potatoobsessed999
three special interests in a trench coat
I'm Anna, I'm Autistic, my humors are out of balance, I am unfortunately not the Serene Doge of Venice, and I post (well, reblog mostly) about my SpIns! Right now that's mostly the Silmarillion, but you'll also encounter some LotR, Baldur's Gate 3, Star Wars, Scholomance, and Animorphs in the mix. I also write fanfiction - find me on AO3 under the name of potatoesanddreams. You may know me on Discord as Dovey. BTW, I am an adult. (she/her)
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i propose; what if hadestown got animated
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i cannot be the first person to post this here but i am going so fucking insane about the gaia music collective's one day choir singing wait for me. the opening harmonies are you KIDDING me
#hadestown#AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA#shivers up my spine for like several minutes straight#those HARMONIES!!#their orpheus!!! his voice!!!!!#the echoes!!!! aaaaaa!!!!!!!!
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“If none can release us,” said 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.”
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By the time Elrond leaves for Gil-Galad's camp, he's also been handling most of the healing at Amon Ereb for years. Few of the Feanorians can heal any more, bloodstained as they are, and even as a youth, it's clear that Elrond is remarkably talented at it.
Many of the Feanorians use sleeping draughts. Some of them, especially the former thralls, are plagued by nightmares. Maglor and Maedhros are so burnt out by the oath at this point that they can barely sleep at all.
Elrond is the one who mixes the medicine, quietly in the little room they've started calling the apothecary. No one watches. He gathers most of his own herbs too, from the gardens inside the fortress or the decaying land around it– no one goes with him, because the elves will be noticed by Morgoth's forces and attacked, but somehow, Elrond always slips by unnoticed.
Elrond leaves to get supplies. Elrond comes back. Elrond makes the sleeping draught, every afternoon. Maglor and Maedhros– and plenty of others– drink it without question every evening. They wake up the next morning, and there Elrond is, smiling and asking how they slept.
To most of the Feanorians, who've already started whispering about Elrond's kindness, this doesn't seem strange.
But Maedhros wonders. Maedhros knows that it would be near impossible to tell if the herbal draught had been tampered with. Maedhros knows that many of the herbs around Amon Ereb are poisonous, even lethal. Maedhros knows that the forested lands around Amon Ereb, sick as they are, would gladly shelter Elrond and Elros all the way to Gil-Galad's camp.
Maedhros knows all these things. What he doesn't know is why. Why Elrond stays, why Elrond helps them. And part of him– the part worn down by everything that's already happened to him– is suspicious of that. But he still takes the sleeping draught every night. And Elrond is still there every morning. And Maedhros never quite works up the courage to ask.
#elrond#maedhros#kidnap fam#silm fanfic#silm#tolkien#oughhh....#this is EXCELLENT#headcanon ABSOLUTELY accepted
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One thing I love about the Silmarillion is that because it’s so massive, its fans have to specialize.
Like I love everything but my Silm major is in Finrod studies, with a minor in obscure background characters.
Reblog this post with your Silmarillion “speciality,”
#my major is in hope and despair and i’m doing the orcishness and thraldom concentration#and I’m minoring in feanorian studies
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Finwëan Popularity Taxonomy
This isn’t about the extent of popularity different Finwëans have during the Ages of Trees, it’s about the type of popularity. Who is the most popular depends entirely on the lens you’re using. (Headcanon entirely, vibes entirely, no canon basis.)
Finrod: Finrod is the kid at school who found you crying in the bathroom and stayed and listened to you and bought you lunch and you went outside to sit on the grass together and just talk, and suddenly your bad day was a good day. Finrod is the kid where everyone at school either has a story like that or has a friend who has a story like that. He’s not the star or the trend-setter, but everybody likes him.
Fingon: Fingon has high-school-football-star-who’s-actually-nice vibes. Effortlessly popular. The kind of guy that, one time he smiles at you and says something nice and you’re giddy for a week.
Maglor: Maglor is not operating on a high-school level. Maglor is rock star popular. Maglor is Taylor Swift popular. Maglor has a fandom that includes a large fraction of Valinor.
Fëanor: Fëanor is Elon Musk (pre-Twitter-purchase) popular (not saying anything in terms of his personal similarity to Musk, just the type of popularity): has incredibly passionate fans who think he’s the answer to all the world’s problems, and equally passionate detractors. As a bonus, after the First Kinslaying he has post-Twitter-purchase Elon Musk popularity: passionate fans fewer and more unhinged; less unhinged fans beginning to question; detractors more numerous. After Losgar, doubts spread even among his own followers.
Fingolfin: After becoming acting ruler of the Noldor, is Jed Bartlet (The West Wing) popular. If you asked people for their favourite Finwëan, most wouldn’t name him, but he’s got the respect earned by a leader who does his job well and makes peoples’ lives simpler, and if you suggest replacing him with someone else you’ll rapidly find out how much people don’t want that.
(Turgon in Middle-earth is the most similar to his father. Turgon is mayor-you-like popular. Everyone’s met him; if you raise an issue with him, it will be addressed or you’ll end up with a new perspective on it. Or both. Gondolin is excellently administered. Gondolin does not have potholes.)
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i think finarfin during the war of wrath should have personal beef with sauron over finrod's death. like. angrier than he is with morgoth even
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@feanorianweek day 1 - Maedhros
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If sometimes the graves of heroes in Middle-Earth seem to have something, some fate, some enchantment, laid over them, like in any good legend -- that flowers or grass will ever grow over them, or they shall never be violated -- what happens if it's the resting place of an elf and the elf is reborn? Does it last? That grave is not really theirs anymore, cannot be; one can't have two bodies. There cannot be a corpse there anymore, but even as a symbol it falls apart -- there is no need for a grave for the living.
If Gondolin had not drowned, what would have happened with Glorfindel's cairn once he was returned? What about Finrod's?
Was it the earth itself showing its love? Do the flowers that grew where Glorfindel was buried now grow beneath his window in Rivendell?
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Holy shit??? Pages on PAGES of eerie beautiful descriptions of the Brown Lands in Fellowship — obviously bad but nonetheless a vague and ancient and digestible sorrow — and then???
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wrong all over
T || Maedhros || 1k || ao3 || @thelordofgifs || (cw: implied torture, violence)
"K��no," Maitimo says, voice croaking.
Káno shifts at his side, and looks at Maitimo curiously.
Maitimo stirs and winces at the soreness of his body. The bed is flat; he feels cold. The room is bright. Káno turns away, and for a second Maitimo fears that he mistook for his brother someone else entirely.
His throat is dry, and his bones ache.
"Káno," he tries again.
"Be still, little jewel," Káno says, still not looking at him.
Maitimo never says no to his brother. He closes his eyes obediently, and leans into the touch when Káno's hand caresses his hair.
...
Maedhros wakes up slow, and though it was a long time, he still lacks the confidence in telling reality and the fruit of his mind apart.
The curtains are draped. He stares at them, trying to guess the time; tries to decide if it will be fit for him to go back to sleep, or if another day has already begun.
Candlelight flickers in the corner of the room. Maedhros' eyes travel down the wall. He sees a figure hunched in an armchair, hair unbound, parchments spread around him.
Maedhros does not move when he recognizes the figure as Maglor.
...
Maitimo's body hurts, so much he wants to weep. At least Káno is petting his hair, his fingers cold—Maitimo wishes to take Káno's hand and press it to his cheek, keep it there for eternity. Káno hears his thought; his touch is gentle as if he were tracing the outlines of his favourite harp.
"Káno," Maitimo sobs. "Káno, I hurt do much. Can you sing for me?"
He is not worth singing for; but it is Káno, Káno who loves him.
Káno laughs, a dangling and splitting sound. "I do not sing, jewel," he says. "Hurt a little more."
...
Wind howls outside.
Maglor's hair is dark, and he sighs something under his breath, brow furrowed in concentration. Maedhros flinches. How melodic that sigh is; how soft, how bright.
He hates it, when Maglor speaks, when Maglor sighs, when Maglor makes any noise at all. It makes his memory clash and his skin crawl, makes terror rise within his chest, disgust stick to him like a foul substance.
Maglor's eyes flicker when he hears movement. He looks at Maedhros, smiles weakly.
His smile feels wrong, his eyes are unwell. Maedhros falls still.
Resistance is useless. Lieutenant never allows it anyway.
...
"Káno," Maitimo sobs, and clasps Káno's hand. "Káno, I'm so tired."
Káno sighs. Maitimo flinches; he knows he overstepped, but—it is Káno, Káno who loves him. Káno raises his hand, and Maitimo is sure it will strike him. It would be deserved—Maitimo deserves punishment—but the thought of it makes Maitimo weep, makes him press his hands to his mouth to try and stifle his sobs.
Káno sighs.
"You are disgusting," he says. He takes Maitimo's chin between his fingers, burns away Maitimo's tears. "Be quiet; I cannot bear to see you so undone."
"Káno," Maitimo sobs, "Káno."
...
"Nelyo," Maglor says. "You should go back to sleep."
Maedhros' sleep is haunted by past terror; he only dreams of endless mazes or dark corridors, burning fires, crooked shadows.
Maedhros looks at the thing wearing Maglor's skin, and expects it to fall apart.
Maglor stands up. He looks tired; Maedhros almost pities him.
He turns his head—Lieutenant always wants Maedhros to face him. Maglor sits on the chair near his bed. Maedhros closes his eyes.
Something bitter fills his chest; something much like hopelessness and despair.
"Káno," he says, voice barely a whisper. "Will you sing for me, dearest?"
...
"Káno," Maitimo whispers. "You are so cold."
Káno hums, not paying much attention. Maitimo's head is in Káno's lap; Káno plays with his hair. Maitimo shudders, presses closer.
"You are so far away," he whispers. "You should be closer to me."
"You are testing my patience, jewel," Káno says, tugging at his hair sharply. "Don't make me have to put you in place."
"You hate me," Maitimo sobs, and yelps when Káno strikes him, throws him out of the bed.
He curls up on the floor, sobbing. He made Káno hate him, and there is nothing now he can do.
...
To Maedhros' surprise, Maglor sings.
It almost puts him at ease. Maglor brings his harp; Maglor starts an old tune, which makes Maedhros' think of stars. His voice rolls quietly. The meaning of the words slips past Maedhros, but he thinks they must be beautiful.
He looks at Maglor. The flicker of the candle confuses him; Maglor's fingers change, his hair reddens, his eyes grow golden.
Maedhros shuts his eyes, grits his teeth. It hurts, hurts so much. Maybe he is dreaming still; maybe he will not see Lieutenants face again.
Káno sings, and Maedhros' eyes are wet with tears.
...
Káno hates him; still he allows Maitimo to sit at his feet.
Maitimo knows not whether it is mercy; whether he finds it a comfort, that Káno is still willing to see him. Maitimo does not deserve it; Maitimo deserves a cage, to be left to his misery.
There is a voice in his head, familiar and fresh like clean water is fresh, that tells him it is not so. Maitimo knows it is wrong, for the only kindness he deserves is pain and punishment, and Káno understands it well.
He sits at Káno's feet, and makes himself feel grateful.
...
"Nelyo," Káno says, "Nelyo."
Maedhros' head is in his lap, head cradled in his hands. Maedhros clings to him, despite himself, despite his tears, despite sobs tearing themselves from his throat. He is a wounded animal; a dying beast, and if Káno has any mercy he will bring a knife to his throat.
Or maybe Maedhros will bring both of them down, clawing at Maglor until the end; maybe the knife will go through both of their hearts; maybe they shall face darkness together, drown together, burn together.
"Nelyo," Káno calls, "Nelyo,"—and then he sings.
Maedhros falls, falls, falls.
#maedhros#sauron#maglor#silm fanfic#silm#tolkien#OWWWGH#OWGH OUGH OH NOOOO ;_;#this is ILLEGAL#PAIN SUFFERING
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NEW DRAWING! but this time is High King of the Noldor Fingon.🦅🏹
#fingon#silm fanart#silm#tolkien#OHHH I LOVE THIS FINGON#his expression!! the intensity in his eyes!!!#he looks so dauntless and heroic!!!!#<333333
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Ok but consider those “Maeglin Finds and Lives With The Feanorians” fics but Baby! Maeglin was taught all their names by badass “balls of steel” Aredhel, so he thinks their nicknames are their actual names.
So Maeglin, upon meeting the Lord of Himring, is timid and respectful but confidently calls Maedhros One-Handed, Famed Kinslayer, “Lord Neylo”.
#maeglin#maedhros#silm#tolkien#cw swearing#oh maedhros would MELT#he wouldn’t show it but on the inside. he would melt
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celebrimbor, son of curufin.
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i figured there wasn't a poll like this (or i just haven't seen it, oh well) sooo...
(there's a lot! please mention your faves if they aren't here)
btw an honorable mention goes to Nerdanel <3 (she's technically more of a sculptor but it's impossible not to include her in some way)
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Doppelganger Maglor pulling up to Rivendell and Elrond knows it isn't the real Maglor but goes along with it because finally, finally someone he's lost has come back to him.
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Notes on the Care of the Tormented, ed. Elrond Half-elven
Written for @silmarillionepistolary day 3!
Rating: T
Relationships: Maglor & Maedhros, Maglor & Elrond
Words: 4k
I have hesitated a long time over transcribing this old collection of documents, and having them bound together as a pamphlet; but the library at Imladris is well-understood to be the finest East of the Sea, and I do not wish to deprive it of any lore. A point of pride, perhaps. So I have had two copies made, one for our own collection and one for that of the library at Fornost Erain — for I would not have it said that the Eldar hoard their knowledge, and leave Men to labour in the dark.
The library at Amon Ereb was nothing to marvel at, but it was there, in the uneasy days of my youth, that I first came across these notes. They had been written by Maglor son of Fëanor at varying points over the course of the First Age, and were altogether a rather disorganised collection; but I found myself drawn to them the very first time I read them, for the care that had been taken in their composition, and in their preservation through defeat after defeat and flight after flight. Maglor was no healer, certainly not by the time I knew him: his hands had been bloodied too many times for that gift to have lingered, if ever he had it. But all the same, he paid great attention to the care of Maedhros his brother — there was no other Maedhros would permit to touch him, or speak to him when he had an episode.
It would have been easy to conclude that Maglor did it all on instinct, watching them. So I was struck, on first finding these notes, by how much of his practice he had documented. The sons of Fëanor were all diligent record-keepers — ironic, many would claim, considering how much lore was lost in Menegroth beneath their marauding swords, and again at the Havens of Sirion. But none of them seemed to trust to the infallible memories of the Eldar, judging by the contents of even that much-depleted library at Amon Ereb. Still at times I wondered for whom exactly Maglor had written the notes — I do not doubt that he referred to them often himself, but I could never make out whether he had had any other audience in mind. Did he imagine that Maedhros might survive him, and dwell with another? I know not.
[Keep reading on AO3]
#maglor#maedhros#elrond#silm fanfic#silm#tolkien#aaaaaaaaaaaa <33333#read this read this rEAD THIS!!!#yeah elrond there IS something deeply compelling abt that last document!!#also today i wore my hair in the style maglor describes in the fic#’tis a good style!!
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