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actual-bill-potts · 1 year

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I’ll second that Finrod’s hunting trip with Maedhros and Maglor ficlet ask, if that one resonated at all with you (if it didn’t, please just disregard this haha). I’d be really curious to see what you did with that!

Many thanks to you and @melestasflight for the wonderful prompt! This fic fought me every step of the way, but I'm at least reasonably happy with it, so I'm just going to go ahead and post it. I hope you enjoy!!

By the time he reached Himring, Finrod was weary to his bones.

He had set out from Nargothrond to visit Doriath; since being allowed back beyond the threshold of the fenced realm, he had made the journey as often as he could spare the time. He yet had hope that Thingol and his Queen could be softened towards the rest of the Noldor, and in any case his sister and her betrothed dwelt there, and he missed her company and wisdom dearly.

Often Finrod found nothing but peace and joy in the court of Doriath, for despite his grudge against the Noldor Thingol was kind and wise in the ways of the forest, Melian was generous with counsel and teaching, and their daughter Lúthien - now nearly full-grown - loved to hear about Nargothrond, and told him in return many merry stories of her latest escapades.

But this visit had brought dark tidings, and with it concern for his cousins in the North. It seemed that strange creatures had been sighted north and east of Doriath, and that some had managed to make it nearly past the Girdle by some yet-unknown sorcery. None knew what type of beast they were, exactly, only that several of the outermost marchwardens had been found with their throats torn out, and survivors with little memory of the events besides shining green eyes and a sense of dread.

"I recalled all of my guards immediately further within the Girdle, of course," Thingol had said, "for my lady wife assured me that nothing has passed fully through, and that they cannot match her power."

Finrod had made a bow towards Melian, but then said, "my King, would it not be worthwhile to take a company out beyond the Girdle, and hunt down these things? I myself would be more than happy to assist or even to lead the effort, if it would be of use - those beyond your borders may not yet be aware of the threat -"

Thingol’s face had darkened. "You will not lead any of the Sindar into danger!" he had snapped, before softening his tone. "You are valiant, nephew, and I do not fault your softness of heart - but beyond our realm are those who slaughtered my kin and burned the works of their hands. I will not spend the lives of my people in defense of such, when without loss we may remain in safety here. I advise you to do the same, until the danger is passed," he had added; but Finrod had refused as politely as he could, and left that day to ride to Himlad.

He was sick at heart, for if the knowledge of such danger to the Noldor who dwelt by his borders would not move Thingol, what would? He was reminded forcibly of the tensions of his childhood: Vanya in face, Noldo in body, followed by whispers no matter where he went; expected to laugh at Noldor gaudiness in Alqualondë and Telerin flightiness in Tirion. This was the same, but deadly serious, and he did not know how to resolve it; he had not been able to gracefully walk that line even in Aman, and now so many lives rode on his ability to do so here. Even Galadriel was no help, for she had thoroughly repudiated her Fëanorian cousins and advised him to do the same. She had been born late, long after everyone but the twins, and so did not have many memories to set against the terrible sight of blood on sand and distant flame. She had not grown up with Maglor as a merry third in her games; she had not gone running to Maedhros for advice or comfort; she had never seen the expression of mingled joy and desolation upon Finwë’s face when he looked at Celegorm, the child who in face and body was Míriel come to life.

Pursued by such dark thoughts, Finrod had made his way quickly to Himlad, where he found Celegorm and Curufin away at Amon Ereb. He had warned their seneschal of the tidings from Doriath, and without stopping had gone on to Himring. After all, if anyone would have an idea as to the identity of Morgoth’s new creatures, it would be Maedhros.

Now Finrod sat in the great keep of Himring with Maedhros and Maglor - who was, apparently, visiting; so social, the Fëanorians! - weary and heartsick.

"These are ill tidings, Cousin," Maglor said at last, "and we will arrange a hunt for these beasts as soon as we may. The power to nearly breach the Girdle: that is alarming indeed. For now, though, you should rest and eat. I’m sure Maedhros has a room prepared for you already; we sighted you several hours ago - Maedhros?"

Maedhros’ face was set, and his eyes were flaming. "Eyes of emerald, and terrible teeth…I know these beasts of yours, Cousin. They are nauror: gaurhothrim, it would be in Sindarin." He turned to Finrod, and Finrod nearly shrank back, so terrible was his expression. "He - Sauron - took fëar and forced them into the bodies of great starving wolves, with green eyes that screamed without sound. They had the power of untethered spirits, though they were bound to such terrible forms, and they could do - things -" he broke off, breathing heavily.

Maglor’s face was pale, but he asked, "Why then have we not encountered them long since?"

Maedhros laughed. It was not a happy sound. "They died, over and over. Fëar cannot escape Angband; but they revolted against their forms so wholly that the wolf-shapes were rent asunder, and the spirit left in tatters. Hardly useful. Sauron used to -" he pressed his lips together and did not continue.

"Then - these creatures are Eldar," Finrod said faintly.

"Aye. But slaying them will be no evil, if I am right," Maedhros said. "Death is the kindest gift in our power to offer."

He stood. "But my brother was right, earlier," he said, and it seemed that the great flame in his eyes was banked as he turned again to Finrod. The granite lines of his face softened near-imperceptibly. "You are weary, and I have had a room prepared. Go rest. You are welcome to join us in the great hall for dinner, or to send for a meal to your room, whichever seems best to you. I will leave at first light with my brother and a company of warriors. I advise you to delay your departure until our return, but if you must go, tell me and I will arrange for an escort."

"No - I wish to come with you!" Finrod protested. "I would not have my cousins ride into danger without me."

"Thingol’s reaction, should the King of Nargothrond fall in our company, does not bear thinking about," Maedhros said wryly. "It would not be wise."

Finrod set his jaw. "I can help," he said, and found he meant it. The thought of a spirit tethered so cruelly smote his heart. "I have learned much of songcraft from Melian the Maia: songs that can counter the necromancy of Sauron. Perhaps I can - at least ease the passing of these creatures."

"I sing, also," Maglor observed with a trace of humor, "and have faced the fruits of Sauron’s labors before, if in lesser bodies."

"Two voices will be better than one, surely," Finrod countered. He looked at Maedhros. "Please, allow me to accompany you."

Maedhros looked at him for a long moment. "Very well, Cousin," he said at last, "if only because I suspect it would be difficult to prevent you from following. You have the kindest heart of us all, I deem; and perhaps you will be able to do these nauror some mercy. I do not have it in me. We leave at dawn; be ready."

"If you find yourself too weary, do not come!" Maglor added. His sharp face was full of concern. "None will hold it against you."

"Thank you," Finrod said. He smiled at his cousins. "I will not let you down."

The next morning, refreshed in body if troubled in mind, Finrod rose before dawn and was ready in the courtyard when Maedhros and Maglor emerged. They were in light armor and leathers, as he was; and they were followed by a dozen grim-faced Elves.

Maedhros nodded at him; Maglor said, "Good morning!" and even offered a smile.

Finrod smiled back.

"I have procured a horse for you," Maglor said, gesturing to a beautiful roan he held beside the one he rode. "Your own horse needed more than a night of rest."

"Aye," Finrod agreed. "I thank you." He approached and stroked the mare’s nose. She whickered a greeting in return, and nosed his hair. "What is her name?"

"She is called Hirfindë," Maglor replied, laughing a little, "for as a filly she had a terrible habit of chewing on one’s tresses, no matter how tightly plaited."

Finrod looked down in some alarm; but Hirfindë was only sniffing, not chewing. "You have grown out of that habit, I trust?" he said aloud to her in amusement.

She whuffed, as if to say, of course.

There was a general rush of mounting and a flurry of orders from Maedhros; then the company passed through the great gate of Himring, going south and west towards Doriath.

The first day passed without event; Finrod strained all of his senses, but could not detect even a trace of the wrongness that signaled creations of their Enemy. By their expressions of frustration, Maedhros and Maglor did not have better luck. They did not stop that night, picking their way softly by the light of the stars; and by late afternoon of the second day they picked up a trail. The horses became nervous, shying at nothing; and sharp-eyed Maglor spotted the faint outline of a paw in the grass. But even without those signs, Finrod would have known that the creature was near. Despair was in the air. It was so thick he could nearly taste it, and had to set his will to prevent dark dreams from flashing before his waking eyes. I am sorry, he thought sadly to the creature, we will release you, if we can.

But despite the miasma that could be sensed by everyone in the party, the nauro - or nauror, Finrod supposed - proved elusive. The second day and night passed without success. Maedhros rode stone-faced at the head of their party, responding to Maglor’s tentative conversational sallies in monosyllables at best; Finrod tried to engage the rest of their party in conversation, but the other Elves were quiet and withdrawn, and in truth he himself found that talking sapped his energy more than he was accustomed to. The air felt heavy and filthy in his lungs.

But on the third day, they ran the creature to ground.

Maedhros was the first to spot it, of course: as the horizon faded from gold to blue at the start of the day, he sat forward suddenly and said: "There."

Finrod followed his gaze and caught the barest flash of grey bristle between trees.

"It will flee from us, I expect," Maedhros said, signaling for speed, "Its self-preservation instincts will be strong. We must run it to ground."

As he leaned forward to keep pace with his cousins, Finrod wondered for a moment why the creature was not stalking them in turn; then he remembered what Maedhros had said of the nauror in Himring, and felt abruptly sick. Doubtless any spirit successfully tethered in such a way would have had to be - warped, or changed, such that survival of the body became paramount over all other considerations. And indeed it continued to flee from them, until in the early afternoon they ran it to ground.

The first sign of such was Maedhros’ abrupt, "It is nearing the end of its strength; be wary." A short minute after, Finrod could sense it for himself: a thickening of the poison in the air, a sudden sense of weariness that dragged at his limbs. There was a stench, too, so close. Old sweat, rotting meat, traces of filth: the scent of a creature that did not wash itself, and cared for nothing but its own ravenous hunger.

Mingled pity and revulsion welled up in Finrod’s breast; he felt nauseous. By their expressions, Maedhros and Maglor’s chosen hunters were not doing much better. Maedhros and Maglor themselves were twin walls of impassivity, though if Finrod looked closely he could see faint lines of worry about Maglor’s mouth.

Following the smell, the sound of the nauro could be heard: it was crashing through underbrush, growling low in its throat.

As one, the hunters drew their bows. Maglor in the lead dropped back to Finrod, for their role would be as Singers only. Finrod tensed, every nerve alight with anticipation as he scanned the brush for the source of the heaving breathless growl - there! A flash of green in the shadows! - a hail of arrows whistled through the air and the terrible eyes winked out for a moment - then suddenly the Wolf with three arrows in its throat leaped upon Maedhros with a terrible gurgling roar. Elf and nauro rolled together from Maedhros’ horse, landing heavily upon the ground. Maedhros had his dagger out and was slashing grimly at the Wolf’s head with his left arm; his stump was driven into the nauro’s neck, forcing its jaws backwards. The creature was tearing up great clods of earth with its claws in its frenzy to get to Maedhros; the hunters had swords in hand and were approaching with faces set.

"Hold!" Maglor cried suddenly from behind, a clarion that filled Finrod’s ears and slowed everyone for a moment, even the Wolf, "I will Sing! Hold!"

He began a Song of sleep, which dragged Finrod’s eyelids down despite the warning. With an effort he shook himself and saw the archers about him doing the same. Only Maedhros seemed unaffected, grimly holding the Wolf off. Its struggles slowed slightly as Maglor sang, and Maedhros flipped it onto its back and plunged his dagger into its head.

Still it would not die, though it was bleeding from half-a-dozen arrow wounds and should have been killed instantly at Maedhros’ last blow. It whined once, short and sharp, and flung itself again onto Maedhros.

Watching it, Finrod felt sorrow well up in his throat. He thought of the Quendi who had loved their freedom under the stars, and found as their reward servitude without end to a cruel master. A song came unbidden to his lips: a song of traps broken, chains wrenched apart, the empty shackle upon Thangorodrim. After a moment he heard Maglor’s voice join with his own, deeper and more resonant.

The Wolf stood stock-still, panting terribly, its blood dripping to the ground; then as Finrod kept singing with Maglor, it wavered visibly and finally lowered to the ground. It was breathing heavily now, the sounds of an animal wounded to the death. For a moment it seemed to Finrod as if the nauro had two sets of eyes, one green and one silver; the green wolf-eyes were confused and terribly hungry, the silver eyes heavy with sadness and a relief so profound it was almost a pain of its own.

As they dimmed, both terrible eyes met his, and suddenly it seemed to Finrod that the Wolf spoke with a voice of spirit: well-met, master of illusions. Your teeth are sharp and your nails long. I thank you, freedom-bringer; and I am sorry.

Finrod blinked - master of illusions? - and suddenly in the time between one blink and the next he Saw -

eyes that were weary as the Eldar were never weary, looking into his own with love that seemed rooted in the very earth -

laughing beside a fire, with the owner of those selfsame eyes, the giggles and shrieks of children at play in the background: so many children! He had never seen so many even in Aman -

nut-brown locks and a bitter mouth, spitting wisdom angrily -

The same bitter mouth, now framed by white hair, hurling insults with fondness behind them -

Mud in his hair and his ears, caking his clothes, deep spreading pain in his shoulder and wetness following, creeping dread chased away by the low sound of horns that were familiar yet strange -

Dark stone, and chains, and green eyes that glittered feverishly in the dark, and his head resting on wasted legs as the breath whistled strangely from his chest -

Finrod came back to himself with a ragged gasp. He felt a shift in the air, a barrier melting away, and there was only a dead animal on the ground.

He had to go East. He felt it, the call of the vision. It could not be gainsaid, terrible as it was - and the love in those old-young eyes - and so many children -

Maedhros picked himself up off the ground and approached. "My thanks, Cousin!" he said, almost smiling. "Your skill with Song has grown greatly since last I heard you."

Finrod inclined his head and smiled in return. "Thank you for allowing me to accompany you," he said warmly. "But I fear I must depart."

"So soon!" Maglor exclaimed. "Why? There may be more of those creatures roaming about, and you must let us treat you to a full supper back at Himring -"

"Maglor makes very free with my hospitality," Maedhros interjected, "but he is quite right about the danger, and about the dinner too. What is the matter?"

"You needn’t worry," Finrod said almost gaily, "But no gaurhoth shall touch me yet. It is not my fate. I must go East," he added more soberly. "I have Seen it."

His cousins continued to protest; but he held firm, and at the last they yielded and sent him on his way with his borrowed mare, all the provisions they could spare, and kind words aplenty. He directed Hirfindë due East, and gave her her head.

Out in the open, wind against his face, cousins receding rapidly into the background, he was not sure whether to laugh or cry. Such a fate - such a fate! The joy - the love - the children! Not his own, but they loved him, and he them: he had felt it.

But no light at the last! It was terrible. Could anything be worth the creeping hopelessness he had felt, in the last seconds of the vision? He could turn around, go back to his cousins, leave Fate alone in the East. Perhaps she would not call a second time, and he could go forth in hope to an unknown ending.

But those eyes! He had never seen anything like those eyes! And the children!

"I will go, Hirfindë," he said aloud. "I cannot do otherwise."

As he rode towards Ossiriand, he thought he heard snatches of song on the wind: too deep to be Elvish, too fair to be Orcish, in a tongue he did not know. Who was singing? Such joy, in the bitter East!

He raised his own voice in answer.

#finrod #balan (in spirit)#maedhros #maglor #thingol #my writing #silm fic #the silmarillion #ok so I am aware this is like. comically different from the typical interpretation of their hunt #but like #personally I can’t see Maedhros the hypervigilant and paranoid going on a chill outing with his cousin #no matter how many years of peace they’d had #also me writing any fic abt finrod: how can I make this secretly abt bëor

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waitingforsecretsouls · 6 months

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While the primary view of Maedhros fathername seems to be that it's a dig at Fingolfin, this ignores how the succession is very much not in question until the Valar get involved to banish the heir and the current king goes with him into exile (not to mention that it's exactly this position of Fëanor's which motivates Fingolfin's side of the jealousy). It's not spite to name Maedhros after his legitimate place in the succession. What's more, I find it very likely that, like Fëanor, his fathername might have initially been simply Finwë-the same as Finwë and Fëanor's own fathername ere it was modified later, making "Finwë third" an explicit acknowledgment of the threadline between Finwë, Fëanor and Maedhros that often gets reserved for the Fëanor-Curufin-Celebrimbor triumvirate-and only later changed to Nelyafinwë. But regardless it's still primary a connection to Fëanor's initial fathername and Finwë's name and the commonality between them (the line of succession as well as, I dare say, love and respect).

#silm #maedhros #i know I'm likely not the first to say this but it does irk me #not to start on the same old rant again but not everything the Fëeanorians do is about the Nolofinwëans actually #it's a cute name showing both Fëanor's love for his father as well as pride in the family lineage #the first grandchild and 3rd generation Finwëan!#the Fëanorians as a whole are cute with names #getting the only canonical nicknames (aside from the concept of epessë depending on how you view it)#(given that they otherwise preferred their mn's it's difficult to see another reason for shortforms of their fn's to exist)#and mockingly giving Finrod his famous Felagund (“Mr. badger”) moniker #They DO have that elvish tralala~ factor they DO! Even if it can be a bit mean-spirited...#also speaking to the strength of their friendship with the Dwarves that their nickname got transmitted over them #meaning they definitely used it to talk about Finrod behind his back lol

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meadowlarkx · 10 months

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Finrod/Sauron and 28 (as a lie) for the kiss meme?

Finrod woke in the darkness and found Edrahil near him. His eyes were accustomed to the gloom of the pit now, and he surveyed their surroundings as he tested, with his spirit, the strength of his remaining enchantments. There seemed no imminent danger, no wolf-like growling and snuffling. The dim shapes of his companions were still, but their breathing was steady. So Finrod turned his attention on Edrahil and let himself take his hand.

His friend looked barely hurt. He glowed against the ceaseless night of the pit. An indescribable emotion surged in Finrod's chest like the tide. What regret, to have led such a friend here to die. What joy, to find him a faithful friend, nonetheless, and wonderful.

"I can only thank you," he said softly. "I have no heart yet to say sorry."

Edrahil nodded, and looked on him seriously. "Our errand…"

His voice was more musical than Finrod expected to hear it. Perhaps after days of Orc-speech and wolf-growls the familiar grew sweeter.

Finrod raised his hand and kissed the knuckles, dragging both of their shackles with the motion. "Speak not of it."

“As you command, my lord.”

Was that pause—assessing?

Finrod sighed, frustrated. His mind was playing tricks on him, making him distrustful of an Elf-captain he knew like his own soul. Edrahil would not give them up to Gorthaur’s listening ears; he was more pragmatic and tactically-minded than Finrod himself. “I should command far less, I think.”

“You may command me always,” said his friend’s sweet voice. “Long have I loved you.” He kissed Finrod with the ephemeral caress of a flickering flame.

#it's that vine... sauron!edrahil: girl / finrod: go on say my name / sauron: GIRL....#i hope you like this! my messy series is finrod seducing sauron (more or less . in spirit) so i thought i'd explore another scenario here!#finrod #sauron #my fic #silmarillion fic #silmarillion #aipilosse #mairon #finrod x sauron #gorthaur #too many names to tag #kiss meme #finrod sauron au #(a different one ...)

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woe-begotten-spirit · 1 month

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now the countless jewels of the Nauglamír did reflect and cast abroad in marvellous hues the light of the Silmaril amidmost

#thingol #laof (laughing as one fey)#silmarillion #silm shitpost #jirt #nauglamir #finrod #woe-begotten-spirit

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arinele · 1 year

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Silm ATLA/Benders AU

Vanyar: air benders.

Elenwe is an air bender.

Noldor: fire benders, minority earth benders

The minority earth benders aren’t really treated any differently than the fire benders. Non benders, on the other hand, have to fight to prove themselves worthy of respect. This sentiment towards non benders is unfortunately echoed throughout all elven society, though it is strongest amongst the Noldor.

Finwe and Miriel are both fire benders.

Indis is a non bender.

Feanor is a fire bender, of course. He discovers “light bending.”

Nerdanel is a fire bender, but her mother is an earth bender. Mahtan is a fire bender.

Maedhros is a master fire bender.

Maglor is a fire bender and a lightning bender.

Celegorm and Curufin are fire benders.

Caranthir is a non bender.

Amrod and Amras are earth benders.

Fingolfin is a master fire bender, and a lightning bender.

Anairë is an earth bender and so is Turgon.

Fingon is a lightning bender.

Teleri: water benders, minority earth benders

They’re probably the least critical of non benders. They don’t really mind earth benders either.

Finarfin is a non bender. He asked his parents if he could study abroad in Alqualonde the moment he came of age.

Earwen is a water bender and so are Finrod and Galadriel.

Galadriel (and maybe Finrod too idk) is a blood bender.

Falmari: water benders

Cirdan is a water bender

Sindar: earth benders, minority water benders

The water benders are mostly amongst the nobility and upper class.

Earth benders are the vast majority. They aren’t outright discriminated against or anything, but Elu Thingol definitely has bit of nepotism going on.

Speaking of Elu Thingol, he’s a water bender and so are most of his family in Doraith. Melian is an Earth Spirit.

Nandor: earth benders, minority fire benders

The minority fire benders are the “bad” Avari we hear about in the Silmarillion but never see. They have a bad reputation because of members like Eol, but not all of them are bad. (Eol is kin of Elu Thingol if I remember correctly, so wouldn’t he actually be a water bender?)

Silvan: earth benders

Most of the Avari fire benders are dead by the time the second era rolls around.

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cambion-companion · 1 year

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Hugging the Elves (blorbos)

Elrond ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Elrond is a healer, of both body and heart. His home of Rivendell is where those blessed enough to gain entry find refuge for their spirit. Elrond would hug like a father comforting his child, he would wrap you into a secure embrace. He smells like familiar spices and fresh warm cloth as you bury your head against his shoulder. The long sleeves of his robes wrap around your body and offer solace under their weight. He will smile down at you gently, a fond crinkling around his eyes full of wisdom and starlight.

Glorfindel

Sunshine incarnate, Glorfindel's hugs are enthusiastic and don't be surprised if he lifts you into his arms and twirls you around once or twice, especially if he has been on errantry and not seen you for a while. His long golden hair would get in both your faces and he would laugh, bell-like, as he gently brushes it away. He smells of a fresh summer breeze carrying the light scents of flowers and evergreen trees as you press your cheek to his chest. I also see him as being fond of taking your face in his hands, enjoying looking into your eyes and reading your emotions there. When you are in need of comfort be assured Glorfindel will always be ready to offer you a warm embrace as you bask in his glowing presence. His very touch is enough to chase away any creeping darkness from your mind. (yes I am madly in love with him can you not tell)

Arwen

Arwen doesn't hug very many people, so when she opens her arms to you it is a gift indeed. She smells of lilac and midsummer nights spent by the lake under the stars. Her hair is as soft as goose-down and the gossamer of her sleeves slips between your fingers. She holds the back of your head lightly as you lean against her, closing your eyes and enjoying the feel of her chin tucked against your head. Arwen will also peer into your eyes, as they are windows to your soul, and give you a soft understanding smile before engaging you in light conversation and laughter.

Thranduil

(as a brief aside, I do not at all like the characterization of Thranduil in the movies as they turned him into King Thingol of Doriath who is much different in temperament. thus, this will be based on his book self)

Thranduil is regal and guarded, yet he has a warmth about him you have grown accustomed to receiving from the Elves. Like Arwen he does not embrace others readily, but will receive your affection with a broad smile and happy chuckle. His hands placed securely on your upper back as you lean against him, breathing in his scent of juniper berries and pine. This hug will be brief but meaningful and leave you feeling elated and refreshed. He will then invite you to dine with them and perhaps accompany his folk into the forest to dance and frolic to the sound of harpists and singing.

Legolas

Legolas is full of laughter and wit and will accept your hug with joy, squeezing you tight against him as he ruffles your hair about in an affectionate manner. You bury your face into the crook of his neck and inhale the smell of leather and woodsmoke. He will hold you against him for as long as you wish, even rocking you side to side if you remain in his arms for long. When you do pull away Legolas will grasp your forearms and beam at you, making a witty comment, his countenance brightening when you laugh.

Finrod

(Yes, I have to include this golden boy)

The first among Elves to befriend humans, even the first to see them, Finrod has a special place in his heart for his mortal friends. He loves giving and receiving hugs and will wrap you in his arms readily and with reverence. His golden hair tickles your face and he laughs, looking down at you as you scrunch your nose at the sensation. Finrod smells of the ocean winds that form the waves and the carpet of moss that covers forest floors. He is Valinor mixed with Middle Earth, belonging to both and yet neither. There is a sadness to his grip as he brushes a stray hair from your face after you pull away. But as ever with his kin the sadness in his eyes swiftly turns over to mirth and he takes your hand before pulling you along with him to your next adventure.

let me know who else I should write these for!

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elfy-elf-imagines · 9 months

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▹ Masterlist .ೃ࿐

☾ Prompt List | Askbox ☽

Legolas:

- Elven Instinct - Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind - Epiphany - Courting a Human (Headcanons) - Fear of the Future - Adventurer from Earth (Headcanons) - First Kiss

Maedhros:

- Out of the Woods - Don’t Leave Me - Don’t Care If You Leave - Stop Pretending - Jealous - Light in the Dark - Jealous Headcanons

Finrod:

- I’m pregnant - You Come and Wake Me Up at 4am, To Cuddle - Finrod x Pregnant!reader (Headcanons) - Used to Be Mine | Part 2 - Choose Me

Thranduil:

- Tolerate It - To Meet Under the Stars - In the Fields of Poppy - Same Spirit, Different Body - Too Late - Begin Again

Meludir:

- Don’t Cry - Small Surprises - You Wake Me Up to Cuddle

Elladan:

- Champagne Problems | Part 2

Glorfindel:

- Lovely to be Rained on with You - Is that my Shirt? (Drabble) - Not so Hopeless (Drabble) - You’re Mine and I Don’t Share (Drabble) - To Lose is to Die

Haldir:

- Please Don’t Cry. I Can’t Stand to See You Cry (Drabble) - Stop Biting that Fucking Lip (Drabble) - Meeting Haldir (Headcanons) - Rewrite the Stars

Lindir:

- Being in Love (Headcanons) - The Fickleness of Mortals - Return to Me | Part 2

Orophin:

- General Headcanons - Bite Me - Cruel Summer

Erestor:

- High Fever

#lord of the rings imagine #lotr #tolkien #middle earth imagines #lord of the rings #lord of the rings oneshot #lotr imagine #legolas x reader #legolas imagine #glorfindel x reader #glorfindel imagine #erestor imagine #orophin imagine #lindir imagine #haldir imagines #elladan imagine #thranduil x reader

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havenotwillnotreadthebooks · 6 months

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Ok but consider; The Valar lie about Maglor being in Mandos.

So let's say Maglor is in middle-earth getting therapy Hobbit-Style. He’s living his best life in The Shire healing from his trauma.

But on the other side of that damn ocean, his concerned, reembodied family (minus Feanor, stubborn ass spirit of fire) are told that he is healing in Mandos. The Valar are thinking it’s fiiiine because he is healing and will probably come to Valinor eventually, right? So what’s the harm?

Meanwhile, the reembodied Sons of Feanor are getting suspicious, and Finrod keeps looking at Maedhros with his “I Know Something They Don’t” look (Maedhros knows every look on his baby cousins’ faces. He babysat every finwean child until Maeglin was begotten. Maedhros Can Tell Something Is Afoot.)

A brief interlude for @dreamingthroughthenoise and @cuarthol ‘s joint Finrod Headcanon; whereas Finrod is the one who created the Sea Longing via trying to get Maglor to come home. Read more about that at your own delight.

Interlude over; So The Valar starts to Sweat because now people are asking questions Galadriel is whispering schemes to her brothers and Finrod is whispering right back (Orodreth is stuck between them happily, the sap). Then the Arafinweans start scheming with the Feanorians and you know the Nolofinweans (*cough* Fingon & Aredhel *cough*) are gonna go kicking down doors to invite themselves into The Scheming.

Before long, the entire finwean fam is Scheming and playing the “I’m sleeping over at the Feanorians’ house” and “I’m sleeping over at the Nolofinweans’ house” game with their parents (Except the Arafinweans, whose parents have long since given up trying to keep track of their children).

Anyway at the end of it all, even Ulmo is in on The Scheming, which helps when the finweans go on a treasure hunt for their last family member in Middle-Earth. The hobbits throw a huge goodbye party. Gandalf is there.

#tag.words #maglor #finweans #finrod #Maedhros #hobbit healing #silm headcanons #in honor of those Maglor Lives In The Shire fics #valar #sons of feanor

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potatoobsessed999 · 6 months

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Finrod Felagund. "Philosophic discourse regarding the enmity of Orcs with Elves." The Philosophy of Finrod Felagund. 2nd ed., edited and translated by Vardamir Nólimon, Armenelos, S.A. 130.

[Ed. note: Private papers of Finrod Felagund. Written in his own hand. Dated to the season of Firith in the year 455, shortly before the Dagor Bragollach.]

Fact: According to the lore of our people from the days of Cuiviénen, the Enemy fashioned Orc-kind by his torture and slow corruption of Elven captives.

Question: How did our people learn this lore? Can it be that any ever escaped from the depths of Utumno to serve as witness?

Fact: In the lore we got of the Valar there is to my knowledge no teaching regarding the origins of Orc-kind.

Conjecture: It may be that our lore is not reliable on this point.

Fact: There are a few among us who dwelt at Cuiviénen, and others of their number abide yet in Aman; none of them have to my knowledge disputed the accuracy of our lore on this matter.

Fact: The fëar of Elves and Men have their differences from one another, but none so fundamental as the distinction between the fëar of the Eruhíni and the spirits of the non-speaking creatures. The spirits of non-speaking creatures cannot properly be called fëar, as the distinction in question is one of kind and not of degree. (Indeed fëar cannot be spoken of at all in terms of degree or size, as each fëa is itself indivisible.)

Fact: The lore we got of the Valar tells us that the fëa cannot be destroyed by any means.

Fact: Also of that lore, we know that the Enemy cannot truly create, only twist in mockery what has been created.

Fact: Also of that lore, we know that the Dwarves have their fëar of Ilúvatar alone, and not of Aulë. Before the granting of their fëar they could not speak, nor had they any will of their own, but could only obey the will of Aulë.

Fact: Orcs speak, and there is sense behind their words.

[continued on Ao3]

#finrod #finrod felagund #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silm #silmarillion #the silmarillion #tolkien #tolkien fanfic #tolkien fanfiction #my writing #my fic #in which finrod is a NERD and also a very good heart #in-universe philosophy as angst is after all his Thing (as well as andreth’s)#finrod is my son and i give him my orc emotions. i do this because i love him

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lamemaster · 20 days

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The Curse of Bloodlines (Epilogue 😔)

Request: For the annon who sends me this request every day. You know who you are and you have my respect fellow gremlin.

Pairing: Thranduil x Reader

AN: I never wanted to write this. But alas for those who cannot live without a happy ending go thrive. Please no more requests for this AU after this.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Epilogue |

"Atyo!" You peel Celegorm's hands off Thranduil's throat. At once your uncles are at the task of taking him to another room as you follow them. Not daring to look back at him. Too scared that you might not be able to leave if you do.

Perhaps it was the fear of finding the same disdained look you had witnessed in Arda. The fear of being subjected to it had left your eyes anywhere but, Thranduil.

So you focus all your attention on your father, who almost escapes the grasp of 4 of his brothers, including Uncle Maedhros, who towered over the majority in Valinor.

"Ata, not now," your voice cuts through the din, surprisingly firm despite the tremor in your heart. Your father's face contorted in a snarl, but something in your voice, perhaps the raw emotion, caused him to pause.

"Let me go!" he roared, his voice thick with fury. "I won't be mocked by that… that…" he trailed off, his tongue failing him to find an insult that wouldn't ignite another confrontation.

You shake your head and lead him out. "Let's leave. Grandfather is waiting."

You clenched your jaw, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. This meeting, the one you'd dreaded since your days in the Halls of Mandos, had been a disaster. And the worst part? It was just the beginning.

Meeting your father was something you had wished for forever. An unfulfilled yearning you grew up with. The same yearning Legolas grew up with. Absence of a bond that made the entirety of an existence.

Settling in his arms was a comfort unknown to you in life. Death had been kinder in many ways.

The agony of right and wrong seared on both you and your father. Ignorance of the bond that is most priced above any other. Blood that had cost you the love of your husband and the chance to watch your son grow.

But things that once shredded your heart into pieces now were distant worries. The sting of betrayal and the ache of lost years paled in comparison to the warmth of your father's embrace. His tearful apologies, whispered promises of redemption, were a balm to your wounded soul.

You met then, your uncles, your grandfather, your great-grandfather, An entire clan doomed in the halls of death. And so the task of stitching back together the House of Finwe began.

From uncountable days spent sharing stories by the pillar of your Grandfather, Feanor's firey pillar, to bringing along the souls of your troubled cousins Aegnor and Maeglin. Finweans started healing.

And you became the princess of Noldor. A title that came with a hefty price.

Legolas' friendship with Finrod wasn't a surprise. Both, you realized, carried the weight of a love lost to time – a grief you could never fully understand or soothe.

Legolas, however, found solace elsewhere. Celebrimbor, with his gentle spirit, became his closest confidante. He regaled Amrod and Amras with tales of Middle-earth, earning their playful grumbles about being called "grandfathers." Feanor, a name whispered in legends, became a complex figure he learned about through stories and perhaps, even fleeting glimpses of him to and from the forge.

Your interactions with Legolas were tentative at first. You were a stranger to him, a face from stories whispered in hushed tones. He longed to know the woman who carried him.

Awkward silences hung heavy in the air, punctuated by whispered stories of his life in Greenwood. He spoke of Thranduil with respect, but a flicker of sadness lingered in his eyes. He spoke of a man named Estel, a human who had become a dear friend, a story that filled you with bittersweet joy.

Then came the inevitable – a meeting with Master Gimli. Their shared tales of their unlikely friendship brought laughter to the once desolate House of Feanor.

Finally, after much coaxing, you managed to convince Legolas to attend Oropher's feast. You knew a march to invite the entire Noldorian royal family was a tad excessive, even by his standards.

Noldor marching was almost always was a perilous idea.

"Apply this twice a day," you mutter, handing him the small vial. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to meet his gaze. "For the bruises," you clarified, pointing to the dark marks of your father's grip on his throat.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, then settled into a mask of stoicism. His eyes, those same eyes that once held the warmth of a thousand sunrises, seemed distant, etched with the weight of untold ages. They held an emotion you couldn't quite define - a far cry from the hatred that burned in them during your last moments together.

His hand brushed against yours as he reached for the vial, sending a jolt through you. The grief that had settled between you, heavy and suffocating, felt like a tangible presence in the air.

"I apologize for my father," you began, your voice barely a whisper. "He is…"

"Troubled," he finished the sentence, his voice surprisingly gentle. "As are we all."

A heavy silence descended upon you once more. He spoke, breaking the quietude, his voice laced with a weary resignation. "I do not know what penance I shall bear to ever right the wrongs I have committed. I have searched for ages, scouring the world, but I cannot find a path back to the past I crave."

"I do not know what repentance I shall bear to ever right the wrongs I have committed," he continued, his voice barely above a murmur. "This yearning for what we once had consumes me, yet I detest it, for I do not believe I am worthy of it." His voice cracked, and for a moment, the once proud king you knew of was now stripped bare, revealing an elf consumed by regret.

The air around you seemed to crackle with unspoken apologies and unspoken yearning. You gathered your courage, forcing the words from your lips. "I do not know much of right or wrong," you began, your voice surprisingly steady. "Neither do I understand the intricacies of penance or forgiveness. Yet, from all I have learned in this strange realm, one thing resonates."

He averted his gaze, his back turned to you, his broad shoulders slumped in defeat. All the air seemed to have been sucked from the room, leaving a hollow ache in your chest.

Your mind raced, searching for the right words. "No act is set in stone. No grievance can hold its power over the relentless march of time. My kin, they wronged many, yet even they found a measure of peace." You thought of your uncles, of your father, finally released from the burdens of their choices.

"They were able to return to the light of Aman because they allowed themselves to seek forgiveness," you continued. "Beyond mine or Legolas', it is your own that you require the most." You reached out then, your fingers brushing against his cheek.

"We have all the time in the world." You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a whisper of a kiss. A flawed marriage, a flawed separation, and a flawed reunion, yet, nothing had managed to make it any less sweeter.

#the hobbit #the silmarillion #tolkien elves #noldor #thranduil x reader #Feanorian reader #celegorm #angst #middle earth #thranduil x wife #thranduil #Istg I will not write this ever again

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actual-bill-potts · 10 months

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A thought about the Halls of Mandos. What is finrod famous for, above anything else? His friendships with and love for mortals. What kind of love must that cultivate, by necessity? A love that can let go. A spirit that can give up the old and welcome the new.

What was Fëanor’s fatal flaw? Same as Anakin’s: he can’t let go. Of his mother, of his father, of his resentments, of his children. He cannot bear to lose anybody. And Fingolfin cannot bear to lose Fëanor.

Anyway the halls of Mandos are a literal rebirth, a letting-go: one must be willing to give up all one’s old scars, all one’s old hurts, the map that life has left on your body, the resentments that war has left on your spirit, and that is why Finrod was able to shed his old skin and don the new, and why Fëanor will wait in the Halls until the breaking of the world.

#finrod #feanor #Mandos #silm meta #queuenta silmarillion

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searchingforserendipity25 · 3 months

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i will lead not my people into ruin assured, arafinwë spat.

his brothers's eyes were on him, united as never they had been before; but well he could see how thin the thread was that bound them. betrayal námo had prophetized, and grief unbearable, certain diminishment.

you mean truly the turn the hands of your vassals into dishonour greater than the one we have cast upon ourselves already? shame be upon the ill-use of bonds, and oaths, and love! if any among you were worthy of being called princes among our people, you would go no further.

his children went regardless. it was a sorry thing, to know he had sired and taught no true princes after all. some among their followers had wished to go regardless - but there was no need that they should have such a plenty of lords to do it for!

the ones who remained clung to arafinwë, well after his ascension. valar-named, he was king assuredly, a bitter office and unwished for; but his people clung to him. he could not release them from their own deeds, not the duty they bore to the teleri - but he could sit with them in sharing fashion, and be as guilty and angry and mournful as they were.

finwë would not have ruled so, but finwë was dead. fëanáro most assuredly would not have sat himself kneeling on the floor in humility before his wife, or accepted insults in his court's throne chambers - but fëanáro was ash bourne away in a foreign wind, and it was arafinwë among his kin who knew how to do patient work, hard work.

nolofinwë ought to have inherited these tasks. but in the end he loved his pride and his courage and his wrath the better than his city. in a small and rueful way, arafinwë was glad; his brother had given too much of himself to it already, as a prince dutiful and resented. it would have spent him of his powers to do it crowned.

arafinwë did it himself. through the darkening, when he made certain none starved more than others, and all those failing in body and spirit were attended; and the long ages under the moon and sun afterwards.

first of all the returned exiles was his own firstborn son, half-penitent and largely altered, in love with the land across the sea. as far as due payments were, it was less than the valar might have given.

the sloughing cold of araman bit his throat. arafinwë sat beside finrod, and embraced him, and raised him up; he heard the rushing of the waves, uinen's wrath, and the dead dark greater than the darkness where námo's words rang still.

where the fairness, where the mercy? he did not rail his wrath that one son was too little, and did not weep for all the childless parents that dwell in fair tirion - but they were his people, and he felt their grief as his own. he had held all their hands, he knew the names of all those who had abandoned their land in his brothers's trains.

he embraced his son, stroked his tresses, let himself be a bulwark against his tears. a king he was, the best among his people. to him it was to make fairness, if it was hard to find. hard work, patient work. it never did grow lighter.

#arafinwe #finarfin #finrod #silm fic #my fics #tolkie fanfiction #tolkien

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emyn-arnens · 6 months

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In Due Time

Celebrían/Elrond | G | ~800 words | @nolofinweanweek | AO3

Celebrían, pale in the light of the silver lanterns that hung about their bedchamber, sat silent before Elrond as he treated her wounds. Ever since she had been brought back to Imladris, she had seemed to him ghostly and ephemeral, as if at any moment she might disappear from beneath his hands.

As he smoothed a salve over her lingering wounds, Celebrían made no response, neither crying out in pain nor flinching from his touch. Few of her wounds now remained; most of the wounds that had scored her body had faded to red, puckered scars that ran down her back and limbs like knotted ropes. Those he rubbed a different salve on, one to fade their color and lessen their knotted appearance. His movements as he worked were slow and gentle, soothing.

Celebrían had said little of what had happened to her in the dark dens of the Orcs, but the wounds upon her body and the instruments of torture that Elladan and Elrohir had found when they had hunted down the last remaining Orcs and driven them back to their dens had told the story of her suffering well enough. Her silence had said the rest.

Would that it had been him instead of her who had suffered at the cruel hands of the Orcs.

Elrond brushed Celebrían’s hair, limp and lank, away from her shoulders, tracing the lighter scars that netted her shoulders. These he did not treat; they would fade in time, for the wounds had been shallow.

Time. Every day he felt as if he had less of it, as if their days together were drawing to an end, as surely as winter nipped and howled at the heels of autumn. She would not stay here. Every day he grew more certain of that.

He brushed his thumb over a light scar, then bent and softly kissed her shoulder. Celebrían made no response.

Closing his eyes, Elrond pressed his forehead against the crook of her neck and wrapped his arms around her waist, wishing that if he held her tight enough, she might stay.

If only he could mend hearts and spirits as well as he could mend skin and bone. If only he could reach her and draw her back from the dark places she now walked in her mind.

If only his love were enough.

A tear fell upon his arms, then another, and then another. Elrond wrapped Celebrían tighter in his embrace.

He held her long into the night.

— — —

They were alone at last.

It was now the late watches of the night, for Elrond’s arrival upon the shores of Tol Eressëa had heralded a flurry of long-anticipated reunions and first meetings that had lasted well into the night. So, too, had Galadriel, Mithrandir, and the Ringbearers been greeted with exultation. Avalloné had not seen such gladness and merriment for many long years of the sun, or so Celebrían had told Elrond. He thought perhaps she was exaggerating for his benefit.

Tilion now rode high in the sky, and his silver light fell upon their bed as Celebrían sat before Elrond, her hair pulled over her shoulder as he undid the laces of her gown. His fingers were clumsier at the task than they had once been, having forgotten the motions in their long years apart, but Celebrían sat patiently before him nonetheless.

Elrond slid the gown from her shoulders. The faint scars upon her back gleamed silver in the pale light of their room. He brushed his fingertips over her skin, marvelling. No longer was her skin knotted into red ropes. In their places were faint silver lines, smooth to the touch.

“They are no more,” she said, and Elrond heard the smile in her voice. “I asked Finrod for a salve,” she continued. “He told me that he had lessened his own scars with the use of one, and I thought that I might use it upon mine. It was not as effective as the one you made for me, but it worked well, and the power of this land aided it.”

Elrond smiled softly at her praise. “You have met Finrod?”

“He is even kinder than the old tales said.”

Elrond bent to kiss her shoulder. “You must introduce me,” he murmured.

Celebrían reached up and twisted her hand in his hair, holding him against her. “In due time,” she said.

He hummed against her skin and pressed a kiss to her neck, lingering. “Yes, in due time.”

Celebrían turned her head, smiling, and met his lips with hers.

#nolofinweanweek2023 #nolofinweanweek #the silmarillion #lotr #elrond #celebrian #fotfics #my fic #i wouldn't be me if i weren't late to a fandom event

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warrioreowynofrohan · 3 months

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Silmarillion Daily - Of the Finding of the Elves

This was one that struck me hard on the reread, because the parallels between Oromë encountering the Elves for the first time, and Finrod encountering Men for the first time in Beleriand, are so strong.

In both cases, they come upon them while hunting, on the edge of the eastern mountains, when they hear them singing:

And on a time it chanced that Oromë rode eastward in his hunting, and he turned north by the shore of Helcar and passed under the shadows of the Orocarni, the Mountains of the East. Then on a sudden Nahar set up a great neighing, and stood still. And Oromë wondered and sat silent, and it seemed to him that in the quiet of the land under the stars he heard afar off many voices singing.

Finrod Felagund lord of Nargothrond journeyed east of Sirion and went hunting with Maglor amd Maedhros…In a valley among the foothills of the mountains, below the springs of Thalos, [Finrod] saw lights in the mountains, and far off he heard the sound of song.

In both cases they see these new people and love them not in spire of, but because of, the fact that they are different from themselves:

And Oromë looking upon the Elves was filled with wonder, as though they were beings sudden and marvellous and unforeseen…And Oromë loved the Quendi, and named them in their own tongue Eldar, the people of the stars.

Then Felagund, standing silent in the night-shadow of the trees, looked down into the camp, and there he beheld a strange people…Long Felagund watched them, and love for them stirred in his heart.

Here is where things diverge - and I think this is very intentional on Finrod’s part. He grew up among the Valar. He would have heard the story of Oromë first encountering the Elves hundreds of times, and he’s suddenly found himself in a parallel situation. And he would remember from the story how so e Elves reacted when Oromë, a Vala, suddenly appeared among them:

Yet many of the Quendi were filled with dread at his coming; and this was the doing of Melkor. For by after-knowledge the Wise declare that Melkor, ever watchful, was first aware of the awakening of the Quendi, and sent shadows and evil spirits to spy upon them and waylay them. So it came to pass, some years ere the coming of Oromë, that if any of the Elves strayed far abroad, alone or few together, they would often vanish, and never return; and the Quendi said that the Hunter had caught them, and were afraid…Thus it was than when Nahar neighed and Oromë indeed came among them, some of the Quendi hid themselves, and some fled and were lost.

And some of these elves who hid or fled were captured by Melkor and turned into Orcs.

So Finrod thinks of this, and decides he doesn’t want to risk startling them and thereby endangering them. So he waits until they are all sleeping, and then goes down and plays music, and because of the beauty and the dreamlike feel of things, they are not afraid and don’t run.

Now men awoke and listened to Felagund as he harped and sang, and each thought that he was in some fair dream, until that he saw that his fellows were awake also beside him; but they did not speak or stir while Felagund still played, because of the beauty of the music and the wonder of the song.

In a way, it’s no wonder that Men at first mistake Finrod for a Vala - he’s reliving the experience of the Vala who first discovered the Elves, and he’s trying (and succeeding) to use that history to do better. And this continues in his later dealings with Men. The Valar gave the Elves a binary choice: come to Valinor and we’ll teach you and keep you safe, or stay in Middle-earth and you’re on your own. But Finrod leaves the choice up to Men: Bëor wants to come with him to Nargothrond, the others choose to stay in Estolad, later generations come to live in Dorthonion, and he does his best to look out for them and advise them whichever of those choices they make. I suspect he’s thinking of the history between the Elves and the Valar again here, and wondering what might have happened if the Valar had taken a different approach.

Now, that does not last. The Valar were not able to keep the Elves free from harm even in Valinor, and Finrod, who does not have a Vala’s power, is still less able to keep them safe in Beleriand. But he’s doing the best he can. And I think it’s the shock of that moment in the Fen of Serech, when not only is he unable to get to Dorthonion to help his little brothers and the House of Bëor, but the men of the House of Bëor are saving him and losing their lives doing it, that prompts his oath to Barahir. On the flip side, for Barahir, you can contrast this reaction to that of Fëanor and many of the Noldor at the Darkening. The Darkening is when the Noldor realize the Valar can lose; and the Bragollach is similarly when Men see that Elves can lose. But because Men’s relationship with Elves is already to some extent a collaborative one, seeing them lose just makes them seem more ‘human’ rather than prompting the sense of betrayal the Noldor seem to have felt towards the Valar.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #finrod #oromë #elves #noldor #edain #house of beor #barahir #silmarillion daily

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