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thelordofgifs · 1 year

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a fic where maglor (or elrond, or anybody else) manages to stop maedhros from jumping into a lava pit?

I’M SO SORRY THIS ISN’T WHAT YOU ASKED FOR. I DIDN’T FIX IT I MADE IT WORSE.

“If none can release us,” says Maglor, “then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our Oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking.”

Maedhros looks at him searchingly, and Maglor holds his breath. At last his brother says, “You are right.”

“And?” Maglor asks, not yet daring to smile.

Maedhros steps forward and rests his forehead against the top of Maglor’s head. “Very well,” he says quietly. “Let us surrender to Eönwë. We will go home.”

“Thank you,” Maglor breathes, tears of relief beginning to sting at his eyes, “thank you, thank you—” And he knows what he is asking of Maedhros, knows that it is selfish, knows that his brother is so, so tired: but still he is willing to do this, for Maglor’s sake, and that means everything—

He wakes up.

***

“Wait,” says Maglor, when they spy the guards outside the tent where the Silmarils are kept, “we can’t—”

“We have to,” Maedhros says, tonelessly. His sword is already drawn.

“Not like this,” Maglor says, “no more slaughter, Nelyo, please—”

But Maedhros cannot listen to him, he cannot see another path out, and so Maglor summons up all the power left to him and starts to sing a lullaby: and Maedhros, who after all is so tired, drops to the floor in a dead sleep.

He does not wake until Maglor has dragged him far away from where the host of the Valar are camped; and he is furious, but by then it is too late, and Maglor cannot bring himself to regret it—

He wakes up.

***

They are surrounded, the startled dismayed faces of Elves who knew them long ago encircling them, and Maedhros and Maglor’s swords are wet and bloody but that will not avail them against so many.

“Halt!” comes a clear voice, and the crowd parts before the Herald of Manwë. His shining, terrible face is hard to look at directly.

Maglor sees his chance.

He drops his sword, drops the box that holds the Silmarils, flings himself at the Maia’s feet. “We surrender!” he cries, in a voice that is yet strong and supple, although all other blessings are long fled. “We surrender to the justice of the Valar – we will answer for our crimes – only spare us now—”

He does not raise his head to see Eönwë’s expression, nor the contemptuous ones of the rest of the host, nor even Maedhros’ own: but despite the reckoning that is to come, something in his heart is easy now, for he has put himself, defenceless, at the Maia’s mercy, and hence bound Maedhros too, for Maedhros will not leave him—

He wakes up.

***

“I suppose,” says Maedhros, “we might at least look upon them now.”

They have run some distance from the camp; there will be nobody to chase them down when the light betrays them. Maglor opens the box.

It is empty.

Maedhros makes a choked sound.

“How strange,” Maglor says mildly, “there must have been a mix-up in all the confusion.”

“You!” says Maedhros, outraged: but he is laughing a little as he speaks. “I thought you collided with Elrond by mistake!”

“He’ll give them to Tyelpë,” says Maglor. “Elrond understands, Nelyo. And if Tyelpë holds them—”

“We’re free,” says Maedhros, and he does not sound as though he knows what to do with that. But he is here, and starting to smile, and his grey eyes are clearing as he looks out at ravaged Beleriand, his gaze skimming over the rents of fire in the earth—

He wakes up.

***

His hand is burning, burning, and he can barely think, and Maedhros is standing at the edge of the chasm, the unforgiving light of the Silmaril making clear the terrible despair on his face, and for once in his life Maglor cannot summon up the words—

“So!” he says at last, and just in time. “So Varda Elentári marks us unworthy! But even if she hallowed the jewels she did not make them, Nelyo, they are our father’s work, and the right to them will always be ours.”

“Do you really believe that, Káno?” Maedhros asks, dreadfully soft.

Maglor doesn’t. He knows what he is. But he was a mighty wordsmith once, and the son of the foremost loremaster of Tirion besides, and he knows how to turn arguments to his own end.

“We crossed the world to get away from their false idea of judgement,” he says firmly. “Why listen to it now? And – and – come away from the edge, Nelyo.”

“Yes,” says Maedhros, and then with more certainty, “yes—”

He wakes up.

***

Maedhros is wavering at the edge of the chasm, the Silmaril blazing in his hand, the fire licking up behind him. He is always blazing, this brilliant brother of his, and surely – surely – nothing could ever snuff him out.

“Nelyo,” says Maglor. “Nelyo, drop it. Please.”

His own Silmaril is lying on the ground at his feet. He has given up everything he has for it, accursed thing, and it will not take the last person he has left; it will not take Maedhros, he will not let it.

“They burned him too,” says Maedhros, voice dry and desolate. “Morgoth. I saw his hands. They were black and withered.”

His own hand is crumbling, now. Still he will not let the Silmaril go.

Maglor’s face is wet with tears. “You are not he,” he says; “you are not as bad as Morgoth, Nelyo.”

“I cannot have dealt out much less death than he,” Maedhros counters.

“But you are loved,” says Maglor, “even now – if you would only step away from the edge – I love you, Nelyo, please—”

Maedhros stares at him. Stands very still. Opens his charred and ruined fingers, at last, letting the Silmaril fall into the fire. Looks down as if there is nothing stopping him from following it.

“Nelyo,” says Maglor, and Maedhros looks back at him and takes a step forward and away from the fire and then another and another until he is crashing into Maglor’s waiting arms—

He wakes up.

***

His hand is burning and his soul is burning and Maedhros, standing at the edge of the chasm, is burning too; or perhaps he was always burning, the eldest son of the Spirit of Fire. It was always going to end like this, Maglor has always known it, and yet – because he is selfish, because a part of him still believes he can cheat the shape of his own narrative – he cannot quite accept it.

There is nothing left to him, now, no clever arguments or impassioned sincerity or cunning tricks; and his throat, like the rest of him, is burning, too much so to beg anymore. Is he already screaming? But Maedhros is still standing there, his form wavering like a mirage in the heat from the fire. There – there – gone.

Maglor is screaming now, unquestionably.

Perhaps, he tells himself, perhaps it is just a dream, like those he had, repeatedly, after Maedhros was rescued alive from Thangorodrim: and he digs his nails into the terrible burn on his hand, for surely the pain will ground him, and now, now he will wake up, he must wake up—

He never does.

#silmarillion #my fic #asks #that-angry-noldo #maglor #maedhros #AMAZING prompt I just spent the last hour writing this on my phone instead of working at my actual job #I’m sorry this is so sad #I am not a fix it writer. as tfs also shows.#anyway I’m completely normal about these two!!#nothing to see here

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tilions · 2 years

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O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!

We still remember, we who dwell

In this far land beneath the trees.

Thy starlight on the Western Seas.

varda elentári for @theelfmaiden

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violetnatelley · 1 year

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Queens of The Valar

Also known as The Valier

From left to right:

Vairë the Weaver Varda Elentári, Queen of Stars Yavanna Kementári, Giver of Fruits Nienna, Lady of Mercy Estë the Gentle Nessa the Dancer Vána the Ever young

#the valar #women of tolkien #silmarillion #silmart #tolkien

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silmforrookies · 1 year

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Chapter II. Valaquenta, or Wow, That's a Lot of Names

Alright, so where were we - ah yes, Eru showed the Ainur the vision of the World (Arda), and a lot of them decided Arda is cool so they came down and started shaping the world. Sounds about right.

Now, what exactly is Valaquenta? Basically, it's a chapter where Tolkien introduces us to the divine beings, not in "general", like in the last chapter, but more personally - we learn their names, what they are like, what are their domains, and that Melkor is a b-(CENSORED). Though we already knew that last bit.

Valaquenta can be divided into three sections:

Fanboying Over Valar

Fanboying Over Maiar

Melkor Is A Bastard And We Should Not Forget That

"Noldo", you might ask, "with all my due respect, who the hell are Valar and Maiar?"

Valar and Maiar are two kinds of Ainur - an Ainu is a Vala or a Maia depending on their power; Valar are the rulers, and Maiar are the servants. There are seven Vala-Lords and seven Valië-Queens; so fourteen if put them together and fifteen if you add Melkor - but Melkor is an idiot so he doesn't count. Their names are: Manwë, Ulmo, Aulë, Oromë, Namo (Mandos), Irmo (Lórien), and Tulkas; and Varda, Yavanna, Nienna, Estë, Vairë, Vána, and Nessa.

Well. Onto the main course! (if you've just heard someone sobbing in despair, yeah, that was me, sorry.) LETS LEARN ABOUT THE VALAR, KIDS! LETS RAISE OUR PRAYERS TO OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR MANWË SÚLIMO-

Manwë, also known as Manwë Súlimo, is the creator of skies and air and all that inhabits it. He's Eru's favourite. Eru's perfect son. Eru's golden child. He understands Eru like no one else does and often has private chats with him. When they only descended into Arda, he was second in might to Melkor, but, since Melkor is an idiot, he's deemed the strongest of the Valar. Manwë is married, and his wife's name is Varda.

Varda is elven favourite. Her surname is Elbereth, or Elentári, depending on which political party you will choose later in the years. She is Lady of Stars, and her domain is light. She and Manwë dwell together on the highest peak of Taniquetil (local holy mountain), and when they sit beside each other on their thrones, Varda hears all what's happening in Arda, and Manwë sees further than anyone else.

Oh, by the way! Melkor wanted to date Varda but she rejected him, because - you guessed it! - he is an idiot. So Melkor is scared shitless of her, as he should be.

Ulmo is the Vala of water, and he is positively Done. Manwë? Done. Melkor? Done. Eruhini? Do- oh wait, he loves those, actually.

Ulmo doesn't give a shit unless the world is literally falling apart. He doesn't wear "normal" bodies like the other Valar and appears in a form of giant warrior (borderline giant wave) which scares the Children of Ilùvatar which, in turn, makes Ulmo sad - because he loves them.

Ulmo reigns over all waters and often travels to Middle-Earth. Elves believe his voice and words can be heard in rivers and streams. He was best friends with Manwë, but we don't know much about the current state of affairs - only that Ulmo rarely visits land or other Valar.

Aulë is a craftsman. He is second in might to Ulmo, and created a lot in tandem with him and Manwë. He made metals and minerals, and he delights in all handiworks - from little trinkets to majestic buildings. He and Melkor are ✨narrative parralels✨. Both of them are driven by the will to create something new and original - but, while Melkor wastes his power on envy and hatred, Aulë doesn't think himself greater than the others, is quick to help and to be helped. Melkor absolutely hates his guts. He's been destroying Aulë's creations since the dawn of time. Aulë first have been repairing them, but then grew weary, tired of Melkor's temper tantrums.

Aulë is married to Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits, also called Kementári, Queen of Earth. She claims author rights to the animals and plants and is as powerful as Varda.

Next up are Feantúri-brothers, Námo Mandos and Irmo Lórien, named so for the places of their dwellings - and then, their respective spouses.

Námo, the Lord of Doom, knows time, or, as Galadriel said, "things that were, things that are, and things that yet may be". He suffers from a disease known as "I TOLD YOU SO! I TOLD YOU SO, BUT NOOOO, WHY WOULD WE LISTEN TO NÁMO, AKA THE DOOMSMAN, AKA THE ONE WHO KNOWS LITERALLY ALL THE SPOILERS?!" His name is Námo, but he is often called Mandos because his home is called Mandos, House of the Dead. He summons all the dead souls and makes sure they heal accordingly. He's married to Vairë the Weaver, who weaves the history of Arda into her tapestries.

Irmo Lórien is a Vala of dreams and rest. His respectable place of dwelling is Lórien - the fairest of places in Arda. He lives with his wife Estë, Valie of healing, who sleeps by day and walks by night. Lórien is a place where many find peace and refreshment - not just Elves, but Ainur too.

Similar to Estë, but more powerful than her, is Nienna. To shorten the story:

Nienna is Sadness and Grief, and she mourns every wound Melkor does to Arda. In fact, she started mourning long before the Arda even existed, in her Song. She spends a lot of time in Halls of Mandos, helping dead souls and mourning with them.

Then comes Tulkas the Valiant. Tulkas is. Well.

(live footage of tulkas viping the floor with melkor, years of the lamps, silmarillion)

He's super strong and is absolutely unhinged. Dude knows no fear. He has only one mission: to beat up Melkor. Yes, you guessed it, Melkor absolutely hates his guts. He is married to Nessa, Valie of... dancing? beauty? Nessa is a sister of Oromë - Vala of Hunting. Oromë loves forests and loves Middle-Earth; he would often visit it, and he would often beat Melkor's ass, too. Orome has a sister, Vaná, Valië of Youth.

So, there are fourteen Valar - but if you thought we're done, ohoho! you're in for a wild ride, my friend, for the Valar are divided into Aratar (kings and queens) and non-Aratar (everybody else). There are eight Aratar: Manwë, Varda, Ulmo, Aulë, Yavanna, Aulë, Nàmo, Nienna and Oromë. Melkor could've been up there, but he's an idiot, so. Yeah.

Yeah.

(cries in dozen more of the Maiar)

Alright, kids. Buckle up, since the Maiar are beating up my ass and I have no patience left!

Ilmarë and Eönwë - chiefs of the Maiar in Valinor. Ilmarë is a handmaid of Varda and Eönwë is a Herald of Manwë.

Uinen and Ossë - Maiar of Ulmo. Ossë loves coasts and islands and delights in storms. Uinen is his wife, and she loves the deep waters. Ossë, chaotic bastard as he was, once almost joined Melkor and went unhinged, but, fortunately, Uinen brought him back to the light side with the ✨power of love✨. Ossë is still a tiny little bit unhinged and sometimes loves drowning ships for funsies, that's why sailors pray to Uinen to calm him down. Relationship goals, amirite.

Melian was a Maia who spent most of her life in Middle-Earth, married a major elven hottie, borned a daughter who was even a bigger hottie, and suffered from a disease known as "for god's sake please someone listen to a literal angel advising you", but we know nothing about that yet.

Ólorin, aka Gandalf, aka Mithrandir, aka The Guy You Definitely Know About!

AND NOW, FINALLY, LETS TALK ABOUT OUR LOCAL DEMONS! I'VE GOT FITEEN MINUTES UNTIL 15 H, CAN YOU TELL I'M SANE

Alright - so, of course, we've got our local Satan, Melkor, aka Morgoth, aka Bauglir, aka The Guy Who is Still A Bastard. He didn't have a particular domain - but he had part in powers of all the Ainur, and it was intended for him to help other Ainur excell even more at their crafts. Unfortunately, he spent all of his might to hate and envy, until he could do nothing else but imitate the creations of other Ainur. Still, there were many who followed him; most terrifying of them were Valaraukar, aka Balrogs - spirits of fire, demons of terror.

And of course, Sauron. What to say about Sauron?... Well, he's a bastard who looks up to Melkor. Mini-Boss. Mini-Morgoth. He does have cool fire-cat-werewolf aesthetic, though. If Melkor is chaos, Sauron is Order. If Melkor is brute force, Sauron is swift strategy. Sauron, though he's a Maia, is as terrifying as his Master, and it's better not to cross him.

Well, that was it! I've got two more minutes left until 15h - you'll get me next time, procrastination >:)

taglist: @none-ofthisnonsense (ask to be added!)

#silmarillion #tolkien #melkor #valar #silmforrookies #silm fic #14:59 FOLKS #valaquenta

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ebaeschnbliah · 1 year

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‘In this phial is caught the light of Eärendil's star’

`And you, Ring-bearer,' she said, turning to Frodo. `I come to you last who are not last in my thoughts. For you I have prepared this.' She held up a small crystal phial: it glittered as she moved it, and rays of white light sprang from her hand. 'In this phial,' she said, `is caught the light of Eärendil's star, set amid the waters of my fountain. It will shine still brighter when night is about you. May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out. Remember Galadriel and her Mirror! '

Frodo took the phial, and for a moment as it shone between them, he saw her again standing like a queen, great and beautiful, but no longer terrible. He bowed, but found no words to say.

Now the Lady arose, and Celeborn led them back to the hythe. A yellow noon lay on the green land of the Tongue, and the water glittered with silver. All at last was made ready. The Company took their places in the boats as before. Crying farewell, the Elves of Lórien with long grey poles thrust them out into the flowing stream, and the rippling waters bore them slowly away. The travellers sat still without moving or speaking. On the green bank near to the very point of the Tongue the Lady Galadriel stood alone and silent. As they passed her they turned and their eyes watched her slowly floating away from them. For so it seemed to them: Lórien was slipping backward, like a bright ship masted with enchanted trees, sailing on to forgotten shores, while they sat helpless upon the margin of the grey and leafless world.

Even as they gazed, the Silverlode passed out into the currents of the Great River, and their boats turned and began to speed southwards. Soon the white form of the Lady was small and distant. She shone like a window of glass upon a far hill in the westering sun, or as a remote lake seen from a mountain: a crystal fallen in the lap of the land. Then it seemed to Frodo that she lifted her arms in a final farewell, and far but piercing-clear on the following wind came the sound of her voice singing. But now she sang in the ancient tongue of the Elves beyond the Sea, and he did not understand the words: fair was the music, but it did not comfort him.

Yet as is the way of Elvish words, they remained graven in his memory, and long afterwards he interpreted them, as well as he could: the language was that of Elven-song and spoke of things little known on Middle-earth.

Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen, yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron! Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni ómaryo airetári-lírinen. Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva? An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë, ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë; ar sindanóriello caita mornië i falmalinnar imbë met, ar hísië untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë. Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar! Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar. Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!

`Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind, long years numberless as the wings of trees! The long years have passed like swift draughts of the sweet mead in lofty halls beyond the West, beneath the blue vaults of Varda wherein the stars tremble in the song of her voice, holy and queenly. Who now shall refill the cup for me? For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of the Stars, from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds, and all paths are drowned deep in shadow; and out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves between us, and mist covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever. Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar! Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar. Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell! ' Varda is the name of that Lady whom the Elves in these lands of exile name Elbereth.

Suddenly the River swept round a bend, and the banks rose upon either side, and the light of Lórien was hidden. To that fair land Frodo never came again.

The gifts for:

Boromir, Legolas, Merry, Pippin, Sam: ‘I have brought in my ship gifts’

Aragorn: 'Now it is time to drink the cup of farewell.'

Gimli: `And what gift would a Dwarf ask of the Elves?'

JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, Farewell to Lórien

JRR Tolkien reads ‘Namárië ’:

youtube

‘Namárië ’ - setting by Donald Swann, sung by William Elvin, recorded 1967:

youtube

#the lord of the rings #the fellowship of the ring #farewell to lórien #jrr tolkien #lothlorien #caras galadhon #farewell #gifts #galadriel #frodo #namarie #poetry #music #donald swann #willliam elvin #movie pics #peter jackson

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caliawen · 1 year

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Overwhelming Love

Pairing = Fëanor x reader

Genre = General audiences

General ratings = fluff & angst

Content warnings = none

Reader’s gender = afab!reader, but no explicit gender (only pronoun used to describe reader is ‘you/your’)

Word count = 2,9k

Notes = second fic!! 🥳🥳🥳 I hope you enjoy it! Here are some words you should know before you read = málonya means ‘my friend’, lomba means blind, melinya means ‘my dear’, lissëhón means sweetheart, vanimelda is the highest word of praise for beauty (beautiful and beloved, elven-fair), ammë means mother and finally, yonya means ‘my son’

Fëanor had always felt insecure with the love people gave him. Since his mother died and his father remarried to have other children, he felt as if he wasn’t enough. Why would his father want other children if that wasn’t the case? And so, he outdid himself in everything he did to have his father’s attention. That was how he found his passion for writing and smithing.

One day, in the palace’s library, he felt for the first time that type of love he read so much about. You were browsing the shelves, Laurelin’s rays were caressing your skin gently, making you seem ethereal. For the first time in all of his life, Fëanor was speechless. Your beauty seemed to exceed that of Varda Elentári. Seeming to feel his eyes on you, you turned and looked in his gaze directly, before he abruptly tore his eyes away and faked reading. His cheeks were hot. You caught him looking at you like a creep! Of course you didn’t know that he was admiring your beauty, you didn’t know him!

Fëanor was torn out of his thoughts as he heard books being delicately put down on the table in front of him and a chair scraping against the floor. He snapped his head up and his eyes grew comically large as he saw you smiling at him. You spent a good hour reading with him, before leaving with a small ‘goodbye’. He couldn’t believe it. You had sat with him! Even if you hadn’t talked, you had supported his presence enough to stay seated with him for an hour.

The next few days passed in the same manner. Fëanor seated himself at his usual table and you arrived later, picking a few books before seating yourself in front of him. You gave him a shy smile and then you read in silence until you left after murmuring goodbye. Fëanor became used to this routine, so he was shocked when one day, in the middle of reading, you cleared your throat. He looked up at you and saw you shyly looking into his eyes.

“My name is (Y/N)”

He looked at you dumbly, before he realized he was supposed to introduce himself.

“I’m Fëanáro.” He said, awkwardly. He mentally beat himself, for that was his first impression of him to you. Awkward and not knowing how to converse. Normally, he didn’t have any difficulty talking, but you seemed to make his brain melt so that the only thought left was you.

“It’s nice to meet you, Fëanáro.”

You went back to your book, smiling gently and blushing. He was perplexed. After his mediocre introduction, you still didn’t mind his presence? You must be the incarnation of patience..

“What are you reading, if you don’t mind me asking?” He said, after searching for a long time for something intelligent to start a conversation with.

You looked up from your book, surprised, but also seemingly happy.

“Well, you see…”

That was the day Fëanor made his first friend. You were kind and patient, even with him. You listened as he rambled on and on about one of his discoveries or a topic he was passionate about. It seemed with each day, your beauty became more and more all-consuming. From the tip of your ears to your boots, Fëanor thought you were pretty. Your fëa was the cherry on top of the cake. You were so gentle and funny and respectful, he couldn’t imagine what ’perfect’ was if it wasn’t you.

One day, Fëanor saw you talking to another ellon at the ball his father threw for his coming of age. He didn’t understand why he felt so jealous. You had the right to pursue anyone you liked! So why did he covet your love like he did with his father’s? He ended up feeling angsty for a good amount of time, his jealousy making him snappy and insecure. What if this ellon didn’t like him and wanted you to stop being his friend? The rational part of his mind told him that you were probably only talking to him, flirting at most. You wouldn’t abandon your friendship for someone you weren’t in a relationship with.

He went outside, brooding in silence. A few minutes passed before he heard someone come his way. He looked out the corner of his eye, choking on air as he saw you. You looked concerned and he disliked himself for it, but he felt a strange sense of satisfaction at the fact that you left that ellon to go check up on him.

“Are you alright málonya?” You asked him, your brow furrowed in confusion and worry.

“I… am not..” he confessed hushedly.

“What is wrong then, Fëanáro?” You seemed to be truly concerned now, for he never admitted to being anything other than ‘perfectly fine’.

“I wish for something I probably cannot have..”

You looked deep into his eyes, seemingly searching his fëa. He turned his gaze away, afraid of your reaction if you were to find out.

“Fëanáro… tell me. Please..”

He felt the words of admission come out of his heart and up his throat, in his mouth, he only had to open it and he would be free-

“Why don’t you go back to that ellon you were talking with? You seemed happy with him.” He snapped instead, shame curling inside of him at his cowardice.

“Are you…jealous?” You quietly asked.

Fëanor flinched, not expecting you to see through his words, but then again, that was underestimating you, for you were the smartest elf Fëanor had ever come across. His silence seemed to be enough of an answer for you, because you took his chin in your hand and turned his head so that he was facing you.

“Oh, you lomba man..” you sighed, something like fondness taking over your features.

“I have loved you for a very long time, Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwëyón. You have a brilliant mind, you make me feel all fuzzy inside and meeting you at our spot is like coming home. I cannot tell you how many times I daydreamed about kissing your lips and holding your hand. You make me irrationally happy, Melinya. If you would have me, I would be yours..” you confessed, looking at his mouth towards the end of your last sentence.

He put his hands on your hips and tugged you towards him, kissing you passionately. To know that you felt the same way as he was a relief to Fëanor.

“I wish to court you properly, lissëhón. Can I?” He asked, breathless from your kiss.

Your enthusiastic nod and kiss is enough of an answer for him.

~~~

Your wedding was the biggest and most beautiful of the century. Everyone was in high spirits. It was fun to dance with you, but what was most wonderful was seeing your constant smile as you talked to guests.

Fëanor tore his gaze away from you as he saw your parents approaching. You were the exact copy of your mother, except for your smile. Your father had ginger hair and he had given you his smile. They were wonderful people and he was more than happy to have them as his in-laws.

He was teased by your father for his constant looking, but Fëanor couldn’t stop. You seemed to be radiating happiness as you walked towards him and your parents. It was incredible how Fëanor found himself falling deeper in love with you every day that passed.

~~~

The birth of your first son was a joyous occasion. Maitimo, you called him. Well-shaped one. You were absolutely right, for your child was beautiful. He had inherited his grandfather’s ginger hair and freckles, the eyes of his father and he had your ears, nose and lips. He was the joy of both your hearts.

The birth of your second son was an even more joyous occasion, for Maitimo was the one who had asked for a sibling. He bounced up and down, excited at the prospect of having a brother to play with. Makalaurë, you named him. Forging gold. Once again, you were dead on with the name, for little Makalaurë seemed to make songs more powerful than the Valar, spinning them from gold and leaving all hearts who had heard his singing aching for more. He had inherited his father’s hair and face and your eyes, nose and smile. He was magnificent.

The birth of your third son was followed by exclamations of joy and happiness. Makalaurë and Maitimo were ecstatic at the thought of another brother. Tyelkormo, you named him. Hasty-riser. He was a bundle of energy and woke you up at ungodly hours so that he could play. He was also quick to anger, filled with insecurities and quick to defend his loving family. He had Míriel’s hair, his father’s eyes and your ears, smile and nose. He was breathtaking.

The birth of your fourth son was a cacophony of delight. Everyone had waited long for this little one and he was finally here. Carnistir, you named him. Red face. It had surprised you all that your fourth son had a permanent blush on his face. It was however clear to all that it was adorable. Kisses were pressed on his cheeks constantly and hands caressed his hair. He had inherited the hair of his father and of his eyes while he had your smile and personality. He was calmer and more solitary, preferring to spend time with you than with other kids his age. He was your bliss.

The birth of your fifth son was filled with amusement. This little one looked so much like his father, it was comic. Atarinkë, you named him. Little father. It was more than fitting, for your fifth son attached himself to Fëanor and never let go. Everything his father did, Atarinkë had to do. He looked to Fëanor with awe in his little eyes and wanted to be held by him all the time. He loved his brothers and his parents more than anything in the world. You had no doubt you were heroes in his eyes. He was your euphoria.

The birth of the twins rocked the house. No one had really expected two babies when you had announced you were pregnant. Ambarussa you named them. Top-russet. It was fitting, for they both had the ginger hair of your beloved father. Your reasoning for giving them the same name was because they were born together and were fated to have one name. You still decided to give them separate names anyway. Minyarussa, you named the first one. The first. It was in relation to their birth order, for Minyarussa was the first one to see the light of Telperion. Umbarto, you named the second one. The fated. You had seen something, yet refused to tell Fëanor, which worried him, but at the same time, he didn’t want to push you. They were your rapture.

~~~

The rational part of his mind wailed in despair at what he had done. The Fear, however, was too strong. He had lost his father, he couldn’t lose his sons too, was what It whispered to him. And so, he bound himself and them to an oath. He was leaving Valinor to avenge his father and protect his sons from the Valar, they who hadn’t taken the menace that was Melkor seriously, they who had failed to protect them, they, who in a sense, were a part of the reason his father died. He would protect his sons, at all costs.

You weren’t in agreement with The Fear. You told him that this was madness, that he couldn’t do this, to abandon the oath and go back to how things were before. The rational part of his mind screamed at him to not do this, that you were right and that he would lose you if he didn’t heed your pleas. The Fear, however, was too strong. It killed the rational part of his mind with It’s fists and screamed at him to get away from this place. You didn’t come with him to Arda.

~~~

In his final moments, Fëanor thought back to what you had said and the rational part of his mind rose from the dead to tell him you were right.

~~~

Fëanor didn’t know how many years he spent in the Halls of Mandos. Time passed strangely there. Or more accurately, time had no meaning in these halls. When he was released after he had repented for his crimes, he learned that his sons were also free. He learned that Maedhros had married Fingon and that the former had adopted twins with Maglor. He had a second grandson, another one than little Celebrimbor, named Elrond.

You came to see him shortly after he was released. You both looked at each other, strangers again. He desperately wanted to go back in time and undo his mistakes. Oh, how he longed to wake up with you in his arms, to create you new jewelry and to brag with you about your sons’ accomplishments to other parents. He knew he had lost this privilege and that it was his fault. He knew he had lost you.

However, a glimmer of hope appeared in his chest as you slowly came forward, inches away from him. He raptly listened to what you had to say.

“I do not wish for us to separate our fëas, Fëanáro. What you did was cruel and pure madness, and I do not think I can ever forget what you put our sons through. However, our sons vouched for you. They explained to me that at the time of the oath, you weren’t yourself and that you weren’t okay mentally. I want you to heal, my love. Then we can see where we stand, as you are yourself again.”

“I promise I will heal, vanimelda. I promise.”

~~~

Fëanor kept his promise. He went to Lórien to work on his mind and fëa. It was an arduous journey and he sometimes wanted to give up. The rational part of his mind screamed each time he thought about that to not waste his only chance to win you back. His sons sometimes came to visit him. He apologized to all of them and to Celebrimbor. He was miraculously forgiven.

Fëanor had the pleasure to meet Elrond and his wife, Celebrían, along with their sons, Elladan and Elrohir. It was awkward at first, but slowly, they all warmed up to him. This gave him hope that one day, you could welcome him back into your arms.

~~~

The first time he met his mother in millenia, he cried. He fell into her arms and she hugged him to her chest, crying too. Torrents of tears fell down his cheeks, joy and hurt mixed together. He felt like Nienna had struck him down with grief as he could feel her lips kissing the crown of his head. Míriel rocked him back and forth, humming a tune he remembered was from his childhood.

When he had calmed down, he met his mother properly. They talked for days on end, taking back the time that was cruelly wrenched from them.

“Do you think she’ll ever take me back? Do you think she could love me again, ammë?”

His mother looked at him with love overflowing her eyes.

“Of course, yonya. Please let me meet her when you have won her back!”

~~~

His mother’s words carefully tucked to his chest, he made his way to you. His heart beat-no pounded in his chest and his stomach had a weird fluttery feeling inside of it. The greatest elf who ever lived, Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwëion, was nervous. He knew his sons would welcome him, but you, he had no idea. He hoped, oh how he hoped.

When he stood before you, Fëanor found himself speechless for the second time in his life. You were a beauty to behold, your magnificence unable to be described with words ; you were a feeling, someone to look at. One could not describe your beauty, they had to see it and to experience it.

“Hello, Fëanáro.”

Oh, how he loved how his name rolled off your tongue!

“Hello, (Y/N).”

He had no idea where to start. He had so much to say, yet so little words came to him. When you looked at him and gave him that little smile that made him fall in love, he knew everything would be alright.

~~~

Fëanor woke up, feeling for once at peace. He looked into his arms and found himself smiling, for you were there. The day before, after a long discussion filled with tears, you had accepted him back. That night, you had rekindled your fëas and it felt amazing to feel you again.

That day, Fëanor took you to meet his mother. It was a meeting that made his heart swell with the love he held for the two of you. He invited his sons along and his heart almost burst at the sight of his mother hugging her grandchildren. He looked at you and knew that the overwhelming love he held for you was right. He now knew peace, reunited with his family, even if he missed his father. Yes, this was indeed where he was supposed to be.

@theelvenhaven

#fëanáro #feanor #fëanor #x reader #fëanor x reader #fluff #angst #happy ending #writing #fanfiction #love at first sight #children #family #character analysis?#this is from fëanor’s pov

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