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sparklecryptid · 2 years

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Awwww, YES, Nerdanel and Nyx BONDING. This is going to mean very good things for these three specifically, and scandal, SCANDAL I TELL YOU back in Elf Land (bc one of Ace's people started calling Valinor that now all of them are despite various Elves and Ace correcting them a few times). Elves live on royal gossip after all and there has been fair little of it after the last ships sailed I bet. Every bit of this whole 'Feanor's fear has been located in another world and he refuses to come back' drama is being combed over and talked about from coast to coast.

Yeah, Fingolfin is horrified and baffled. His haughty fighty older brother is a short mortal (sort of mortal?) now that runs a tavern and LIVES above said tavern ("Bar. It's a BAR, Fingolfin." "You serve food. Taverns serve food." "The distinction is a little fuzzier yes but on paper this is a BAR.") and and- he is just really having a hard time reconciling the memory in his head with this new version of his brother that is, against all odds, HAPPY this way. Far happier then Fingolfin has ever seen him outside of the few moments he saw him holding and playing with his sons so long ago anyway. It's very weird.

Finarfin, for his part, is enjoying this, watching his oldest (and now shortest *gleeful*) brother interact with Fingolfin. He's got his own issues with Feanor, but Ace, now, Ace is new. He's more able to separate the two in his mind, I think. ANd they met Noctis before they met Ace. And the kid clearly loves his brother. Which spoke very clearly to Finarfin at least how different Feanor had grown in his second life (They don't know this is technically the third).

And really, Ace should be happy Findis and Irime are waiting to see how Fingolfin and Finarfin are received before coming. They're next.

OOOOH and PLEASE say someone takes Celegorm on a real hunt, eos style. WAY bigger game than he's used to (really, Coerls are about the size of Moose, Moose. Everything on Eos is too big)! Catoplepas and Behemoths are NORMAL??? Coerls are NORMAL? And no horses, chocobos!

Just picturing whoever took him out dragging him back to Ace's bar and they're COVERED in mud and a bit of blood and Celeg's missing a singed inch or three of hair, but he's GRINNING like a CRAZY person because he hasn't had THAT much fun since early Beleriand okay? They may never get him to go back to Valinor either.

“Father!” Celegorm’s voice is joyful as it echoes through Ace’s wing in the Citadel. Ace turns quickly enough there’s a moment of vertigo - he knows that tone of his sons voice, he knows it spells trouble - and opens his mouth to demand to know what Celegorm did only to close it as Celegorm bounces toward him while covered in blood. Axis is being dragged along with him and also covered in blood.

Ace sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Axis,” Ace says because this is completely Axis’ fault and Ace knows it, “Why?”

Axis smirks the smirk of a smug asshole and raises his eyebrow.

“Why what?”

Ace’s face is devoid of emotion as he stares at one of his best friends.

Axis looks like an extremely satisfied cat.

“You weren’t going to take him on a Hunt,” Axis says reasonably, “So I - being the best uncle - decided to.”

Celegorm looks shocked and betrayed at the news Ace wasn’t going to take him on a Hunt.

“You were going to keep this from me?” Celegorm asks and Ace would take him more seriously if Celegorm wasn’t his son, “Father, why?”

Ace stares his son dead in the eye.

“I didn’t want to deal with the clean up,” he says honestly. Celegorm looks offended. Axis snickers. “And you - Axis Arra - are you still on about whether or not you, Libertus, or my other brothers are the better uncles?”

“Yes.”

“I love you all equally.”

Axis stares Ace in the eye.

“We’re still better.”

Ace wonders why all of his families are crazy.

Asslkdjalkjs AND YES. Finarfin and Fingolfin meet Noctis first and Noctis is kind and polite and only has Good Things to say about Ace.

And then they find out that Noctis is Ace’s half brother and Ace treats Noctis like a little brother. That for all intents and purposes Ace considers Noctis his brother and Fingolfin is just Error 404 does not compute, Finarfin is more accepting of it. but that doesn’t mean Finarfin doesn’t have Tests to see if their brother has changed or not.

(Cue overprotective arafinwe here. You aren’t hurting their family again Feanor. Arafinwe won’t let you.)

Findis and Irime: *show up*

Fingolfin: You won’t Fucking Believe This-

They meet Ace. It’s awkward. Then Libertus walks in with news about Tredd blowing something up and they get to watch Ace curse loudly and rush out the door to Deal With It.

why did he give his idiots magic again?

#royal bastard au #later: the sons and siblings find out ace has murdered the govt of a warring nation #ace: sips tea #his elf family:…….#ace: you can’t prove I did it.#Ravus: I WAS THERE #ace: still cant prove i murdered the government that order the colonization of my peoples land and killed my mother and aunt

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ruiniel · 1 year

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Endless - IV

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Rating: M

Relationships: Maedhros/fem!OC

Characters: Maedhros, Celegorm, Curufin, Maglor, Caranthir, Fingon, Fingolfin, Amrod, Amras, Original Elf Character(s), Sauron, more to be added

Tags and warnings: alternating POV, Recovery, Trauma, Beleriand, The Sindar, The Noldor, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dehumanization, Flashbacks, Past Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Mental Anguish, Survivor Guilt, Past Abuse, Alternate Universe, Psychosis, Internalized ableism, POV Original Character, Maedhros POV, more tags coming

Also on AO3

IV. Before dawn

The night was cold and unyielding when Mithiel reached her tent, her mind afire over the first encounter with the king of these people.

I am not at my best.

She chewed her lip, placing the journal Maedhros had given her on the table in the corner and taking a seat. He wanted to learn their language, which would apparently become part of her responsibilities. In truth, having now seen more of his demeanor — vastly different from his earlier mood at dinner — the prospect was as good as the circumstance allowed and would suit her approach. She hoped.

And Mithiel had spoken true on the topic of escaped thralls. But what she had seen of them, what she’d dealt with treating the shells of the Elves they once were, the vacant gazes and broken wills… the scarred Elf sitting before her tonight had possessed none such traits. He was undoubtedly marked and maimed in more ways than one by his ordeal at the hands of the Enemy, but there was resilience, that same silver-gold hope brimming in the depths of a blue-grey stare, fuelling her own determination.

He was often in pain, that much was certain; both physical and otherwise, but still he’d tried his best with her and that had also been evident, apologies notwithstanding. Mithiel still recalled the jerk of his body and the brief look of caged despair when she leaned closer to touch him, to wipe his cheek.

What have you lived through? she wondered, opening the journal and skimming over the writings in the hand of one who, it is said, turned to ashes upon death, finally consumed by the fire of his willful fëa.

Undoubtedly, this was his son, Mithiel concluded with half a smile, long fingers trailing over the neat binding and crisp pages, the beauty of the flowing script.

She pored over the notes for some time, indeed finding nothing to correct: the observations were insightful and showed an unmistakable linguistic prowess. Mithiel read on, the soft light from the holders splashing over details on her people’s customs and language, all through the eyes of a newcomer.

Once the letters began twirling before her eyes, adding to a yawn’s overture, Mithiel closed the journal. She looked to her new bed with its welcoming folded arrangements. Despite the lateness of the hour, the prospect of sleep — or rather, of lying still — beckoned little. She felt like a seabird bound to a cliff, a wave seeking shores to crash against. Her limbs moved, set to remove her outer layers of clothing while her mind roamed far.

She did not pity him, no. She thought of the way the yellow lights gleamed on his auburn hair, a beautiful shade framing a face carved by wielders of woe and hatred. As she sat on the bed, undoing her plait, their conversation resurfaced like restless fireflies.

His questions, the cool assessment of her on his part Mithiel attributed to uncertainty. After all, this Elf had lived through the horrors of the mountain dungeons, had borne the yoke of slavery to the endless dark. His interest in her experience with the others was genuine, she could not fault him that.

She was pacing through the tent again before long, and since sleep eluded her and would do so for a while — since the first rising of the sun, parsing the waking hours from strips of night left erratic resting patterns — she donned her outer layers again and her cloak, then exited the tent. A little reconnaissance on her own away from the watchful eyes of princes would aid in obtaining a footing besides.

“What are… what are you doing here?” Maedhros asked, eyes still feverish as he took in Fingon’s windswept hair, the pronounced hollows and dips in his features, highlighted by the tall fires lit nearby. He was much thinner than in Valinor times, the struggles marked in his yet handsome face.

Fingon shrugged, glancing at his cousin with a kind smile, one of those crooked affairs leaving most people seeking more of it. “You might think me foolish.”

“Many already do, for your deliverance of me. Say on.”

His kinsman sighed. “I had strange, strange dreams as of late. One learns to discard some of Irmo’s nightly incursions into one’s mind, but I was restless during the day, moreso after sundown. I wanted to… I must return soon, I cannot stay. I will not linger on news, my cousins will no doubt relay all that business when they reach you,” he spoke as Maedhros regained himself.

Maedhros nodded. Fingolfin would not look kindly upon his son’s incursions into the Fëanorian camp, that much was plain, no matter the honor Fingon had gained among them, and irrespective of the few changes it brought. Thinking of current matters pacified his mind, and the cold bit into his cheek, seeped through his thought and quelled its feverish unrest. Fingon’s presence also aided though Maedhros could do little but pull at the loose threads of his own tunic until they unraveled completely, a ceaseless habit developed since his return to consciousness.

“Shall we go to your marquee to speak?” Fingon asked, looking this way and that, to the guards and other folk staring long at him — some with respect, some with awe, most with unease still.

Maedhros swallowed. Cowardly though it was, he could not return there, not now. “Or… or join me by the fires?” he asked, blinking away a flashing vision of sharp, white teeth. He gestured at the people already gathering to one side of the settlement.

Fingon acquiesced, “As you wish.”

They settled for a place farther from the others, sitting side by side down on a woodcrafted bench, watching the figures hallowed by flames and the sparks from the bonfires soaring up and dying in the night.

“Your people would rally to you,” Fingon spoke suddenly, and Maedhros knew why he had come.

He threw a stick into the nearest fire. “But yours would not.” He sighed. “Finno…”

Fingon gazed at him silently, urging Maedhros to continue with a dip of his chin.

“I have seen…” Again, his tongue was in knots though he wanted to speak of it, knowing Fingon would listen if it meant it brought him relief. But he could not. To this day, he could not even share with his brothers what squirmed and haunted his innermost burrows of the heart. He stared into his cousin's expectant, hopeful gaze. Yes, he wanted to speak of it, but each time he tried, the stench of decay stifled his thoughts, and shadows blurred his memory. And then, there was… there was…

Fingon shifted in his place, his speech low on the backdrop of other voices rising in soft humming a distance away. “Nelyo? I am here.”

Maedhros conjured his first memories of that lair, later proven to be only a skim of what followed. He closed his eyes at the unreal pressure of savage fingers wrapped around his throat, and turned his mind to the present, latching onto the sounds of a flute playing nearby. “I stood before the creatures he breeds; I knelt before his throne.” He glanced sideways at Fingon, catching the tremor of his clenched fists. “There are... no words, for the ways they seek to humiliate our people; for the torments they devise.”

Fingon peered at him with that cutting gaze and a calculating, righteous flare of ire Maedhros knew all too well. He burned with his own fire. It urged him to continue on the same spur that, in happier times, drove them together. Past the fires he looked, where his—their people gathered and mingled despite the foul-smelling fog, sharing in sweet-scented mead, their cloaks and shawls drawn tight about them. The words inched away from his scarred lips; the Silmarilli were bright in his mind. “The way we stand, now, will not avail us,” Maedhros said at last.

“Somehow, I knew you would say this... and then?”

“I have yet to find an answer to that. But…” Maedhros looked his cousin in the eye. He knew Fingon, like the rest of Fingolfin's people, had not wholly, if at all, forgiven the betrayal. He knew his cousin had sought to retrieve him, desperate and alone, mainly for the closeness they once shared and the love that still bound them. “We should act as one host, not two.”

His kinsman nodded, then his bright gaze sought the skies, perhaps for long lost stars.

“I will… try to speak with Ñolofinwë,” Maedhros added. “Many are still wary and resentful, as I know they have a right to be,” he looked in sorrow upon Fingon, who’d lost friends, whose brother had lost a wife to the Ice and more. “The odd fights and conflicts, while not as frequent as before, have not ceased, have they?”

Fingon shook his head.

“I know many of our own are remorseful,” Maedhros unraveled another thread from the sleeve of his right wrist. “Many had friends and kin among your host; many had looked in wonder upon you and saw crippled families, grief and a loss that is their own.”

“And yet.”

“And yet.” Maedhros clenched and unclenched his good hand. “Penance must be shown. Somehow.”

“Please tell me you do not speak of yourself, Maitimo,” Fingon murmured, shaking his head. “Even if it were so, your penance I have seen with my own eyes. You need not do more.”

Maedhros grit his teeth at the name, though coming from Fingon, it lost some of its acquired dread in the dungeons. “Dear Findekáno, you always thought too much of me.”

“One of us has to,” Fingon muttered, not unkindly. “Tell me, what are your thoughts?“

Maedhros nodded, looking blankly ahead. “It would be a start. It must be done. And then, our deeds should match our words.”

“Nelyo.” Fingon raised a hand, his hesitant palm close to Maedhros’ shoulder, the question in his eyes.

Maedhros could not blame his caution, for after all, he had scratched and torn at his cousin with wiry limbs before, first prey to a rabid confusion upon the eagle’s back; he remembered mighty wings spread like great sails, and a confusing warmth cocooning him after years being whipped bare by the elements. He lowered his head, swallowing at the slight pressure on his shoulder. “That is not all,” Maedhros said.

Fingon released him slowly. He curled a knowing brow. “No.”

“Even before we set out on the march, there was division, was there not? You remember; I stood by Father, I could do nothing else. I... we, loved and still love him fiercely, you know this truth though it must hurt. But it was impossible to ignore how many looked to Ñolofinwë, to you; how many refused to renounce him. Do you recall?”

Fingon let his head fall back, gazing through the mists. “I remember the arguments, the fights. I remember fearing you’d break with so much tension amid all that strife, which both troubled and drew me closer to it all. But even those who had no love for my uncle were moved by his words, and I was one of them.”

Maedhros stared ahead, then back down, noticing his restless fingers had unravelled the hem of his sleeve. “But you did not knowingly slay your own.”

“No,” Fingon gritted, his voice turned hoarse, “we did so unknowingly,” he added with bitterness. “Do you forget most of us carry the guilt for those same crimes? I have not, nor has Father. They changed us all.”

Maedhros said nothing, and Fingon sat and pondered for a while. The murders lay thick and heavy between them, in blood and saltwater. “How strange to look upon the past. We all saw untrodden lands before us, a return to an ancient homeland, to thrive with our knowledge and skill.”

“That may still come to be,” Maedhros spoke unto the flames, his voice flat and expression thoughtful.

Fingon hummed. “You know, Russo, there is aught I’ve come to know on these shores,” he glanced at his cousin, a glint in his eye reminding Maedhros of bygone Tirion. Fingon was much the same in spirit, he found, save for the sharper edge to his dusky features and the icy resolve in his eyes. “The shadows are deepest before dawn.”

Maedhros turned the words over in his head. He added, lighter of mood than he’d felt in weeks, with a shade of snark he used to wield well. “Then, we must be near to dawn.”

Fingon shook his head with barely a whiff of laughter. “This I will say. Father is of a like mind with you. But keep your own counsel on this, for now. Please.”

“Have I ever been loose-tongued?”

“No, indeed. My father’s always known division will cripple us after we met the Enemy on the field, faced his stronghold and leaguer. But he is loath to foster more conflict and bring forth more dissent from ones holding resentment against those who abandoned them. Some would still rather punish than forgive.”

Maedhros caught Fingon’s gaze, and with much difficulty, smiled his smile that hurt. The light of the flames danced crookedly upon his scars. “I am hoping my attempt will aid in that respect.”

“My cousins—” Fingon began.

“... are my subjects,” Maedhros countered, frowning as he stared ahead. “Leave that matter to me.” Surprising even himself, he found a strong belief in his own words.

Fingon sighed again, his dark brow lifting in tune with a pointed half-smile, both tender and sorrowful. He lowered his head in a nod. “Well. I, for one, trust you.”

The muscles in his jaw unwound into the broader likeness of a smile, and Maedhros nearly did not utter the words. “After everything.” Emotion wound about his inner being like stubborn weeds on barren mountain paths.

“Moreso, after everything.”

When done paying a short visit to see her horse, pleased at the care with which he’d been tended to and sheltered, Mithiel took to wandering aimlessly through the settlement. The chill brought a sprint to her step, her silver hair hallowed in the pale blue light shed over paths by those peculiar, captivating lamps hung throughout the wide campsite area. Soon, this will be as sturdy as a kingdom proper, since their builders I’m told are as gifted and speedy as their kin abiding on the opposite lakeside, she thought. Mithiel knew these same folk had already built stone dwellings there, which they abandoned upon the arrival of their bedraggled kindred who’d survived the Ice.

She walked, and walked, until the restless discord of thought within was somewhat abated, and her spirit was soothed by the stir of life around her. Already she missed her home, the small, warm cottage with its dark wood, its strong scents of herb and poultice. Already Mithiel missed her father, but steadied herself thinking of the duty promised to fulfil.

The night spread like a giant formless beast slumbering across the land, and somewhere not far, a flute was playing. The music soothed, and as drawn by a foreign spell, Mithiel neared, finding her way towards many tall, bright fires. They soared against the blackness as in defiance of the persistent fog, and the folk gathered round them seemed none too different to her own during such cold, endless a night as Mithrim had known, long before the rising of the Sun.

A flat, shining surface reflected back golden light not far to the right — the expanse of the great lake. Mithiel approached; by this time, it should be layered in ice, she thought, as happened already with many pools in the area at this time of year. She looked to the fires, but though their warmth teased her cheeks and the gathering seemed merry, her feet took her closer to the water’s edge.

Drawing nearer, she saw another standing there, alone, gazing out into the distance; she discerned a tall, lithe frame, a dash of auburn in the ever-dancing firelight. At first, she wavered. Had he not found rest yet, either?

Turning back would be cowardice, though she halted some distance away, thinking he might favor his solitude; all Mithiel truly wanted now was to look upon the great mirror.

She gazed into the murky darkness, unable to discern anything on the far opposite side due to the brume. But the stray light behind her glittered gold and orange over the glazed body of water, and though she missed the stars, this had a beauty all its own.

“Does rest elude you, Mistress?”

Mithiel started, not having expected him to recognize her, let alone speak. They parted amiably enough—considering the circumstances, and she wanted to keep it that way. After all, she had work to do.

“No more than it does you, my—lord,” she settled.

There was silence again, for a long time.

“Your people were the first to inhabit these lands, were they not?” came the question after a while.

“It is so,” Mithiel replied, still watching the lake, receiving a hum in response.

Though his manner was not light, the question had been merely that: a question. And so, Mithiel dared her own. “Is it true?” she asked. “That you looked upon the faces of the Ones of the West?” She knew the Ñoldor worshipped them, more than any of their kindred, and had heard they abided by their side and thrived in the kingdoms of that realm.

“I have,” came the answer, “Even as they cursed us, I have.”

Mithiel faltered, “I— I am not sure I understand,” she added, her damned curiosity getting the better of her; suddenly she fretted having upset him; from what she’d seen of his nerves, they were curled and strung to the point of snapping most of the time.

“No. But perhaps one day you will,” Maedhros said, and turned away even as Mithiel, out of instinct, neared to aid him; he stopped her with a sharp gesture of his left hand. “Good night once again, Mistress. I will see you on the morrow.”

“Rest well, king Nelyafinwë,” Mithiel spoke, and thought she heard a snort as she watched his retreat, and she wound her arms around herself tighter against the bitterness in his voice.

Part I

#maedhros x oc #ruiniel:fanfiction

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theelvenhaven · 4 years

Text

Getting Ready

PostAngband!Maedhros x Reader

1.7k words

* * *

You came hurrying down the halls papers in hand, concerned that your usually punctual lover was late… It had been a considerable amount of time since he was late to anything. Let alone a meeting regarding the current state of the world and leaving Fingon and Fingolfin high and dry without notice. You wondered if perhaps the lack of sleep was getting to him, understandable if that were the case.

You weren’t nearly as oblivious as Maedhros may have thought you were to his episode last night. Knowing that if you had gotten up while he had been so angry it would only serve to frustrate him further that he had disturbed you from such a deep sleep. Quietly you let yourself into your unnervingly quiet bedroom.

The central room where your bed sat was empty, you noted, setting down the paperwork on a nightstand. Messily made from where Maedhros had tried his hardest to make the bed, refusing any of your help let alone any maids. Determined to gain some control and independence back in his life that didn’t revolve around just the normal droll of politics. His night clothes were even messily folded at the foot of the bed, and though you had the urge to correct it you didn’t bother the messy pile. Letting Maedhros have some feeling of well deserved accomplishment during his day.

His brother, Curufin, had suggested making him a prosthetic to help with his independence but Maedhros had turned him down. Repeatedly was this offer made only making Maedhros more frustrated at the very thought. You heard the sudden sound of something wooden hitting a table in the washroom, followed by a heavy sigh and a slew of quenyan cuss words falling from Maedhros’ lips in his raspy voice.

As you approached, gently you turned the handle and opened the door to find Maitimo sitting at the vanity slumped forward onto the table top. His head hanging down and his coppery waves in complete disarray and not neatly combed, and from what you could see in the reflection today he was wearing a button up tunic. Though it was opened and wrinkled from where he had tried desperately to have done it himself, you looked at him sympathetically standing still in the doorway.

“If you are going to stare, then try not to do so with pity.” He breathed out, his voice flat yet there was a bite to it and you could only assume he thought you were someone else. Not that he was ever rude, but you knew he was tired of the sad glances and once overs he was given repeatedly. It was the other reasons maids were sparsely allowed in your room.

“You know I don’t pity you Maitimo.” You answered gently, beginning to approach him, watching the way his ears seemed to perk up at the sound of your voice. His shoulders releasing further tension, as much as he could at least. Always slightly on guard, and you knew this was the most vulnerable that he would be with you.

“Y/N… Forgive me. I thought you were someone else.” You only nodded at his words as you paused at his side, your hand coming to his shoulder as he began to raise his head to look up at you. You offered him a soft smile and he averted his gaze just as quickly,

“There is no need for apologies or forgiveness. I understand my love.” You assured him warmly, and you paused in thought. Thinking of how to word what you were going to say to him next carefully,

“Maitimo… Is there anything I can do to help you?” You worded mindfully, not wanting to upset him further or make him feel cornered and forced into having to accept your help. Immediately Maitimo began to shake his head no at your words, his hand going rest over your hand on his shoulder. Engulfing your little one entirely, but you waited patiently as you watched him in the mirror. A few mild expressions crossing his scarred face, before he hung his head down again and sighed out heavily.

“Yes…” He answered you finally with regret in his voice for even having to ask, though he knew you’d jump at every single opportunity he gave you to help him. He despised the feeling of helplessness and relying on other people, even from you as much as he loved you. Though you were the only one whose help he’d tolerate, save Fingon or Maglor.

Gently he stood from the chair, prompting you to move back enough so he could face you. Maitimo certainly didn’t need to tell you what was the matter or what needed to be done… The open tunic exposing his scarred and marred chest was answer enough. You repressed the urge to lean forward and press kisses against them like you had last night… While you could not heal them, you hoped it perhaps helped him somehow.

You stood on your toes carefully adjusting and straightening the collar for him, smoothing out the shoulders and pulling the open sides even before you began to button the tunic up. You felt his body tense some beneath your fingers as your skin brushed against his, though his gaze was kept mostly forward. It was hard not to notice the shame he felt,

“I love this tunic on you…” You commented softly smiling thoughtfully, the little buttons were gold with little Feanorian stars stamped onto them. The tunic had simple embroidery on the collar, nothing too flashy especially now. The deep burgundy complementary to his complexion and beautiful russet waves, and the rich color certainly made his pale eyes seem even brighter. Now he never wanted to wear anything that drew much more attention to himself. He even resigned his favorite copper circlet for the time being...

Maedhros quietly looked down at you nodding almost warily at your words, no less appreciative for your compliment. He had learned not to argue with you when it came to matters of his looks and how you saw him. No matter how hideous he thought himself to be, you didn’t see him in such a light and he couldn’t figure out why. Maedhros had tried many times to press and push to make you see what he saw, but it only resulted in you pushing back twice as hard.

“Thank you.” He said flatly, using his good hand to straighten his tunic better now that it was buttoned as you retracted your hands.

“Of course my love.” You answered sweetly, and he seemed to nod before beginning to try and take his leave. You frowned, reaching out to grab Maedhros’ good hand to stop him,

“Do you not want me to do your hair?” You asked quickly standing closer to him, mindful to be unimposing so you didn’t trigger him into feeling trapped. He paused again, debating on what he wanted to do for a second,

“I will be late if I allow that.” He stated to you, yet he didn’t make another move to leave your side. Maitimo holding your hand in turn, loosely.

“You are already late, and I am sure your uncle and cousin will understand and do so without judgement Maedhros.” You pressed gently as his pale blue eyes flitted up from the floor to look at you, gently you squeezed his hand smiling again with reassurance as he weighed your words. Finally without another word, Maedhros relented moving to sit back down in the chair he just stood from. Keep his gaze down at the vanity top as opposed to the mirror.

You gently ran the wooden comb through his long hair, it had grown quickly and just at his shoulder blades now. You did your best to begin taming the disarrayed and frizzy waves, combing his thick hair into your hand making sure to take your time. Maedhros sat stone still, shoulders tense anticipating sharp pulls against his scalp when you reached tangles, but it never came as he had mostly brushed them all out already.

Setting down the comb you began to run your fingers through his scalp as you smoothed his hair back, feeling him shudder at the sensation. Finally beginning to relax some, trusting you further that you wouldn’t hurt him even unintentionally. You heard the soft sigh escape his lips as for a moment he shut his eyes as you repeated the motion, more than what was necessary to smooth his hair down.

It was so rare to see him finally relax even a little bit, regrettably you finally paused in your ministrations, leaning over to kiss the crown of his head.

“Let me know if it is too tight.” You whispered to him, sectioning his auburn hair and the beginning to braid gently. Trying to find a happy medium between comfortably loose and just tight enough it wouldn’t come undone. You had pulled his hair once since its been so long, having laid on it in your sleep. His reaction had been- reasonably- panicked and fearful, and desperately you wanted to prevent from invoking such fear in him again.

Flitting your eyes, you gauged Maitimo, his jaw straining as he clenched it in anticipation for you to pull his hair too tight. His hand and arm resting against his thighs, sitting straight and taut.

Yet you never pulled harshly, taking your time as you crossed over each section of hair. You could feel his eyes on you through the mirror as he watched you work. You glanced up, flashing him a gentle smile before reaching over his shoulder to grab the hair tie from the table top, tying off the braid.

“Is that okay?” You asked, placing your hands on his shoulders, slowly he began to nod moving to stand to his feet. Maitimo looked down at you with some fondness as he took your hand in his, giving it a soft squeeze.

“Thank you Y/N…” His voice soft and gentle, hesitating for a moment before he leaned over to kiss the top of your head. Lingering for a moment, sparing affections were rare except for at night when it could just be the two of you together. You smiled again,

“Of course my love.” With that, Maitimo continued to hold your hand gently pulling you along from the washroom and to the meeting. Maitimo concluding for the moment that your help especially wasn’t all bad, grateful that he had someone so loving and patient by his side.

* * *

A/N: Surprise!!!! I got my laptop back finally! I am going to start writing again! I’ll get on those requests ASAP but I am going to write a few things that come to mind too. I hope you guys enjoyed the little fic!

tags:

@saviorsongwrites @lilmelily @dicksoutformtl @fandom-hoe101 @icarus-fell-in-spring

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years

Text

Vice and Virtue in Tolkien’s Works

I’ve been rereading Dante’s Purgatorio (easily my favourite of the three sections, both for having a very satisfying structure and for its themes of repentance and reform), and the structure inspired this post. Each level of purgatory has images, words, or both, associated with the vice being reformed and its corresponding virtue (the examples being drawn both from the Bible and Greco-Roman history and mythology) and it gave me ideas for a discussion of similar themes in Tolkien’s works.

The structure is: 1) Pride/Humility; 2) Envy/Generosity of Spirit; 3) Wrath/Charity; 4) Sloth/Zeal); 5) Avarice/Simplicity; 6) Gluttony/Abstinence; 7) Lust/Romantic Love.

1) Pride/Humility

Saruman: Our time is at hand: the world of Men, which we must rule. But we must have power, power to order all things as we will, for that good which only the Wise can see.

Frodo: I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way.

This is easily the primary emphasis in Tolkien’s works. The fall of all his main villains (Morgoth, Sauron, Fëanor, the Númenoreans, Saruman) and as well as other non-villainous tragic characters (Túrin, Thingol, Turgon, Thorin, Denethor) is characterized by pride - the desire to be the one calling the shots, the desire for greatness and others’ recognition of that greatness, the refusal to listen to the advice or views of others.

It’s there in Melkor’s desire for his theme to be the only one heard in the Music; in Sauron’s desire to rule the world and arrange everything as he thinks best; in Fëanor’s determination to take any advice, correction, or disagreement as a personal attack, his desire for rulership in Middle-earth, and his attitude that the Silmarils are more important than anything anyone else has done or created; the late-stage Númenoreans’ campaign of imperialist conquest. It’s there in Túrin’s, Thingol’s, and Turgon’s rejection of good advice; in Thingol’s attitude towards other peoples, whether it’s Beren or the dwarves; in Denethor’s conviction that Gondor is the only place and people of any account in the war against Sauron.

Humility, in contrast, is mainly seen in the form of hobbits. None of them have any idea what they’re doing when they leave Rivendell (Sam and Pippin don’t even know where Mordor is), and they know they’ve got no idea. They’re not going because they see themselves as specially skilled or qualified, but because it needs to be done. And that’s the very reason Frodo can resist the Ring so long, and Sam can resist it, because they don’t have any grand ideas of themselves.

The ability to say I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll try to do what’s right is pretty crucial to humility; even members of the Fellowship who are far more experienced, skilled and knowledgeable than the hobbits show it. Aragorn says it, in the search for Merry and Pippin when they’re captured by orcs. Pride could easily say I need to go with the Ring-bearer, that’s the most important task or I need to go to Gondor and lead the war against Sauron as their King. But Aragorn lets himself trust in other people doing their parts, and focuses on rescuing his companions - the thing that no one else is a available to do - even as the chase seems increasingly hopeless. It’s also seen in Gandalf, who openly admitted he was scared to go when the Valar first sent him, and wandered around as an old man in a battered cloak and hat, talking with everyone, rather than setting himself up as a Respectable Dignified Authority Figure the way Saruman did.

The Silmarillion has fewer examples of humility than LOTR (perhaps why things turn out so much worse there) but there are a few in the Leithian. Lúthien is another case of saying I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll do it because no one else will when she sets off to rescue Beren. Finrod walks away from his crown and realm to help a friend.

2) Envy/Generosity of Spirit

Denethor: I will not step down to be the dotatd chamberlain of an upstart.

Faramir: My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?

Envy is akin to pride, but I’m characterizing it as being specifically the resentment of being surpassed (or even equalled) by another.

Fëanor is again a major example of this, specifically in his resentment of Fingolfin and of the descendents of Indis more generally. Peoples of Middle-earth notes that he resented the name Nolofinwë (Fingolfin’s Quenya name, roughly means ‘wise-Finwë or ‘learned-Finwë’) due to regarding himself as not only the most skilled of the Noldor at craftwork (which he was), but also the most skilled at lore/scholarship (which he wasn’t), and likewise resented the name Arafinwë (Finarfin’s Quenya name). He’s in a mental place of resenting anything positive that can be said about his brothers as if it inherently detracts from him. And he takes the same attitude towards Men (‘No other race shall oust us!’), treating their very existence as a threat to the Eldar. Losgar is the peak of this: he’s willing to sabotage his own war effort to prevent Fingolfin from participating. This is contasted with Maedhros’ attitude after being rescued by Fingon, when he willingly gives up the crown and, later, moves across Beleriand to the most exposed section of the northern border to avoid conflict. His own status isn’t his priority; peace with his family and the best interests of the war against Morgoth are his priorities.

Denethor is another major example, seeing both Aragorn’s return and Faramir’s respect for Gandalf as personal affronts to himself. (Gandalf points out that the literal job description of a steward is to be in charge until the king returns. When the king comes back, that means you’ve done your job, not that you’re being demoted. Denethor is not interested in hearing this.) He’s also mentioned in the Appendices to have resented the respect and admiration recieved by Thorongil [i.e. Aragorn in disguise] during the days of their youth. In very similar ways, Saruman resented the high regard that some (like Galadriel) had for Gandalf, and saw Gandalf as a rival. Thorongil and Gandalf were not interested in rivalry; they were more interested in what was achieved than in who was achieving it. Faramir is the contrast here - he is interested in the good of Gondor, not his own status, and has no jealousy of Aragorn.

3. Wrath/Charity

Fëanor: See, half-brother! This is sharper than thy tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls.

Gandalf: It was Pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand; Pity, and Mercy, not to strike without need.

I would say that this is the third-most-emphasized of the vices in Tolkien’s works, after pride and avarice. And, of course, another Fëanor example: both his threat on Fingolfin’s life and his actions during the Return of the Noldor, the latter being driven by wrath primarily against Morgoth and secondarily against everyone else in his vicinity (Valar! Teleri! Fingolfin and anyone who supports him!). It’s the spillover that’s the problem, and the self-centredness; hating Morgoth isn’t a problem in and of itself, but Fëanor’s taking the fight against evil and turning it into a personal vendetta, with disastrous consequences.

Túrin is another example, most particularly in three events: causing the death of Saeros, burning the hall of Brodda in Dor-lómin, and killing Brandir. The former two are provoked, the latter isn’t, but all of them are sudden deeds of anger that only serve to make matters worse.

The contrasting virtue is charity, mercy shown to people that you have good reason to be hostile towards. Fingon’s rescue of Maedhros. Lúthien’s sparing of Curufin when he and Celegorm attacked her and Beren. Frodo sparing Gollum and treating him with kindness and compassion.

4. Sloth/Zeal

Guard Hobbit: It won’t do no good talking that way. He’ll get to hear of it. And if you make so much noise, you’ll wake the Chief’s Big Man.

Merry: Shire-folk have been so comfortable so long they don’t know what to do. They just want a match, though, and they’ll go up in fire.

This is comparatively less of an emphasis in Tolkien’s works than some of the other pairings, but I can think of some examples. The best one is Saruman’s takeover of the Shire and the subsequent liberation. Sloth is the characteristic hobbit vice (not gluttony; I’ll get to that); they tend towards being comfortable and complacent and don’t like being bestirred. Even Frodo dawdled around for half a year after learning about the Ring, mostly because he was reluctant to go. And under first Lotho and then Saruman, everyone (except Tooks) more or less puts up with an abuses because they don’t want the trouble or danger of standing up against them. It’s the return of Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Frodo, who have experience fighting evil on a much larger scale (and who can organize things) that spurs them to stand up for themselves and their home.

5. Avarice/Simplicity

Celegorm: For the Silmarils we alone claim, until the world ends.

Gandalf: I wonder what has become of [the mithril-shirt]? Gathering dust still in Michel Delving Mathom-house, I suppose.

Avarice is, I would say, the second-most-emphasized vice in Tolkien’s works, after pride. The central conflicts in both The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings are objects (they’re in the titles!): the Silmarils and the Ring. The Oath is almost the strongest possible expression of avarice, the most extreme statement of this is mine that a person can make; The Ring is an even more extreme expression, as Sauron makes an object that is literally part of himself. And both conflicts are resolved through the renunciation of claim on these objects, in Eärendil’s journey to Valinor (and the Silmaril becoming a star that is seen by everyone and owned by no one) and Frodo and Sam’s mission to destroy the Ring.

The Silmarils themselves are not evil; they are good and hallowed objects, and fights between elves, dwarves, and men are the result of the Oath (the kinslayings) and the connection with the dragon-contaminated and Mîm-cursed treasure of Nargothrond (Thingol and the dwarves of Nogrod). The Ring is evil, and inducing avarice is its most basic power, even among people like Sméagol and Déagol who could never actually wield it; letting it go is incredibly difficult, and Bilbo and Sam are the only people in the history of the Ring ever to do it.

Avarice is also a central theme in The Hobbit, and dragon-treasure is specifically noted as provoking avarice in people who are in any way inclined towards that vice. Smaug is practically a physical manifestation of avarice in his rage over losing one small cup that he has no use for from an immense hoard, and both Thorin and the master of Lake-town fall prey to the dragon-sickness.

I’ve given ‘simplicity’ as the antonym, and I thought of ‘generosity’ as well, but neither of those is quite right. The opposite of avarice is holding lightly to things, and it’s a particular virtue of hobbits. This is seen both in their birthday parties (the tradition of giving away possessions) and the Michel Delving Mathom-house, a museum for old heirlooms that people feel they don’t need to have around. The most beautiful example is Bilbo’s mithril-shirt (worth more than the entire Shire!) spending some time sitting around there.

It’s worth nothing that the vice of avarice in Tolkien’s works isn’t associated with having stuff, just with holding to stuff. Bag End being comfortable isn’t a problem. The Noldor having piles of jewels isn’t a problem provided that they’re sharing them and letting them go, as in the Noontide of Valinor (gemstones scattered on the seashore!) or Finrod giving them away in Middle-earth. The issue comes when the owning becomes what a person values; the signal that Fëanor is becoming too tied to the Silmarils is when he prefers to lock them away so no one else can see them.

6. Gluttony/Abstinence

Gollum: He’ll eat us all, if he gets it, eat all the world!

The lembas had a virtue without which they would long ago have laid down to die. It did not satisfy desire...and yet this waybread of the Elves had a potency that increased as travellers relied on it alone and did not mingle it with other foods. It fed the will, and gave strength to endure...

Gluttony is distinguished from avarice as the desire to consume things, not merely accumulate them. This is an interesting one, because Tolkien has no issue with the consuption of large amounts of food for enjoyment (which hobbits do frequently and enthusiastically!). As with possessions, enjoyment of physical things isn’t seen as problematic. The enjoyment of everyday pleasures is specifically discussed as morally desirable in a way that contrasts with avaricious accumulation (“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”)

However, there is one large (very, very large) example of the concept of gluttony as unlimited consumption and appetite: Ungoliant. Ungoliant represents not the hoarding of things, but their destruction, and is continually described with very physical terms of appetite and devouring. Shelob and the spiders of Mirkwood are lesser versions of the same concept. There are other mosters in the same vein: Sauron’s werewolves and Carcharoth. On of the names for Carcharoth is Anfauglir, the Jaws of Thirst, specifically invoking the idea of insatiable consumption.

And gluttony can be described more broadly as an form of overconsumption which uses up or destroys things; pollution could be a modern-day example. Looked at in that way, gluttony can be considered the end-stage of all evil in Tolkien, in the same way that pride is its beginning-stage. The ruin of the Anfauglith, the Desolation of the Morannon, the trees of Fangorn used to feed the fires of Isengard or hacked down for no purpose (and even Losgar, if you like) are all its work. Gollum (heavily driven by mundane hunger) grasps this when he fears Sauron regaining the Ring: “He’ll eat us all, if he gets it, eat all the world!” Ungoliant is the final stage of all evil.

In the same way that hobbits enjoying ample meals isn’t treated as a moral flaw, abstinence isn’t particularly notable as a virtue. However, it does come up in forms like Sam noting that lembas provides more endurance as the hobbits rely on it solely in their final journey to Mordor. This indicates that Tolkien regards the ability to go without physical pleasures when necessary as a virtue (also symbolized by Sam’s heartrending decision to give up his cooking gear!) but doesn’t place value on ascetism for its own sake.

If we want to expand on the metaphorical idea of gluttony as overconsumption/destruction, then we can also see healing/restoration as its opposing virtue, in forms like the box of soil that Galadriel gives Sam, which he uses to restore the trees of the Shire.

7. Lust/Romantic Love

Celegorm became enamoured of [Lúthien]...they purposed to let the King perish, and to keep Lúthien, and force Thingol to give her hand to Celegorm.

Beren: Though all to ruin fell the world, and were dissolved and backward hurled, unmade into the old abyss, yet were its making good, for this - the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea - that Lúthien for a time should be.

Lust is often regarded simply as a term for physical attraction, and its condemnation as a type of prudishness, but I’m going to present a different take, one that draws on its connection with the two preceding vices (the three are consistently grouped together by Dante). Lust is when the two previous desires, of ownership and consumption/use, are applied not to objects but to a person.

It’s an extremely rare vice among elves, with only a few examples in Elvish history: Celegorm, Eöl, Maeglin. In all cases, there is sexual desire combined with the desire for control, turning to violence when that control is thwarted: Celegorm’s imprisonment of Lúthien in the attempt to force her to marry him, and the later assault on her and Beren; Eöl’s restrictions on Aredhel and murder of her when she leaves him; Maeglin’s attempt to kidnap Idril during the Fall of Gondolin.

In contrast, the examples of romantic love, which are primarily the elf-human couples and especially Beren and Lúthien, combine desire with value for the freedom and identity of the beloved, and with self-sacrifice (or willingness to take on risks) for their sake. Beren’s song before setting out for Angband is a celebration of Lúthien’s existence, irrespective of what may happen to him. Lúthien counters with the expression that she does not want to exist apart from him, and purpose of lovers is to act together and to guard and support each other. Elwing runs through the waves to Eärendil on the shores of Valinor because she would rather face the same risks he does than be safe apart from him. Eärendil accepts immortality for love of Elwing. Arwen accepts death for love of Aragorn.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #the lord of the rings #christianity #ethics #moral philosophy #fëanor #frodo #gandalf #sauron #beren #lúthien #ëarendil #elwing #celegorm #sam gamgee #denethor #faramir #saruman

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lendmyboyfriendahand · 5 years

Text

Parentage

When Gil-Galad was twelve he decided it was time to find out about the facts of life.

“Who's really my father?”

Maedhros looked up from the map he was studying. “Why do you ask?”

“I know Fingon’s not my father, and you know it too. So who is?”

“Unimportant.”

“My father is some random nobody?”

“Most likely, but that’s not what I meant. Who really fathered you is far less important than who people believe did so.”

“Easy for you to say.”

"Perhaps. Let me ask you, who was my father?”

“Feanor. Everybody knows that.”

“They do. You never met Feanor, but you have met Curufin, yes?”

Gil-Galad nodded warily, wondering if this would turn out to be a revelation that he was Feanorian.

“Curufin is a mirror image of his father, different in stance but not in feature. Tell me, do I have a single feature in common with Curufin?”

Gil-Galad thought for a moment. “You have the same shaped eyes?”

“As do all the rest of the Noldor.”

“Then no, I can’t think of any.”

“Precisely. I do not resemble Feanor any more than a random elf on the streets of Tirion, and a good deal less than some of them.”

Gil-Galad was frustrated. “But it doesn’t matter if you resemble him, because he really is your father. It matters that my eyes are the wrong color and my nose is the wrong shape to be Fingon’s because I am not his son!”

“You are Fingon’s son. He took you in as an infant, he claimed you as his own, he loves you, and he is raising you to lead his people after him. By that same token, I am Feanor’s son.”

“But - everyone knows you’re Feanor’s son.”

“And everyone knows you’re Fingon’s.”

“Who’s son are you then?”

“Feanor named me for my heritage, both blood and adopted. You should be able to figure it out from that.”

“Nelyafinwe...” Gil-Galad hummed under his breath. “The finwe is obliviously for King Finwe of Tirion. But nelya, three, if it’s not just an insult to Grandpa... is it for the tribe from Cuiviénen? The Sindar - or they’re Teleri across the Sea, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Who was he? Are you related to Thingol?”

“No one you would have heard of.” Maedhros looked at Gil-Galad’s eager expression, and sighed. “His name was Penmalaclar, he was a ropemaker who would also pose for artists. Nerdanel had him model for several sculptures. She joined with him while she was engaged to Feanor, but Feanor forgave her. He knew quite well how rumors around a child’s birth can hurt them, so he told no one else, and only told me when I was old enough to understand.”

“He really didn’t tell anyone? Not even King Finwe?”

“King Finwe knew he had a grandson, who would be smart and strong, and would be raised with all the dignity of a prince of the Noldor. He had no right to, and or interest in, details about his son’s marriage bed.”

“But that means you never really should have been king in the first place! Does Grandpa know?”

“He does not. And why shouldn’t I have been king? I was raised to it, I understood it, and the people trusted me.”

“But you aren’t Finwe’s line at all!”

“I spent my life as Finwe’s beloved grandson. I learned how to listen to his people’s concerns, and how to solve them, by watching him in court. I was Duke of Formenos, and spoke on Finwe’s behalf in the remote reaches of his realm. I am a far more accurate representative of Finwe than say, Findulias, who has never met him, and whose father did so only as an infant. Is she more Finwean than I am? Is Lady Anaire?”

Gil-Galad thought about this for a moment. “So you’re part of Finwe’s line because everyone thinks you are?”

“Because everyone thinks so, and because the rest of them want me. Blood is neither necessary or sufficient to make people family. Think of how Fingon speaks of Elenwe for the first case, and Galadriel speaking of my father for the second.”

“Really no one knows though?”

“My parents know, as presumably does Penmalaclar. I told Fingon before we married, as he was worried about a marriage of half-cousins. No one else knows - not even my brothers.”

“And you don’t worry that they would love you less if they found out?” Gil-Galad asked quietly.

“They might be more annoyed at me for yielding the crown, but they’d still love me. They know I love them for who they are, not just because we’re supposed to love each other, and I know they love me the same way. Besides, Father loved me and counted me as his son, and Feanor’s word is good enough for us.”

“Will Fingon’s word be enough?”

“For some people. Most of the rest will accept his actions, that he wouldn’t have raised you as his son if it wasn’t true. There will probably be a few who spread rumors, as they do about anyone who is different. People liked to speculate that Celegorm was illegitimate or adopted, because his hair is silver and he’s not as studious. Never mind his nose and cheeks are a perfect match for Feanor, as is his ability to inspire a crowd.”

Gil-Galad considered that for a minute. “Why did Dad take me in to start with? You said that Feanor was already engaged to Nerdanel when she got pregnant with you, so Feanor would have had to give up his love as well as the strange baby. But I don’t know my mom, and Dad certainly isn’t in love with her.”

“Fingon has always wanted to have a child. He and I obviously can’t make any. When he showed up with a baby, I asked him why as well, he said you needed somewhere to go. He had a point, and another layer to the succession is probably good anyway.”

“So you really don’t know who my father is? Or my mother?”

“You are Gil-Galad son of Fingon. Whoever sired you doesn’t matter.”

“But I want to know.”

“Then you should ask Fingon. I spent the year after your birth pretending I was mad at him. If there was any coordination with your blood parents, I didn’t see it.”

“Why would you be mad at him?”

“For having a baby with someone else even though we’re married.”

“But he didn’t.”

“He wanted to keep you from the moment he saw you. If that meant the two of us had to be apart for a little while, it was worth it, for both of us.”

“Oh. Who knows about me?”

“Fingolfin knows as much as I do. I don’t know if anyone else knows at all, besides Fingon and your blood parents.”

~~~~~~~~

'Penmalaclar’ translates to “man who loves gloriously” in Telerin. Inspired by my own post on my sideblog.

#Gil Galad #silmarillion #maedhros #gil-galad #silm #my fic #nelyafinwe #gil galad son of plot hole #maedhros is surprisingly good with kids #takes place shortly before the dagor bragollach I think #or maybe shortly after #definitely before the Quest for the Silmaril or the Nirnaeth #Fingon and Maedhros are officially not married but it's an incredibly open secret #the only reason it's not official is so Thingol can pretend Fingolfin's side of the family is keeping all the Kinslayers in line

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

Text

Implausible Character Interpretations: Nerdanel

I didn’t have a fun animal reference for this one.

More than any of the others, I want to emphasize with this one that this is NOT how I see Nerdanel. I’m playing with possibilities, not trying to make a serious case.

The basis for this one is the fact that given the choice (Nerdanel and Feanor’s separation, deciding whether to stay in Aman or go to fight Morgoth), Nerdanel and Feanor’s sons consistently choose their father over their mother. There’s any number of possible reasons for this - they might have seen Nerdanel leaving as a betrayal, they might have just though that their father needed them more than their mother did, they might have been making choices based on what was going on in their own lives and not really been choosing between their parents at all. The decision to cross the Sea in particular has a multitude of possible explanations - revenge, wanting to make sure Feanor didn’t get killed because of his grief, the desire to just follow someone who has a plan after their equivalent of the Sun goes out - parental bias doesn’t have to come into it at all.

But it could. And I’ve seen Feanor portrayed as everything from “great Dad who made one really unfortunate mistake” to “who on earth thought it was a good idea to let this mad parent?” so it seemed only fair to let Nerdanel be the bad parent for once.

Sculpting a child was the most fascinating project she’d ever done. Blending her spirit with Feanaro’s was the breathtaking height of collaboration.

The tools were different, of course. She had no chisels here, no stone to chip away. Trying to encourage certain attributes was far more complicated than that.

She reminded herself of that frequently during the pregnancy. This was the first time she had done this, the prototype; she could not expect perfection from this any more than she had from her very first sculpture.

So it was vanity and she knew it that led her to lay claim to a name meaning well-formed on this very first try, but surely the result would live up to the expectation. She and Feanor both were well known for learning fast.

Then the baby came.

“Maitimo,” she said stubbornly, though looking at the result, she suddenly wasn’t so sure. His appearance was fair enough and far from finished in any case, but the small spirit that was already trying to shape itself now that it was separate from her . . . she already had doubts about that.

She slumped against the pillows on the bed in disappointment, premature as she knew it was. This was only the first, and there was still so much time for his spirit to change. It was ridiculous to give up now.

Feanaro was beaming at the child like this was all he had hoped for, and Feanaro never settled in his work. If this was good enough for him, it ought to be good enough for her.

She couldn’t quite convince herself.

Feanaro looked up to share his joy and took in her expression. In an instant, the joy was overtaken by terror.

“Are you alright? I’ll call for the healer to come back in - “

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just tired.”

Feanaro’s eyes remained dark with worry. Miriel’s decline, she remembered, had started with much the same complaint.

“Everyone’s tired after this,” she said firmly. “All the healers said so. Go on and show your father his first grandson.”

She felt a frisson of nerves at that. She had never liked showing off any work that was less than her best.

But it made Feanaro stop worrying, and Finwe had always been very kind; she was sure he would not be overly harsh.

Maitimo grew into a lovely child, but her vague concern proved true. He was well spoken, he did well in his lessons, he was polite and obedient . . . but he would not choose a craft.

He worked happily under his father’s watchful eye in the forge and happily with her in her workshop. He would try anything someone was willing to teach, and he was competent enough in most of it, but there were none he chose as his own and none chosen for him by special genius.

“Look, Mama!” he said, holding up the figure he’d just finished molding from clay.

It was recognizable, at least. Unfortunately, it was recognizable as a smaller, rougher version of her own project. She sighed. “Don’t you think it’s time you started using your own ideas?”

“Oh.” He drooped. HIs lip started to wobble dangerously.

Fortunately, Feanaro chose that moment to walk in. “Lunch is ready,” he announced cheerfully. “What’ve you got there, Maitimo?”

Their son held his work up hesitantly.

Feanaro picked it up carefully and examined it closely. “Wonderful!” he declared. “Your precision is coming along beautifully. It was inspired by your mother’s work, yes? You can’t go wrong with that. She’s the best in her field, you know.”

“It’s not very original,” Maitimo said cautiously.

Feanaro waved this off. “And what of it? Copy the masters until you’re ready to branch out on your own.” He studied it a little further. “It really is quite good. May I keep this? Once it’s dried, of course.”

Maitimo brightened, all threat of tears gone. He nodded vigorously.

Feanaro beamed at him. “Excellent. Now for lunch!”

He was good with the child, she had to admit. He always knew just what to say to head any unpleasant moments off at the pass. Still, the larger issue could not be ignored.

“He still hasn’t shown any aptitude towards a particular craft,” she said as they climbed into bed.

“He’s young yet,” Feanaro dismissed. He never had liked anyone pointing out flaws in his work.

“We were younger,” she pointed out.

“Maybe a physical craft isn’t where his talents lie,” he suggested. “Have you seen him with his friends? He’s quite the little diplomat.” He smiled ruefully. “Far more than I ever was at any rate.”

Diplomacy was a good gift for a prince of the Eldar to have, she had to concede, but - “He still needs a physical craft.”

“Not everyone has to make things.”

Now she knew it was just his pride getting in the way. They were two of the greatest Noldor craftsmen in Aman. Of course their children had to be able to make things.

“Speaking of making things,” she said, “have you given any thought to us making another one?”

Feanaro brightened at the idea. “A brother for Maitimo! Or were you thinking a girl at this time?”

“No, a boy,” she agreed. Best to stick to that until they’d perfected it. Then they could move on to a girl.

Feanaro had been entirely correct in his choice of name for their second child, she decided almost immediately. Strong-voiced did not begin to cover it.

The third time he woke them in a night with that strong voice, she had to fight the urge to cover her ears. “I think we might have made a mistake.”

She wasn’t joking, but Feanaro still laughed.

Makalaure had a craft, at least. He was a peerless singer already, and his skill would only grow.

Unfortunately, part of the process of that growth involved rather a lot of very loud practice with a wide variety of instruments.

“One hour,” she finally told him, temper not holding quite as well as she’d wished. “Just give us one hour of quiet.”

It was improvement, she told herself. And it was. Just still not quite perfection.

Tyelkormo was definitely quieter.

Except for the shouting, of course. He had the temper of Feanaro after having been locked in a room with Indis and Fingolfin all day and none of the brilliance to make up for it. He squirmed all through lessons and took off at the first opportunity for the outdoors.

Like Maitimo, he refused to pick a proper craft.

“I’m going to be a hunter!” he said over supper. He demonstrated by bending back his fork to fling mashed potatoes directly at Maitimo’s head.

It was a dead hit. At least he hadn’t aimed at Makalaure; if it had escalated to a fight, the shouting would have shook the house. Maitimo just made a face and wiped his forehead clean.

“You’ve got the aim for it,” he said wryly.

“Though we still need to work on your timing,” Feanaro said. “Not to mention your choice of prey. Still, it’s an excellent ambition.”

“It’s not exactly a craft,” Nerdanel protested, but she didn’t put up much of a fight. Honestly, hunting was probably the best that Tyelkormo could do.

Carnistir was as studious as she could wish.

He also had an even quicker temper than Tyelkormo and a blotchy red face that was an embarrassment to her skill as an artist.

She went back to work as soon as she could after he was born. Feanaro was helping her with this project, a beautiful blend of steel and stone. It was coming along perfectly.

“This, we can do,” she said in frustration. “Why can’t the rest of it be as easy?”

Feanaro laid a hesitant hand on her arm. She leaned into him gratefully.

“Children are more improvisational,” he said. “You never know quite how they’re going to turn out. We’ve been fortunate with ours. Don’t you think?”

He sounded uncertain with that question in a way he never had before. She was surprised. He’d seemed as delighted with Carnistir as with the others.

Maybe that was the problem, she realized. They’d never talked over what they wanted in any more detail than boy or girl. They never entered into any other collaboration so haphazardly. They came in to this with conflicting ideas, and the blend didn’t always quite work.

Next time, she would fix that.

Feanaro was frustratingly difficult to pin down on what he wanted, so she decided the solution was to back off. She’d provide the minimum of input and allow Feanaro to craft what he would. Once she’d seen the result, she could make modifications to the next one from there.

The result was so like Feanaro that she called him Little Father. She was tentatively pleased with this one. A copy was not as good as an original, but it was another step towards progress at last. Atarinke was beautiful, brilliant, skilled in the forge, everything she’d wanted.

Or almost. Where Feanaro’s scope was endlessly broad, Atarinke’s was narrow. He preferred the forge above all else.

And he was . . . cold towards her sometimes, in a way she didn’t like. Her other children had embraced their mother-names with a strange eager hopefulness, but Atarinke barely responded to his.

There was nothing wrong with him preferring Curufinwe. It certainly pleased Feanaro.

She just wished her son didn’t make it seem quite so much like it was a rejection of her.

They said Miriel had poured herself so much into her son that it had killed her. Maybe that was the only way to get someone that shone as bright as Feanaro.

“One more try,” she told Feanaro.

Things were . . . strange between them now. Feanaro was involved with those gems of his and wanted her to spend more time with the children since he was so busy. It wasn’t unreasonable, but he was never happy with her after she did as he asked; he frowned at her often afterward and seemed as if he would say something, but he never did.

Maitimo and Maglor helped, frequently volunteering to look after the younger ones, but there was something about the way they did it, the way they looked at her . . .

It was the gems, she thought in frustration. Things had only gotten so bad when Feanaro had gotten wrapped up in them.

But he would back away from the project for a new child, and she’d finally figured it out now.

She poured her spirit into making the new child, and Feanaro matched her drop for drop.

She was exhausted afterwards, on the very edge of having given too much, but it would work this time. It had to.

She did not have the overwhelming flame she’d intended. She had twins.

For the first time in her creative history, she gave up.

“Ambarussa,” she said tiredly when asked for a name.

“For which one?” Feanaro asked.

“Either. Both. I don’t care.”

“They need their own names,” Feanaro insisted.

“Then call one of them Umbarto. I don’t care.” Surely at least one of her children must be fated for something.

“Ambarto it is,” Feanaro said quietly.

She doubted that either of them deserved to be called upwards-exalted, but she didn’t care enough to tell him he’d misheard.

Wood. Clay. Every kind of stone imaginable. With those, she could create.

But with spirit?

The taste of failure was bitter on her lips.

(“He’s perfect,” Curufinwe told his wife as soon as the baby was born. “Absolutely perfect. He’s beautiful.”

She smiled up at him. “Of course he is.”

She wasn’t sure why he slumped in what looked like relief.

She assumed at first that his efforts to look after little Tyelpe himself and with his brothers were an attempt to let her rest, for fear of recreating his grandmother’s tragedy. But -

“I’m well now,” she told him. “Really.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he told her in all sincerity. “If the healers have no objection to you taking up your weaving again, I certainly won’t argue.”

“Good,” she said. “But that wasn’t what I meant. I can help look after Tyelpe now.”

He actually looked startled.

“He’s my son too, you know,” she said in frustration.

“Of course he is,” he said.

She wasn’t sure why he was so surprised that she wanted to look after her own son.

The surprise slowly faded, but some things never did.

It wasn’t that he spoiled Tyelpe, not at all, he’d scold him when he had to, but he wouldn’t do it in front of her. She’d caught him switch gears mid-lecture to a gentle caution and a generous helping of praise when she walked in.

“I know you know that I’ve scolded him before,” she told him in bemusement. “I’m not going to suddenly turn into one of those horrible mothers who won’t admit their child’s done wrong and jump down the throats of anyone who tries to say otherwise.”

“He’s never done anything seriously wrong,” Curufinwe said instantly. “And he never makes the same mistakes twice.”

A slow realization dawned. “Curufinwe,” she said slowly. “You know I love Tyelpe, right?”

“Of course you love him.”

“And I won’t stop loving him just because he makes a mistake? I don’t need him to be perfect. I’m not sure I’d want him to be. You’re not going to talk me out of loving him if you say he should be more careful in the forge or that he didn’t learn a lesson as quickly as you’d hoped.”

“He’s always care- “ He caught himself. She had never seen him so uncertain.

She linked her fingers through his gently. “I love him,” she repeated. “Like I love you. Unconditionally. Genius, ordinary, or absolute fool. I love you both.” She hesitated. “I know your father must have had high expectations - “

He laughed. The sound was - not his usual laugh. “My father,” he said, “loved each one of us like we were his whole world.”)

(Maglor did his best to look after the twins, but he knew it could never be enough.

“I’m sure your father will come back for you soon,” he assured them. “We won’t keep you from him. You just have to stay with us until he comes.”

“Not Mama?” Elros asked, blinking away tears. They’d cried less and less as the weeks passed, but the nightmares still sometimes came.

Maglor bit back all the things that he and Maedhros had said to each other after that terrible scene, when Elwing had seen her sons in their bloodstained hands and thrown herself out the window with the work of their father’s hands rather than give in to save her sons.

She had been far too frightened to be thinking clearly, possibly even flashing back to Doriath. She had known their reputation and likely thought they would all die no matter what she did. She was not their mother; even if there had not been so many sins on their heads, it would not have been their place to judge.

“Of course your mother might come too,” he said.

He thought of the seagull flying away who had never once glanced back.

It was only his own biases, he knew, that made him so sure that Elros would never see her again.)

#nerdanel #feanor #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #curufin's wife #celebrimbor #ambarussa #elros #alternate character interpretation #silmarillion #tolkien #bad parenting

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