edgy. He had even before Curufin had come, and with him it was only intensified. “Goodnight.”

Curufin didn’t reach for him. His voice was clear enough, though. “Wait.” Only he, Finrod thought, could make a request sound a demand, and yet still a request as well.

Against his better judgment, Finrod turned. “What do you want, cousin?”

Curufin looked at him, head cocked a fraction to the side, corners of his lips turned down in a slight frown. His gaze, sharp as a knife, pulled Finrod as it always did – like the sucking draw of the sea’s treacherous undercurrent. “Many things, cousin.” His voice was soft.

“And just now? Of me?”

“Many things,” Curufin answered, in the same tone. Finrod’s jaw clenched.

**

Curufin’s fingers traced characters on his chest, but if he was writing words Finrod could not identify them. His touch was light, skilled, reminding him as always of the way Curufin’s fingers ran over metals, seeking out small flaws in need of correcting.

His fingers ran over to Finrod’s shoulder and down his arm, over his hand until they brushed the ring he’d given to Barahir, resting again where he’d taken it from years ago.

“You’ve made your choice,” Curufin said, after a moment, quietly. “Your plans. The discussion you will have with your lords tomorrow is…a formality, nothing more.”

Finrod closed his eyes. “Yes.” Will you ride with us? He half wanted to ask, but did not want to know that the answer would likely be no. “Nargothrond will aid Beren son of Barahir in his quest.”

Silence, for several long moments. Finrod felt a cold foreboding sink in his heart. “I see,” Curufin said finally, barely audible. He shifted, rolled over, pulling his hand away. “Goodnight, cousin. Rest well.”

“And you,” Finrod said, after a moment, frowning very slightly. “Tomorrow…tomorrow we can speak of this further.”

“Yes,” Curufin said, after a few silent breaths. “Tomorrow.”

**

Had he known?

Sitting awake – he’d taken first watch, his eleven and Beren all sleeping – he looked up at the stars and wondered. Lying with him that night, bodies pressed together, teeth in Finrod’s neck hard enough to leave a lingering ache even speaking with Beren the next morning…had Curufin also made his decision, and known…

He swallowed his bitterness, his rage. What had he expected, in truth?

You knew there was no other way it could end.

Finrod’s left hand made a fist. He clenched his jaw and hardened his heart. And did not mourn for the impossible.

#finrod/curufin #the silmarillion #silmarillion #a wild fic appeared #noldor are the best dor #been a while since i wrote this trainwreck #and this fic is OLD but again sick of staring at it

[mxmpanshipperaf]

Long live the King

@feanorianweek day 1 (March 19th) – Maedhros-> childhood, kingship, torture, adjusting/coping, unity, beauty

His father was dead. Fëanor’s last words of curse for Morgoth still echoed in the mountains and valleys bellow. Where not a minute ago there had been the proud High King of the Noldor in a puddle of his own blood now there was only a pile of dark wet ashes. Maitimo couldn’t do anything but stare at them. His father, greatest of their people, leader of thousands. Dead.

In the back of his mind he registered his brothers’ reactions around him.

Kurvo howled louder than storming winds, raw and guttural and, oh, so terrible. Tyelko and Moryo were trying to hold their younger brother still, though they were in no better shape themselves. Tyelko was sobbing -making sounds nigh whimpering- with his arms thrown over the other two, whereas Moryo panted hard, eyes glazed with building up tears as he attempted to speak their brother calm but all that came from his lips was Kurvo’s name.

A few steps behind them stood Pityo, still as stone. His face was the shade of his hair and a vain stood out on his temple. There was a weird pull on his mouth, something ugly between a grimace and a smile. A single tear tricked down his right cheek.

Lastly Maitimo looked ahead, where Makalaure had crunched on their father’s left side and clutched his hand. His position hadn’t change, still holding out his hand for the one that had forged him his first flute but was now gone. There was some of the ashes on Kano’s fingers. Maitimo felt sick. With dread he raised his head to meet the eyes of his brother. The once gleeful minstrel of their family was staring back at him with dead eyes and rivers of tears marking his soft red cheeks that just seemed to flow non-stop. “The King is dead” Kano murmured with his mithril voice hoarse and creaked.

Looking at so much emotion in his family, Maitimo felt an outsider. He felt no rage, no pain or grief, not even the cold-blooded relief on Pityo’s eyes. He felt nothing. Only numbness.

“The King is dead!” Yelled a voiced behind him, filled with horror. Until then Maitimo hadn’t realized that some of their soldiers had made their way to the scene.

The cry was echoed by the mountains and their people alike. A soft breeze ruffled Maitimo’s long hair, waving it like a red flag.

The King was dead. His father was dead. Maitimo was left adrift.

“Long live the King!”

Those for words ran like a drum against his ears.

Right. He was the eldest. Fëanor’s firstborn. Nelyafinwë, his father named him, meant to be his disregard of Nolofinwë’s position. Third Finwë. And indeed the third king he would be. Left to care for his grieving brothers, to guide their people in this unknown lands, to fulfill their oath.

Far away were the bright days spent by the river with Finno, when they couldn’t care less for what was expected of them as firstborns of their Houses. When the differences between their families were not greater than the difference in color of their hair. When they had laughed together, and played together, and being together as one. Alas, he missed his beloved cousin now more than ever, their sundering another parting gift of his father.

What was he to do?

“Long live the King”

Makalaure’s words were a mere whisper somewhat heard above the thundering wind.

As one all his brothers dropped to their knees, finally overwhelmed by the truth. It was not a display of respect or submission, Maitimo knew. It was a plea to their big brother. The blunt force of their father’s passing hit them at full force. Everything was wrong, and they needed him to make it right again. They needed him to put the pieces of their family back together.

Kano was still looking at him with his wide grey eyes flooded. Maitimo reached out to him, wiping the ashes from his trembling hand and giving it a tight squeeze.

He had never once let his baby brothers down. He didn’t intend on starting now.

#yay!! 😄😄 finallyh #feanorianweek #isfinallyhere #maedhros #mae #mae is ma bea #angsty #feanorians #kingship #cliche tittle is cliche #feanorianweek18

[acommonanomaly]

While working on my edits for Fëanorian week I realized I have been inconsistent in the spellings of their names in the edits and in the fic I’ve been writing. I know the names are spelled differently in different sources, so now I’m not sure what to do. 

I found these spellings in The Peoples of Middle-Earth, the Shibboleth of Fëanor (I’m not including the additional notes): 

(1)  [Maedros]  Nelyafinwë 'Finwë third' in succession. (Nelyo) (2)  [Maglor]  Kanafinwë 'strong-voiced or ?commanding'. (Káno) (3)  [Celegorm] Turkafinwë 'strong, powerful (in body)'. (Turko) (4)  [Curufin] Kurufinwë Fëanor's own name; given to this, his favorite son, because he alone showed in some degree the same temper and talents. He also resembled Fëanor very much in face. (Kurvo) (5)  [Caranthir] Morifinwë 'dark' – he was black-haired as his grandfather. (Moryo) (6)  [Amrod] Pityafinwë 'Little Finwë'. (Pityo) (7)  [Amras] Telufinwë 'Last Finwë'. (Telvo)

Their 'mother-names' are recorded (thought never used in the narrative) as:

(1)  Maitimo 'well-shaped one': he was of beautiful bodily form. But he, and the youngest, inherited the rare red-brown hair of Nerdanel's kin. Her father had the epessë of rusco ‘fox’. So Maitimo had as an epessë given by his brothers and other kin Russandol 'copper-top'. (2)  Makalaurë Of uncertain meaning. Usually interpreted (and said to have been a 'prophetic' mother-name) as 'forging gold'. If so, probably a poetic reference to his skill in harping, the sound of which was 'golden' (laurë was a word for golden light or colour, never used for the metal). (3)  Tyelkormo 'hasty-riser'. Quenya tyelka 'hasty'. Possibly in reference to his quick temper, and his habit of leaping up when suddenly angered. (4)  Atarinkë 'little fahter' – referring to his physical likeness to Fëanor, later found to be also seen in his mind. (5)  Carnistir 'red-face' – he was dark (brown) haired, but had the ruddy complexion of his mother. (6)  Ambarto (7)  Ambarussa

Forgive any typos if I made them, I was trying to copy it quickly.

I have been using the spellings with “k”, but when I got to Curufin, I found myself wanting to spell it “Curufinwë” and not “Kurufinwë”. Do I go with “Kurufinwë”, or change the other names so they use the “c” spellings for consistency? Does it look odd of I only use the “c” spelling for Curufin, but not for the others? 

And does anyone know if Tolkien clarified elsewhere what he thought the final spelling should be? Maybe it’s one of those things he never settled on, I don’t know. Any thoughts? How do you guys spell their names?

#tolkien #the silmarillion #quenya names #how to spell #i do not know #but i need to decide eventually #sooner rather than later if I want my edits to be consistent #haha #aaaaaaah

[felixwhetsel]

Can we get 28 with Celegorm and Maedhros?

28. This is why we can’t have nice things 

“What do you mean you’ve heard that one before? Not that I’m terribly surprised.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’ve uhm… heard… I’ve heard that one before,” came the slurred words from the drunk elf. Celegorm lay splayed out across the lounge in his eldest brother’s private quarters, a small demijohn nestled carefully between his thighs. 

“What?” Maedhros stopped in his tracks, his hand inches from the turned over goblet of wine that was making a wet trail across the stone floor as it rolled halfway across his bedroom. He turned to look behind him at his drunken mess of a brother. 

Maedhros had intended on spending that evening putting the finishing touches on some necessary letters that he had been procrastinating on, but those plans had been so rudely interrupted by some homebrewed entertainment of his little brother having had a little too fun of his own. He had been staying in Himring alone for once, and Maedhros had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t too sure how to entertain himself when his other half wasn’t nearby. 

“‘This is why we can’t have nice things.’ I’ve heard that one be- before.” His arm was thrown over his eyes, and his lips were curled into a grimace. Right before Celegorm had covered his eyes, Maedhros could have sworn he saw a brief shadow of regret pass over them. “Oh Eru do I feel terrible.”

“What do you mean you’ve heard that one before? Not that I’m terribly surprised.”

Celegorm lazily glared at his brother before letting his eyes fall shut. “Remember your party? The one where I ruined the family’s whole... ‘thing’ by trying to save Kurvo from drowning in a mud puddle?” 

Maedhros smiled. Ah, he did remember that one. It was supposed to be the first time that Curufin was old enough to join the family during a major celebration. Their mother had been laid up in bed while pregnant with the twins, and had put perhaps the most effort he could remember into a series of beautiful outfits for her sons. While Celegorm and Caranthir had snuck out during one of Curufin’s nap, their then youngest brother had tried to follow. Unfortunately they all got caught in the rain, leading to an unfortunate accident with a giant puddle of mud. Needless to say, the three had completely ruined their outfits, leaving their father furious. 

“So I was the reason we ‘couldn’t have nice things’,” he said with large, sarcastic air quotes encircling their father’s words. “I ruined all of… her… hard work.” Yes, there was undeniably a look of regret on his brother’s face. 

Maedros set the rogue goblet on the table and walked to where his brother lay, lifting the heavy, alcohol-leaden legs up and sitting down beneath them. “You didn’t ruin anything, I promise,” he said with a reaffirming pat on his brother’s shin. Maedhros remembered far clearer how funny their mother had found it, as she had always been far more free spirited and understanding of accidents. But even their father had ended the night in perfectly fine spirits. The clothes were merely nothing more than something to keep their mother sane while in bed. It’s just that the situation was simply not helped by how prideful Celegorm had been, even in his youth. 

His lip trembled for a moment, before a strange look of confusion came across Celegorm’s face. Maedhros nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the harsh laughter that came from his brother’s mouth. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m not sure where that even came from,” he said, wiping a tear - whether from laughing or legitimately crying, Maedhros wasn’t sure - from his cheek. 

“I do.” Maedhros leaned over, snatching the nearly-empty bottle from his brother, who had begun to lift it to his lips. Celegorm let out a small cry of protest before watching his brother down what little bit of it had been left.

#a sequel! #alcohol #alcohol mention #mallorn writes #fanfiction #celegorm #maedhros #sea-hag-dominion #tolkien #silmarillion

[felixwhetsel]

Three C's+28?

28. This is why we can’t have nice things

Were it not for his father taking a moment to wipe the mud from his youngest’s face, he would have seemed like nothing more than a child-shaped hunk of wet earth.

The three of them stood, backs straight and arms tucked behind them. Their faces were downcast and they tried their best to look anywhere but at their father. All three were quite the site to behold: Turkafinwë, the tallest, had mud crusting his breeches past the knee. Morifinwë was muddy up the waist, his once bright tunic now a sopping brown mess. Lastly, Kurufinwë fared the worst. Were it not for his father taking a moment to wipe the mud from his youngest’s face, he would have seemed like nothing more than a child-shaped hunk of wet earth.

The contrast between the three brothers and their father was marked not only by their filthiness, but also by the finery of their father’s clothing. He was dressed head to toe in red and gold, the curls of his hair held from his face by bronze clips, and his forehead adorned with a bronzed diadem set with citrine. On three of his fingers he wore matching rings. As he turned his head between them he appeared to glisten in the sun that shone through the tall windows. 

Fëanáro looked between his three youngest sons. Were he not in the middle of preparing for his eldest’s party, he would have found the moment humorous. As it stood he was furious. 

“So. How did it happen?” The Kurufinwë shaped mud stack opened his mouth to speak, his voice small and nervous. But Fëanáro held his hand up to stop the young boy. “Not you. Turkafinwë?”

Turkafinwë glanced up, meeting his father’s icy glare. Fëanáro had never been particularly scary to him. Intimidating, perhaps. Despite his smaller stature, his father commanded a sort of respect that he had never experienced from another nér. At the moment however, Turkafinwë wasn’t sure he could give his father the level of respect he was demanding. The young nér was simply too shaken by his father’s stern gaze.

“It really was an accident, I promise.”

“Yes, I have no doubt it was. But accidents have a cause.”

“Well, it was just so pretty out, and Oromë had promised a good hunt this afternoon. We weren’t expecting to be gone long.”

“You shouldn’t have been expecting to be gone at all. You were supposed to be keeping an eye on your little brothers.”

“I know that. But Kurvo was asleep! And it’s not my fault it started to rain. Nor is it my fault he slipped.”

Fëanáro opened his mouth “You couldn’t have at least changed? Tonight is special and you are expected to look your best. Incidents like this are why we can’t have nice things! You’re not the baby anymore, you have responsibilities. Nelyo and Káno cannot be the only ones trusted to keep an eye on the younger ones.”

“I’m old enough to come with you to the forge, too! Why do I get relegated to babysitting duty?”

Morifinwë, who had, until just this moment, been silent muttered under his breath: “Nelyo and Káno don’t even want to be in the forge.”

Fëanáro pointed at the boy. “Don’t forget that you’re in trouble, too, son.” He then turned back to the eldest of the three. “If you cannot handle babysitting, I’m not sure you could handle accompanying us, Turko.” His father was attempting to cushion his words with the use of his nickname, however they still left him feeling indignant. “Now. Please. Just go get changed, and then you can explain to your mother why you’re not wearing what she specifically asked you to wear.”

Turkafinwë felt shame burn his cheeks. Their mother, bed ridden from pregnancy, had worked tirelessly to put the finishing touching on her sons’ clothing for the night. Nelyafinwe’s birthday celebration was tonight, and Nerdanel had used it as an excuse to keep her hands busy. But now, Turkafinwë had ruined three of the five outfits - inadvertently, at least. Now they would be relegated to their normal finery, which isn’t something that particularly bothered him, but he couldn’t stomach the guilt. 

With no doubt their mother would find the moment funny - and so would their father, in time - but the guilt would eat at him for days to come.

#fëanor #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #tolkien #fanfiction #mallorn writes #silmarillion #makalaure kanafinwe #i believe i modified the prompt a little bit

[mxmpanshipperaf]

Feanorian Week Nerdanel’s Pov on names and births

@feanorianweek  Day 6> Ambarussa / Ambarussa & Ambarto / Telufinwe & Pityafinwe / Amras & Amrod

Nelyo was actually upset when they told their children she was once more with child. It was during Kurvo’s wedding banquet and in spite of it having been announced quietly as to only be heard by those on their family table, Nelyo’s reaction got the whole Hall’s attention. The usually collected and diplomatic prince stood so abruptly that he threw back his seat, a crude complain spilling from his lips.

Fëanor’s reaction was immediate. He too sprung from his seat and soon the argument grew in heat, while the mood around the room dropped enough to freeze. At one point, Kurvo had gotten up as well and stood side by side with his father, almost two heads beneath his brother’s height but not with less ferocity in his words “I bid you, brother, remember who you are talking too! You disgrace him, and mother, with your snivelling! Know your place!”

“It is you who should remember your place! It is to Curufinwë Fëanaro I speak to, not his namesake! You can bow down and lick our father’s boots all you want once we are done talking, elfling!” He pushed his brother aside to tower over their father. “I have been there each time! For you, for her, for all of them! But I will not idly stand to see you kill my mother like you did yours!”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed in the high walls of the Hall, silencing everything else and drowning everyone in its wake with stilled shock.

Despite being at least a head taller than his father, Nelyo looked very small with his hand gingerly touching his reddened cheek, eyes wide and empty of any thought. A few red drops fell to the marble floor from where Fëanor’s rings had bit into his son’s flesh.

Fëanor on his part looked vivid, teeth flashed and breathing hard. His hand was still raised, ready to come down on his son again any second.

Finwë stood, but a blue-clad figure was already running across the Hall towards them.

Findekano slammed himself against the redhead’s side, wrapping his arms around his and pulling him away as gently as he could.

This seemed to enrage the great crafter even more and he made to halt them, but his name was sharply called by the High King at the same time Nerdanel reached his hand and squeezed it tightly.  With much effort, Finno pulled his cousin out and they saw no more of them.

Afterwards Fëanor locked himself in his smithy, whether by bitterness, anger or guilt Nerdanel couldn’t tell. Most of the time Kurvo was with him.

Her other three sons took care of her, but Kano would not speak to anyone whereas Tyelko and Moryo would often argue about what the quarrel had brought upon the family when they thought she wasn’t listening, the older blaming their father and the other their brother.

Every once in a while a letter would come for Nerdanel from Findekano, telling her that they were faring well in Alqualondë with their cousins. The letters always were on Finno’s handwriting, but at a corner there would read a small “receive my love” sighed by her son.

When they handed her the little bundle of blankets the first thing that caught her attention was the muss of red hair on his head, and her heart clenched for her sundered eldest son. She named him Ambarussa.

Other than the surprise of finding she had to deliver another baby right after she had birthed Ambarussa, all when smoothly. The oldest was quieter than his twin, who wailed and tossed around each time he stopped feeling his brother’s skin next to his even for a second.

Nerdanel saw no reason to give the second child another name, they had shared her insides so why not her name? Besides, to each other there would only be one Ambarussa. Fëanor disagreed and insisted she graced each with a name of his own.

She wasn’t sure why she said it, nor where did it come from, but it left her lips in a dead cold tone none the less as she looked at the older of the two: Umbarto. Fëanor stared at her wide eyed, holding said child close to his chest, and Nerdanel could tell how disturbed he was. It would hunt his heart from then on, but he cleared his throat as nonchalant as he could and said “Ambarto” and dropped the matter. He had his own names for them the very next day and never once used Nerdanel’s.

A week after their birth, Nerdanel caught him in the twins’ nursery. The widow was open; he climbed to get inside. His dishevelled long red hair glistened in Telperion’s light as he gloomed tall above the twins’ cradle. And he wept.

She did not approach him, instead letting him have his moment. In the morning he was still there, arms full of presents for his mother and brothers. He knelt by his father’s feet and asked for forgiveness, and Fëanor dropped to his knees as well and embraced his eldest son. If they wept none of the presents mentioned it, but Nerdanel knew her family was as closely knit as ever.

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