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#mithrim
melestasflight · 1 year
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Finrod and Maglor compose the Noldolantë
An illustration of a scene from Voices That Were Once Ours created by the amazing @wombywoo. Fic snippet below the cut.
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Perhaps it is that very realization of the briefness that dictates life in these lands. That joy must be snatched from fleeting moments before they float away like withered leaves down the Sirion.
At long last, his heart misgives him, and when Makalaurë’s invitation arrives to journey east, Finrod accepts.
He has not seen Maglor, as he is now known, since the feast of the Mereth Aderthad, and even that encounter lacked the intimacy of friendship. What little he knows has come from Angrod’s visits or Celegorm’s letters, almost all having to do with enemy movements or breeding horses from Maglor’s herds. All valuable knowledge for a King in times of siege, but not what Finrod wants to know.
What does the Lord of the Gap sing about these days? Are there songbirds in the flatlands to rest upon his finger?
From Voices That Were Once Ours
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outofangband · 20 days
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For my mountain ranges of Beleriand series! The mountains of Mithrim! Technically part of the Ered Wethrin, I thought they still deserved their own board. This shows them in the spring
x x x x x x x x
Others: Ered Engrin, Ered Luin, Ered Gorgoroth, Ered Wethrin
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polutrope · 8 months
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#messages through the fence intro post.
1. Parchment copy of a clay tablet (lost) containing a list of names.
Provenance of original: Eglarest.
Provenance of parchment copy: Balar.
Now stored in the archives of Imladris.
Probable Date: Years of Darkness, some 30 Sun Years or 3 Valian Years before the Sun’s first rising.
[F]EANARO CURUFINWE. KING. SLAIN. TURCAFINWE. REG[ENT].[1] CANAFIN[WE]. LOREMASTER.[2] MORIFINWE NELYAFINWE. THRALL OR S[LAIN?].[3] TWO OTHERS[4]
COMMENTARY
This, the first document we have pertaining to relations between the Noldor and Doriath, has interesting implications for the state of those relations in the earliest years of the Exiles settling in Beleriand.
The inaccuracies and incomplete knowledge of the names and roles of the sons of Fëanor provide evidence of the widely-accepted belief that the Fëanorians did not communicate directly with Menegroth following their arrival in Beleriand (I would emphasise that we do not know if Fëanor attempted to do so and was unsuccessful, if it was an oversight, or—as many historians assume—a deliberate choice).
My grandfather Celeborn, who was an archer under the command of Mablung at this time and not active in the court of Doriath, was unfortunately not present for the delivery of this tablet. However, he presumes, and I agree, that it would have accompanied an oral report of the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, given that the death of Fëanor and capture of Maedhros have already taken place. It is purely speculation on my part, but it seems probable that this tablet may have accompanied the first message to reach Doriath following the end of the siege of the Falas.
Lord Círdan could sadly offer no further insight on the tablet, save that he could not recall ordering its creation personally.[5]
Of interest to historians of language, this is one of the few documents we have that transliterates (somewhat clumsily)[6] Quenya into the Certhas Daeron. Most lettered Sindar quickly learned and adopted the Fëanorian Tengwar for writing, including in their own tongue, due to the greater ease of using this script with ink on paper (a method of writing introduced, of course, by the Noldor). It is also interesting for the evidence it provides that use of the Certh among the Sindar could be practical as well as commemorative and artistic.
FOOTNOTES
[1] As we know from later sources, the regency of the Noldor at this time was contested. Evidence from Mithrim, though scant, names Maglor as Regent or even King of the Noldor.
[2] The title Loremaster is likely due to cultural confusion with the usual practice among the Sindar. [The practice was for a ruler to appoint a single individual as chief minstrel and loremaster, the most notable example being Daeron of Doriath. B.B.]
[3] Reading of the last word uncertain.
[4] The existence but not the names of Fëanor’s two youngest sons were evidently known to the Falathrim at this time. The likeliest explanation for the absence of the second Curufinwë is by confusion with his father.
[5] [Being somewhat less wise and prudent about these matters than the Lord of the Havens and the Lady Arwen, I have been unable to resist making my own speculations. Could Círdan’s messenger have created the tablet himself as a memory aid? This seems improbable for an Elf, but perhaps more likely given the foreign tongue of the names! B.B.]
[6] [For which, consult Lady Arwen's original. My skills as a translator are inadequate to replicate this feature. B.B.]
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peoples of middle-earth ❖ the mithrim
"Now in Mithrim there dwelt Grey-elves, folk of Beleriand that had wandered north over the mountains, and the Noldor met them with gladness, as kinsfolk long sundered..." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, "Of Beleriand and its Realms"
[ID: a picspam comprised of 12 images in shades of dark and light grey.
1: A misty lake surrounded by mountains, containing a single island from which some birds are flying / 2: A carved igbo door depicting people and animals / 3: White text reading "mithrim" in all caps on a dark brownish-grey background / 4: A black model wearing a grey headscarf that they hold out to either side of their head / 5: Forested mountains in the mist / 6: Several white pelicans in dark water / 7: Traditional igbo cloth decorated with white designs, including a drawing of a cat-like animal / 8: A lake amid mountains or large hills / 9: Three black models standing together, all wearing grey shirts. Two of them have braided hair and they all are looking at the viewer / 10: Same format as Image 3, but the text is all lowercase and reads "grey-elves" / 11: Fishing nets / 12: Trees seen across water through fog /End ID]
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aotearoa20 · 1 year
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Minstrel Lords of the Noldor
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Lord Maglor of the Gap
High King Fingon of Mithrim
King Finrod Felagund of Nargothrond
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The Mountains of Mithrim by Peter Xavier Price
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aureentuluva70 · 11 months
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Luthien is often made into this sheltered princess who doesn't know much about the outside world(for understandable reasons, it fits with the fairytale trope, we're never really told much on her life before she met Beren anyway, etc) but the Girdle of Melian never existed until the early years of the First Age so I like to imagine that before the creation of the girdle she was a passionate explorer, wandering to the farthest corners of Beleriand, from the rivers of Ossiriand to the shores of Cirdan's Havens, from dark Nan Elmoth to the birch forests of Nimbrethil, to the piney woodland hills of Dorthonion and the misty lake of Mithrim. She only chooses to stay in Doriath after the Girdle has been raised out of love for her parents and other kindred, and even then she spends most of her time in the woods of Neldoreth rather than the halls of Menegroth, for it is in the wild that she feels the most free.
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arofili · 2 years
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@tolkienofcolourweek day six | multicultural identities ● migration ● time | the sundering of the teleri
The Nelyar were the third clan of the elves, the largest and most fractured. A third refused the Journey west to Aman, and along with half the Tatyar became known as the Avari. The remaining two-thirds of the Nelyar were the last and slowest host of the Eldar (those who embarked upon the Journey), and were named by the others the Teleri, the Last, though they called themselves the Lindar or Lindai, the Singers.
Though all the Minyar-Vanyar and Tatyar-Noldor who took the Journey arrived in Aman, the Lindar were greatly sundered along the way. In the fertile vales of the river Anduin, many Lindar abandoned the Journey and remained there under the leadership of Lenwë, known also as Dan or Denweg. These were named by the other hosts the Nandor, those who went back, but they saw themselves as closer kindred to the Avari, and in time would merge with the Penni tribe into one people, the Tawarwaith or Silvan elves, dwelling mostly in the forests of Eryn Galen and Lórinand.
The Lindar who marched onward were sundered again upon crossing the Blue Mountains into Beleriand. There a group of them forsook the Journey and traveled northward to the grey lands of Hithlum, and became known as the Mithrim, the grey folk. The rest of the Lindar lingered in Beleriand, some waiting by the shores of the sea to be taken to Aman and others exploring the vast forests. It was at this time that their king, Elwë, was lost in the wood of Nan Elmoth, and could not be found. Many of his folk searched for him, and when it came time for the Lindar to leave, they would not go for love of him.
Thus Olwë brother of Elwë took kingship of his people and took those who would across the sea to the Blessed Lands. These were the shore-dwellers, who boarded Tol Eressëa the Lonely Isle and sailed across the waters; but Ossë, Maia of Ulmo, loved them jealously, and broke off a small piece of the island near Beleriand’s shores, leaving many of them stranded from their kin. These Ossë taught to build and sail ships, and they returned to Beleriand under the leadership of Círdan the shipwright, though they mourned their separation from their departed kin. Tol Eressëa did not return again, and thus those Lindar who remained called themselves the Egladhrim, the Forsaken, for the Valar and their kindred had abandoned them to the wilds of Middle-earth. Those who made it at last to Valinor became known as the Falmari, the people of the waves, for they dwelt ever by the shores of the sea.
The Egladhrim were further divided into two groups: the Falathrim, the folk of the waves, who like their kin the Falmari made their home along the coast, though on the opposite shore; and those who remained faithful to Elwë, who at last emerged from Nan Elmoth and took the name Elu Thingol. Slowly the language of the Lindar of Beleriand changed, and they called themselves the Edhil, people of the stars, whether they were Mithrim or Falathrim or Elurim. In this time also Denethor son of Lenwë who had stayed by the Anduin took a group of his father’s people into Beleriand, calling themselves the Laikwendi or Laegrim, and settled in Ossiriand in the shadows of the Blue Mountains.
When the Dark Rider returned and attacked the Edhil, Denethor was slain in battle upon the lonely hill of Amon Ereb, and his people fled back to Ossiriand, taking no other king and fighting no other wars. He was avenged by Thingol, and a small portion of the Laikwendi chose to follow him back to Menegroth, his city of caverns; ever after they were known as the Guest-elves, for they were yet a people apart from the Elurim. At this time Melian, wife of Elu and a Maia of great power, brought up a Girdle about the forests of central Beleriand, and the realm within it was called Doriath, the Land of the Fence, and its people were named the Iathrim, the folk of the fence.
Later, when the Noldor would return to Middle-earth in exile, the Lindar of Beleriand would be called in their tongue the Sindar, the Grey-elves, which in their own tongue was Thinnedhil. But to themselves they were always the Edhil, divided into Mithrim and Falathrim and Iathrim and Laegrim; and Elu Thingol claimed kingship over them all, though many found greater friendship in the Noldor than with him.
[transcript of image text & graphic flowchart of the Sundering beneath the cut]
A full image description is available in alt text. Below is a transcript of the text in each image.
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Falmari: Folk of the Waves. Those of the Teleri who followed Olwë, brother of Elwë, and came to the shores of Beleriand and traveled upon the Tol Eressëa across the Great Sea. The Falmari settled upon the shores of Aman, where they founded Alqualondë, the Swan-haven.
Sindar: the Grey-elves. Those of the Teleri who reached Beleriand under the leadership of Elwë, but did not reach Aman. For love of Middle-earth, or for their King, they remained in the East. In their tongue they called themselves the Edhil, but the exiled Noldor called them the Sindar.
Mithrim: the Grey Folk. Those of the Sindar who moved northward and settled in Hithlum around the Lake Mithrim. They were closest to the Noldorin exiles and unfriends of the Iathrim, who spoke a different dialect of their language, Edhellen.
Egladhrim: the Forsaken. Those of the Sindar who remained in Beleriand for love of Elwë their vanished King, rather than following his brother Olwë to Aman. This group also included those Sindar who came to the travelling island, but were left behind when the Isle of Balar broke off, and were not returned for.
Falathrim: Folk of the Waves. Those of the Egladhrim who would have gone to Aman had not their part of Tol Eressëa broken off and become the Isle of Balar, leaving them stranded near Beleriand. The Falathrim were led by Círdan the Shipwright, and were beloved of Ossë.
Iathrim: Folk of the Fence. Those of the Egladhrim who remained in Beleriand for the sake of their King, Elwë Singollo, who vanished before the Teleri were able to cross to Aman. When Elwë finally re-emerged with his Maia wife, Melian, he took the name Elu Thingol and established the Hidden Kingdom of Doriath, Land of the Fence.
Nandor: Those Who Went Back. Those of the Teleri who, upon reaching the fair vales of the river Anduin, forsook the Great Journey. Their first leader was Lenwë, known also as Dan or Denweg, but as their numbers grew they spread out and took other lords and kings.
Silvans: Folk of the Forest. Those of the Nandor who remained in the Vales of Anduin and the surrounding territory. The SIlvan elves mainly dwelt in Lórinand and the Greenwood, and were close in kinship to the Penni Avari.
Laikwendi: the Green-elves. Those of the Nandor who, under the leadership of Denethor son of Denweg, came to Beleriand later than the rest of their Telerin kindred. After Denethor's death in the First Battle of Beleriand, they took no other King, though some small portion of their people moved to Doriath and became known to the Iathrim as the Guest-elves.
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SUNDERING OF THE ELVES: A GRAPHIC FLOWCHART
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grey-gazania · 6 months
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I would die for the Northern Sindar.
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miithriin · 1 year
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I am sorry if I forgot anything but, limited options + having trouble remembering all the names lead to the list above. Feel free to tell me your reason for your choice in the reblogs/ tags.
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pearlescentpearl · 1 year
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Political Pawn AU
Hello! And welcome to my next bullet point fic; my take on a Fëanor lives plot! To no one’s surprise; Beleriand is on fire.
The Balrog that would have dealt Fëanáro a mortal blow instead takes an arrow to the eye, forcing a crack in the press of fire demons wide enough for Nelyafinwë to reach in and pull him out
Fëanáro is full of fire and wrath still, but his body shakes from pain and blood loss, vision swimming at the edges, hand cramped around his sword. It’s almost like coming out of a creative fugue; tired and hungry and disoriented, and he thinks, reflexively, ah, where’s a fortifying cup of spiced wine when you need it?
But there is only ash, and pain, and his faithful sons carrying him away from what he feels, from what he knows, would have been the death of him
His wounds are many but he will live; his will is too strong
Barely has he been tended to, and settled in his tent, when the message comes; that Morgoth has sent an emissary, claiming parley and teasing about surrendering the Silmarils
It sounds too good to be true, and so it must be a trap
Nonetheless, Nelyafinwë begs leave to go
“Of course, Morgoth is lying,” he says, eyes alight with his own inner flame. “But don’t you see? He will send more than he promises and so a credible force will be moving outside Angamando. Are we to let them roam free, unchallenged? I mean to crush them, and so convey our contempt at this thinly veiled trick!”
This is true enough enough that it persuades Fëanáro to let him go, despite faint misgivings
Later, of course, they learn they should not have. All who went with Nelyafinwë have been slain, the bodies desecrated and arranged in cruel parody. The only one missing from them is Nelyafinwë himself
Fëanáro truly thought he had known anger before, when his father was slain
It is nothing compared to knowing his son may yet live, but who knows in what condition?
Fëanáro has been up to the Gates of Angamando just that very day, and his memory is impeccable. There is no forcing those doors open with what siege supplies they’ve cobbled together so far
So far
Fëanáro will change that
The Mithrim Sindar are welcoming, numbers decimated as they are from Morgoth’s initial flood of his monstrous forces, and the mountains of Hísilómë are rich in metal ores
They can make something great here; it is only a matter of time
Time the Enemy seems keen not to grant them
it seems Fëanáro can dedicate his forces to building, or wiping out the enemy, not both at once. How aggravating
There seems to be a roaming raiding party just close enough to concern them every other day
Eventually, enough is enough; Fëanáro puts Kanafinwë and Turkafinwë in charge of a cavalry force with a significant number of the remaining horses, and commands them to keep Hísilómë clear as far as they can safely roam
They are not his most useful sons for building fortifications anyhow
Under Morifinwë’s baleful and exacting directions, the possible foundations for a great fortress are mapped out; it is misty, and often rainy inside the shelter of these mountains that trap cold and wet wind from the west and north, not especially favorable building conditions when their only source of illumination comes from starlight
How the Mithrim Sindar eke out an existence in such darkness is a wonder that merits studying
Fëanáro glares down at a map; there are few eastern entrances into Hísilómë, the main one is what the locals call Eithel Sirion, the headwaters of a river. If any eastern pass shall be the greatest concern it will be one with a water source
“Does any claim the great grassy plains that encircle Angamando outside the Wethrin?” He asks of Aewendir, the surviving Lord of the MIthrim Sindar
Not that they use the word ‘Lord’ exactly. Lathron, he is called, ‘listener, hearer,’ a pun on both his function; to hear his people out that he may resolve their troubles; and the fact visibility is often terrible by the lake on account of all the mists
“No,” Aewendir says dryly. “And don’t let anyone blow smoke up your ass otherwise. We’re the only folk crazy enough to live so close to the shadow of Angband, and reviled are we for it by the southern king and his court.” He spits on the ground. “And yet it is our word the southerners rely on for news of Angband’s movements when orcs are abroad.”
Fëanáro is growing very fond of Aewendir; he has a steady practicality about him that puts him in mind of Nerdanel, and a bitterly amused yet philosophical way of looking at the world that both intrigues and disconcerts 
“We shall build at Eithel Sirion then.”
It’s yet more work to keep roving orc bands at bay, but the fortress must be built if Fëanáro is to have the facilities to devise siege weapons capable of cracking Angamando
The mountains are generous with stone, and the Land of Echoes with wood, but the constant attacks are tedious and slow things down
His Ñoldor are split three ways now; the wandering cavalry under Kanafinwë and Turkafinwë, the builders at Eithel Sirion under Morifinwë, and the rest on the western lake shore with Curufinwë, Telufinwë, and Pityafinwë directing necessary domestic efforts 
It’s all a finely oiled machine just barely balanced on a knife’s edge, the slightest upset--!
Fëanáro goes over the numbers again and again, but there’s really no help for it. If only Nelyafinwë had not gone to--
But there is no help for it so they make do. They will get through this if Fëanáro has to will it into truth
One year slips by before he knows it, and a messenger from Angamando is on their doorstep once more
The fact it is a Maia is all that keeps Fëanáro from having it slain on the spot, but that is as far as he can deduce of its identity, its fána so twisted and befouled there’s no telling what it started as
It holds an iron chest in its hands
“One year has the rightful King of Arda held the Crown Prince an esteemed guest in his home,” the being rasps through torn lips and blackened teeth. “But all good guests must leave eventually to stay a good guest. His Majesty offers your son back to you, Finwion, if you but agree to forget your Oath, depart Beleriand, and never return to darken His Majesty’s doorstep. What shall it be, Ñoldorán; your son or your jewels?”
For a shameful moment, Fëanáro’s conviction wavers. Could it truly be that easy--?
But no
Morgoth’s last offer to surrender what he stole was a lie. It was a lie then, and it is a lie now
Fëanáro will not be fooled. 
He will drive open the Gates of Angamando and rescue his son himself, and whatever miseries he has suffered will be inflicted on Morgoth fivefold! Tenfold!
“Úmaia you are, and Úvala I name your thrall-keeping master!” Fëanáro scoffs. “Slink back to your hole and tell him to stuff his false offers back behind his teeth where they belong!”
The being laughs, a horrible scraping croak that’s half a wheeze. “Very well, Finwion. A souvenir to tide you over then. A token of His Majesty’s consideration.”
The chest is tipped open and a wealth of loose red hair, vividly bright even in the light of the Fëanorian Lamps, spills out upon the ground like a bloodstain half tossed by the wind
It reeks of blood too
The breath catches in his throat. All that hair, Nelyafinwë’s pride and joy. It didn’t seem real to see it bereft of his son, to see it tossed carelessly on the ground where-- where anyone could trample it
He feels numb
The anger is too strong, there are too many directions he wants to shove it at once
Behind him, Telufinwë lets out a cry and looses an arrow into the Úmaia’s mangled torso
Fëanáro reorients. Draws his sword and shoves it through the being’s throat and cleaves its head clean off. There’s an eruption of fouled power upon its death, but it must be the weakest in Morgoth’s enthrallment for it barely rocks him on his heels
“Pay what it said no mind,” he tells his sons, the lot of them wet eyed and reaching for the hair on the ground. “The Enemy is a liar, dishonorable, and a cheat. Even if we agreed to the deal, Nelyo would only be returned to us dead. The only way to get him back is to wrest him from the pits ourselves!”
Their spirits firm. Good
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melestasflight · 1 month
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‘The Golodhrim intend to take the Orc Prince as their leader,’ Cíleth tells him in a whisper.
The Sindar of Mithrim fear Maedhros until they see the person he is in Maglor's presence.
@maedhrosmaglorweek day 2: Trust/Distrust
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outofangband · 9 months
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To go with my boards and posts on natural dyes, here is part one of a project on various fibers and fabrics in Beleriand! I’m going to make companion posts to go into more detail but here are some general thoughts!
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The first row is one species of nettle, stinging nettle. Different species of Nettle are used throughout Beleriand for cloth, medicine and culinary purposes. It’s most prominently used for cloth by the Sindar of Mithrim but is also used in Doriath and in Ossiriand. Nettle fiber is very good for temperate climates as the thread is hollow and can be used to insulate heat and to keep cool. Nettle fiber is surprisingly easy to utilize.
Sheep wool is used mostly by the humans of Beleriand, primarily the Haladin and Hadorians (the Bëorians mostly use wool from goats, alpacas and rabbits). For the Haladin, sheep are mostly kept southwest of the forest, near the Talath Dirnen. For the Hadorians especially, sheep raising, sheering and wool work is highly prioritized. People of all ages take part in it.
Flax is used in Nevrast and Ossiriand as well as sometimes In Nargothrond and by the Falathrim. It is somewhat more common East of the Ered Luin where warmer weather is more consistent in some places.
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polutrope · 10 months
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Prompt: 18. remember who and what thou art
Amrod & Amras (<- relationship tag and characters)
Thank you!
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Thank you @ettelene and @danmeiljie! I wanted to write you a follow-up to Who By Fire for these prompts, but as such it got away a bit from the actual prompts. Prompt List.
1k words of cryptic, unresolved brotherly angst (so the usual flavours for the Mithrim years). Lightly toasted Amrod. Rated T.
Warning for referenced past suicide attempt.
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Seven nights pass before the others notice Amrod’s absence. 
Amras has known, but not because he felt it. There have been moments since Losgar when Amras has felt Amrod’s thought like a wayward gust along the edges of his own. But it is rare now that he feels the presence of his other half. It was not only patches of skin that the flames licked away. They scraped away pieces of Amrod’s mind, too. 
Amras has known because he watched him, when he stalked off into the woods at dawn, seven days ago. 
Is his twin seeking those pieces, when he strays far into the lands about Lake Mithrim? In the early years of their uncertain existence here, Amras followed him; tracked him down and coaxed him back to reason like some wild thing.
Would Amras have pulled him from the burning ship, if he had known that Amrod wanted to die in that fire? Had Amrod truly wanted to die in that fire? Surely, Amras would have known. Would have felt his own soul straining for release along with him.
There are only so many times Amras can set aside his own life, tuck away his own grief and rage to save his brother, before he begins to wish he had not the first time. And that is a terrible thought.
So he lets him go, and the others worry about another brother who has been missing far longer. 
In the last few months, though, they seem to have forgotten Morgoth and Maedhros both. They have turned all their worry towards the threat of another fortress across the lake; the threat of revenge. That is why, when Amrod’s absence is finally noted, their faces are tight with concern. 
“Why did you say nothing?” Celegorm shouts, grabbing hold of Amras’ arm.
“Perhaps you should ask yourselves why you did not notice,” says Amras. He shrugs out of Celegorm’s grip and rakes his eyes over the rest of his brothers. They look away. They bow their heads in shame. 
Maglor will not write to Nolofinwë, not yet. He says he does not believe their half-uncle would take his own nephew captive. Curufin accuses him of cowardice. He will go himself to Nolofinwë’s camp himself, he says, if Maglor is too ashamed to face them. 
“Enough!” shouts Maglor, schooling his little brother with his voice, the only real power he wields. 
Amras thinks them all cowards. A search party is sent out. Amras does not join it. 
Another seven nights pass, and still there has been no word exchanged between the two hosts. Many words are thrown about in the council room, though. Words about launching the first assault against Nolofinwë’s camp, before they are put on the defensive themselves. 
Amras removes himself. He sits in his brother’s room and stares at the shape of Amrod’s body still imprinted on the reed mattress. They used to share sleeping quarters in Valinor. It was only after the fire that Amras made physical the wall that had fallen between them. 
But Amras is bound to his twin by both blood and oath. Such bonds cannot be severed by walls—nor by captivity, nor by mountains, nor by an ocean, nor by the long and heavy passage of time. Not even by death. 
The sound of metal clattering against wood rouses Amras from thought.
“Hello, Russa.” 
Amras turns to see his brother standing in the doorframe. He has discarded his belt and cloak on the table beside him, and crosses the floor to sit on the bed. 
Amras’ heart races with relief at the sight of him, but he reins it in, he says nothing. They have been here before. 
“What are you doing here?” Amrod asks lightly, as if he had not been gone more than a few hours. He unlaces and kicks off his boots.
“Waiting for you,” Amras answers, cold and measured. 
Amrod’s smile reveals a faint new scar across his face. It sets a tremor in Amras’ hands.
“Where did you get that?” asks Amras, threading his fingers tightly over his knees. He ought to have followed him. 
Amrod shrugs. “Hunting.” 
He sits upright with a relieved sigh, and Amras notices his fine linen tunic, delicately embroidered around the neck and sleeves. He has never seen his brother wear it. It is not like the work of the local Mithrim, either; it is Noldorin in style. 
“Whose garment is that?” Amras asks. 
“It was my healer’s.” 
Amras studies the scar again. It is evident that it was treated skillfully. In time there will be no scar at all, as if the wound had never been there. The question flutters around the back of his mind: Who healed you?
But Amras knows. He knows because the walls around Amrod’s thoughts are naught but sand, and they are blown away by the softest touch from Amras’ mind. 
Yes, Amrod confirms with a nod. Yes, Nolofinwë healed me. 
“Why?” Amras asks aloud.
A tug on his thoughts pulls him back from this line of questioning. Be content that I was healed, it says, and I am here.
A shiver ripples through Amrod’s body, and silently Amras rises and comes to sit beside him.
“What does it matter?” Amrod asks, lifting his head to look at him. “When one is starved for hope, should he not take whatever healing he can?”
Amras nods, though he is not sure. It is difficult to know, in these dark times. 
He glances at his hand resting on the bed between them, imagines it draped over his brother’s shoulder, but he finds he cannot will it to close that gap. 
Amrod chuckles. “It’s funny, Russa. You are all just as broken as I am. On both sides.” He takes Amras’ hand in both of his and pats the back of it. “You’ll see. Our wounds will be the thing that stitches us back together, when we remember that we are all bleeding the same blood.”
* * *
Thanks again to @cuarthol for helping me brainstorm this one.
On AO3
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gwaedhannen · 1 month
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Maedhros & Maglor Week day 2: Trust/Distrust
Double drabble. Warning for discussion of canon-typical treatment of escaped thralls.
One alchemist, mixing a warming draught, says: “You can tell by the eyes. Look closely, when he wakes. If they are the eyes of a dead thing, he is already gone.” One weaver, dying yarn the yellow of Arien’s hair, says: “Their memories give it away. They cannot recall details, will mix names, will refuse to describe their torment.” One fisher, returning from the lake empty-handed, says: “They cannot last long without revealing themselves. If they haven’t tried to gut or strangle anyone within a sennight, they are safe.” One chieftain, scowling over a map of the Noldor’s encampments, says: “They are already gone. You cannot see it, you cannot prove it, you can only wait until the knife is in your ribs and the gates are unbarred. You do not make such a mistake a second time. None return from Angband.”
So the Mithrim say. So here Maglor waits, blade in hand. He will allow none other to hold this vigil, has bartered knowledge from Artanis of the songs of wakefulness improvised on the Ice in exchange for his best harp. It is an easy task for the regent-king. After all, he has already condemned Maitimo to death once.
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feanorionapologist · 2 years
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Maedhros in Mithrim mapping construction for the north: Alright I’ll take this mountain for my fortress and call it Himring. Maglor you have separation anxiety so you should settle by me shall we say 20 miles from my boundary? And Celegorm you should stay where Maglor can supervise you so let’s say within 10 miles of Maglor’s lands? And Curufin, you and my nephew should remain in the guardianship of the hunting parties, you should be no less than 5 miles from Celegorm’s territory.
Caranthir: what about me?
Maedhros: I was thinking you could have the 9000 miles between here and the dwarven mountains? Here, sweetheart, take my black platinum card.
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