Agarwaen, son of Úmarth [ TURIN ] THE CHILDREN OF HURIN cover edition

Then Túrin sprang about, and strode against him, and fire was in his eyes, and the edges of Gurthang shone as with flame. But Glaurung withheld his blast, and opened wide his serpent-eyes and gazed upon Túrin. Without fear Túrin looked in those eyes as he raised up his sword; and straightway he fell under the dreadful spell of the dragon, and was as one turned to stone. Thus long they stood unmoving, silent before the great Doors of Felagund. Then Glaurung spoke again, taunting Túrin. 'Evil have been all your ways, son of Húrin. Thankless fosterling, outlaw, slayer of your friend, thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy, and deserter of your kin. As thralls your mother and your sister live in Dor-lómin, in misery and want. You are arrayed as a prince, but they go in rags. For you they yearn, but you care not for that. Glad may your father be to learn that he has such a son: as learn he shall.' And Túrin being under the spell of Glaurung hearkened to his words, and he saw himself as in a mirror misshapen by malice, and he loathed what he saw.

— THE CHILDREN OF HÚRIN, CHAPTER XI: THE FALL OF NARGOTHROND

Fingon actually avoids traveling to Himring during the vast majority of the year.

He'll of course never journey during dead of winter, but nor would anyone else, so Maedhros understands it.

But Fingon also abuses his Princely station and reserves journeying to the Marches for the short season of mild warmth, when Himring resembles something like Norway in July, and things are vividly green along the hills.

Otherwise, Fingon insists on meeting somewhere in Dorthonion under the pretext of "maintaining a relationship with Arafinwean kin" (which is not a full lie at least), or "exercising discretion and not letting people think the Prince favors the Lord of Himring over anyone else" (even though everyone knows this as a fact already). Often he'll shamelessly demand that Maedhros ride all the way to Hithlum where he inevitably ends up trapped in Fingolfin's endless council meetings.

When Fingon does come to Himring, Maedhros is winter-worn and feels his limbs slowly re-learning how to move like a butterfly's wings in the shy sunlight. Fingon, on the other hand, is ecstatic, rambling endlessly about all the different species of birds and pollinators he's seen on the ride from Hithlum, complaining avidly about how Himring needs more gardens, and boasting to Maedhros about the incredible increase in harvest yields the Hadorians have achieved in Dor-lómin: "You really aren't taking advantage of the land, beloved. It is no bother to bring seeds from our fields, you just have to ask," or "This fortress needs more windows, this is frankly depressingly dark. You should consider stained glass at the least," or "My love, you are so pale, did you resort to living in your basement since we last saw one other?"

Maedhros puts up with it because he is already warmed on the inside from seeing Fingon alone, and deep down he cannot be angry at one who has crossed the Helcaraxë for despising the cold. But he cannot help but clench his teeth, especially when his beloved cousin tosses his clothes carelessly at midday and jumps into a barely-thawed lake nearby, screaming like a madman from euphoria and the endorphins that rush to his head, before threatening to splash Maedhros if he doesn't join.

Maedhros would rather go back inside and cajole Fingon's body into the hot springs that run beneath the fortress (in the basements, yes!) or trap him beneath a layer of pelts and his own self.

But then Fingon gets out of the water, gloriously naked and his skin deliciously reddened from the cold, and places a gentle hand on Maedhros' cheek before smiling that smile he knows Maedhros cannot resist. "Do you remember when we used to swim in the streams of the Pelóri, Rus? Nothing but Taniquetil above us, none else but the two of us, together."

And what can Maedhros do when those times have been summoned? When Fingon has called him by that name?

He smiles back at Fingon, brightly as summer's sunshine, and strips naked.

Whither Lies the Heart

The story of Ernis, wife of Fingon, and Erien, their daughter.

G, M/F, 1,000 words. [AO3]

In a late (rejected) version of the legendarium, Fingon has a son, Finbor, and a daughter, Erien. A variant of Erien was Ernis. I figured if the men can name all their sons after themselves, so can their wives!

For @finweanladiesweek

_____________________________________________________________

He captures her heart, that fair Noldorin prince who brought the sunlight in his hair and moonlight in his smile and all the host of heaven in his eyes.  Ernis’s father treats with the second-come, the ones who were left behind.  It awes her, their fortitude.  She finds herself smiling more warmly, laughing more readily, singing more sweetly when she thinks he is watching.

Ernis never grows to love the stone towers of her husband’s people.  She endures it for love of him - indeed, she would endure much for he whom she had chosen - but often her feet lead her to wander once again in the open hills and the sparse forests of her home.

Even after she bears him children, her desire to wander cannot be appeased but by the doing.  With Erien upon her back, her feet take her to the very shores of the sea, the taste of salt on her tongue and sand between her toes.  She visits the home of her husband’s kin and they are eager to meet their new niece.

With Finbor still suckling at her breast, she wades into the pools of Ivrin and drinks deep of its waters of renewal.  There she bathes, she and her children, and tells the stories of their mother’s people from long before the sun rose.  

She knows he worries, but Barad Eithel is but a waypoint on her endless journey, and while she strays far across the land, she never remains gone for more than a season or two, always returning to his arms and his bed. Until she can once again no longer bear to be confined and the wind calls her to come and follow.

No matter how she loves him, she can never be fully happy but to be on her way.  Drawing her scarf tight about her head, drawing her satchel across her shoulder, she follows the clouds and dances in the rivers.

In time, Finbor no longer follows, finding delight in the skills of the Noldor, their art of swords and strategies.  But Erien is ever at her mother’s side, walking the long leagues under starlight.

Erien has yet little thought of love or marriage.  She has little thought of much beyond the uses of the plants and the movement of the stars, the coming and going of the birds with the seasons and the secret names of the hills over which she roams.  So it might have continued but for a Spring when more fair princes of the Noldor come to visit.

As her family gathers, her father puts his arm around her shoulder and smiles proudly.  “May I present my daughter, Erien,” he says, and the words swell her chest and warm her heart.

She curtsies before them - these golden princes Angrod and Aegnor, the fair lady Eðellos, but it is upon Orodreth her gaze lands.

Though their fathers seem most eager for Finbor and Orodreth to become friends, whenever she is close to him they fall easily into conversation, his manner light and his laughter warm.  He speaks softly yet with a depth of feeling she cannot help but feel drawn to.  The more time she passes in his company the more she longs to remain so.

When their guests depart to return to Dorthonion, she wanders at first through the fields and forests, aimless and forlorn, until at last she cannot bear it.

“I have walked the length and breadth of Hithlum, tasted the waters of Neverast, trod the ices of Lammoth, and climbed the mountains which encompass Dor-Lómin.  But now my heart desires to see the highlands of Dorthonion, and thither I shall go.”

Fingon kisses her brow tenderly.  “Go,” he says.  “With my leave and my love.  For I have seen where your heart lies, and I am certain you have planted it in fertile soils.”

Ernis embraces her also, but she weeps, for her daughter has found her own path at last and she will no longer shadow her own.

Thus Erien sets her face to the rising sun and goes.  She crosses the Ered Wethrin, passing through Eithel Sirion where her grandfather dwells, before continuing on to the heather-filled hills and tall, fragrant pines of Dorthonion.  It is wild and strange, and despite her reason for coming she cannot but tarry at every new plant and songbird.

It is not until autumn has grown late and the snows begin to fall that she at last comes to the fortress of Ost-na-Thuin upon the northern slopes, shining tall and white, with great banners flying from its walls and ramparts.

Throughout her journey she had often turned her mind to what she would say upon her arrival, how she would win the love of Orodreth.  She constructed many pretty phrases she might use, and even some polite excuses to spare them both should it be clear that he did not share her affections.

What she never dreamed of was to be escorted into the great hall and find her father, mother, and brother all merry guests within.  So certain was Fingon of Orodreth’s feelings, they had set out shortly after she left, riding with a company across Ard-galen and coming to Ost-na-Thuin a full season ahead of her, bearing a number of gifts for his cousins, and a trunk of Erien’s things.

Both families are overjoyed when beneath the bright stars and clear skies of a long winter’s night, Erien and Orodreth are wed.

Like her mother, Erien is ill at ease staying in one place for too long.  Sometimes Orodreth accompanies her on her wanderings, and her feet carry her even as far as Ossiriand, wishing to touch each of the seven rivers which flow there.

When in the fullness of time Finduilas is swaddled and laid upon her breast, she whispers to her of all the many lands through which they will journey, the lands of her mothers who will not be tamed, who wander with the wind and drink from Ivrin.

I don’t know if this counts but I have an au where Fingon is partially possessed by Glaurung during their fight! But I would absolutely love to see your power seeking Fingon takes!

-@outofangband

Okay, first of all, I now have a MIGHT NEED for dragon possessed Fingon.

And I just think, there should be more Valinor fics that lean into Fingon's desire for a domain of his own. Galadriel's not the only ambitious Finwean who desires a kingdom! She's just the most patient about it.

Grant you, in Beleriand Fingon does ease up on these ambitions. He does nothing grand with Dor-lómin, builds no great fortress there, and even gifts it away to the House of Hador for their use. And since we are all reading overmuch between the lines here in our Silm fandom I've speculated that perhaps a good deal of the ambitions of individual Finweans has less to do with power and more to do with, shall we say, a certain level of insecurity that arises when you have too many royals and not enough kingdom.

What is a prince to be prince of when he shall inherit no corner of the kingdom for his own? What is his purpose? What is his place? What shall become of him as the throne passes him by and it becomes vainer and vainer to call himself a prince? What is he if he cannot be what his title proclaims?

That's a scary place to be in even for mere mortals.

It's not exactly great of Fingolfin to be power-jockeying with his elder brother, and it is a thorny wedge between Fingon and Maedhros, but it also feels like a lifeline for someone growing more and more aware of all he won't ever have and who will eventually lose what he does.

So if I were to write a power-hungry Fingon, that's the angle I would take, that's the driving motion; the insecurity of future obsolescence. He's young, he's hotblooded, he's impatient, he doesn't know who he is outside a royal and it's half-shameful to imagine it.

For the ask game, Unlight, beg, please, cry, wound? (very normal and not at all messed up words, I know)

There were no stars now. It was horrible, pitch-black, and the hastily-lit torches and candles cast little light, faltering against the great darkness that was everything. More than darkness: not the mere absence of light but the presence of its opposite, some un-light from the Void.

What had happened? What was happening?

-

“Not yet,” Maedhros chided. “I intend to enjoy having the Prince of Dor-lómin at my mercy.”

“Have you not enjoyed it so far?”

“Oh, immensely. But I am not yet satisfied, and I have plans yet to bring to fruition.” The gleam in Maedhros’s eye was the same as when he had devised a new stratagem. “I want to see you beg.”

-

“I mislike the thought of lying to your father about where you are, especially when he would be asking out of concern for you, and that is something he and I share, O reckless one.”

“Please do not conspire with my father about my safety,” Findekáno said. “You two are bad enough separately.”

-

Maedhros’s ear twitched. An elfling was crying. It was soft, muffled and nearly inaudible over the chatter of the festival, but Maedhros had long experience listening for the tears of small children.

-

“A great spider,” Turkafinwë answered. “We were camping in Avathar and found it. We wounded it, I think, but Nelyo was injured saving Findekáno.” Voice trembling, tears in his eyes, he added: “He told us it was just a scratch. That he was fine.”

in the midst of a long-awaited ask about institutional critique in Tolkien’s works I find myself fascinated by the fact that there’s not a lot of inherent worth in being royalty in the Silm and the Histories, and as this is sort of tangential to the points I’m going to be making in that ask, I figured I should talk about it here

specifically, in The Lord of the Rings there’s real importance to the fact that Aragorn isn’t just a really cool guy he’s got spiritual bonds to and dominion over the land? there’s prophecies to fulfill and unjust systems to break down and justice to be done and restoration that’s got to happen, and Aragorn (as I’ve said before in other posts) is of course a moral person who chooses to do the right thing and who has had decades of training to be a good diplomat and a good King, but also, it matters that he’s the heir. LotR is about Frodo and Sam (and neither of them are nobility, that’s Merry and Pippin, Frodo might be landed gentry but he doesn’t have an inherited title and Sam is 100% common-born) but in the background it matters that the monarchy be populated by good people because otherwise the monarchy is fucked

but in the Silm, where we get maybe five or six total non-noble characters of any importance (Círdan, Aerin, Sador, Nellas, Beleg, Bereg potentially), the monarchy is kind of ineffective when it comes to... well. basically everything. Manwë might be king of Arda but he can’t stop Morgoth from destroying the Trees. Thingol sits in Menegroth feeling smug but he’s hiding behind Melian’s Girdle. Fëanáro is High King for what might as well be all of five minutes and he uses that High Kingship to fuck everything up and make his personal problems the whole world’s problems. Findekáno’s most heroic moments (facing off against baby Glaurung, rescuing Maitimo, presumably assisting during the Bragollach) happen when he’s still a prince. Once Morgoth wins everything enough to call himself king he’s basically on the way out. Findaráto and Turukáno and Artaresto/Orodreth make their marks as essentially ineffective outside their very limited sphere of influence, with Turukáno both refusing to offer help to Húrin and refusing to heed Ulmo’s words of warning. Findaráto goes further than that - he really only becomes truly heroic when he gives up his kingship, realizing that there are things more important and more honorable than maintaining his life of relative comfort and luxury and influence.

Nolofinwë is sort of the lone exception, winning the Dagor Aglareb and reunifying the Noldor as best he can and introducing a few centuries of relative peace and prosperity for his people, but unlike Aragorn there’s nothing about what he does that truly necessitates him being High King. If he’d been a charismatic populist leader or a community organizer he could have conceivably done a lot of what he does in canon.

and I find this interesting because this is a story where everyone - and I do mean everyone - has some kind of tie to the nobility or to the ruling class, and yet one of the messages it repeatedly returns to is “the nobility and the ruling class are fallible, they are prone to error, they are just as flawed as anyone else, and when they fuck up they fuck up spectacularly”. Fëanáro doesn’t have some kind of deep spiritual tie to his people, they decided to follow him because they liked him. Thingol declared himself king of Beleriand and possibly arranged for his most significant political rival to die in battle, RIP Denethor of the Laiquendi but he ultimately doesn’t act in the best interest of Beleriand as a whole at any point.

the people who do the most good - Túrin, Beren, Findekáno - are acting outside of their roles as the heirs to great houses, and often are forced to choose between loyalty to the governmental system that gave them power or their hereditary office and doing what’s right. Túrin goes back to Dor-lómin and instead of freeing everyone from slavery and starting a resistance movement and restoring his family name to a place of honor he makes everything objectively worse; his heroism is best showcased when he’s under an assumed name and away from his identity as the heir of Húrin Thalion. Beren has to abandon Dorthonion for the sake of his own survival, and he never reclaims it, he finds worth and value in a life beyond striving to save a legacy that cannot be saved by just one man. Findekáno goes against the political best interests of his father when he saves Maitimo from Angamando - even though this act of selfless altruism and deep love is ultimately the right choice, in the moment he’s risking his own life for the heir of a hostile house and he has no idea how this will end up.

there’s something really compelling about the fact that the story Tolkien wrote that’s praised as glorifying the heroism of everyday people is the one about the spiritual renewal inherent in the fulfillment of prophecy, and the story he wrote about a bunch of bitchy nobles all fighting each other is the one that’s most ambivalent about whether or not there’s anything special about the people in charge.

12, 16, and 19 for the smut asks please!

Thank you vr much @samarqqand! <3

12. Who are your favorite characters/pairings to write smut for?

Right now? I'm having a great deal of fun trying out different configurations of Maglor/Daeron. I like writing Russingon smut, but they keep evading me lately! I am quite new to regular smut writing as more than just occasional dabbling, and I'm still figuring out how to bring out what I want out of different characters.

16. What do you think is the sexiest part of actual Tolkien canon? Inclusive of the books, onscreen depictions, etc. 

@meadowlarkx's incredible fic persuit has made that single line about Tulkas resting in weariness after his marriage to Nessa one of the sexiest in the Silm to me.

Maedhros' 'a king is he,...' is of course very sexy. Melian is sexy; Fingolfin is sexy; whatever is going on with Uinen, Osse and Ulmo re: taming and repentance and seduction back to Good from Evil is sexy and so intriguing - by all means, tell me more!

And of course Liv Taylor's invoking of water steeds was foundational.

19. Share a favorite passage from one of your smut fics. 

From The Fire of Life:

“Let the dues fit the duty,” Maedhros said piously; he had to bite his cheek not to betray himself. Fingon knew it, for he felt the taste of it in his own mouth, their spirits near enough that Maedhros shuddered with Fingon’s own shiver. “Himring seeks always the pleasure of the lord of Dor-Lómin. How would my prince have his hospitality?" Warm yourself if you dare, you coward, Maedhros thought, mouth curling into an open smile at last.  Fingon leaned back on the pillows and smiled slowly to himself. “I think I shall be able to think of something.” 

Angband World Building and Aftermath of Captivity Masterlist

I talked about public events in Angband here and this is related

Reviews of Angband feasts :)

Feasts in Angband are not uncommon as a way to improve morale among the soldiers and servants as well as a display of luxury.

The happiness of the prisoners and slaves is not considered. They are prevented from rebellion by a variety of brute force and more subtle, manipulative methods. But for the orcs and other denizens not considered thralls, rewards are a necessary incentive for them, to distract and inspire them from the fact that many if not most of them labor as long and hard as the elven slaves

(Again see my post on the almost bureaucratic nature of Angband)

Many of the feasts that are organized for the moral of the soldiers is left up to captains and generals with minimal oversight from the higher-ups so long as they use only what supplies are delegated to them

Some however are organized from the top up. These are often held in one of the several great halls After a victory or defeat, for the displaying of an important guest, or simply at the whim of the Lords of Angband . Occasionally executions or public punishments take place.

Elven prisoners attend generally as servants. They serve food and drinks, clean, manage lighting, and occasionally provide decoration or entertainment. They are selected from the prisoners of the upper levels. Depending on the occasion and the prisoner, serving during a feast can be a privilege or an awful punishment.

Anyways here are some attendee’s reviews

“The feasts are a lot of fun. The food isn’t much if you’re of my kind but the entertainment can be great and if you have my station, you can get away with stirring things up if it gets boring. But there’s nothing like the public humiliation of a foe to inspire me to inspire my men”

-Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs

“As a prince of the Noldor, attending feasts to represent my family is a not uncommon happening, particularly since my father so dislikes them. I generally do not mind having to be the face of the House of Fëanor and sometimes the Noldor at large at such events. My people certainly know how to throw an interesting party and Telerin and Vanyar celebrations are hardly dull. I cannot say this about Angband. My attendance was required to make something of a political point and the point was evidently emphasized by my increased discomfort and humiliation. The garb was a crude mockery of Noldorin formal ware and though I was fed only scraps, they were of extremely dubious origin. All in all, not a pleasant experience”

-Lord Maedhros, Son of Fëanor

“Horrible decorations, awful attendees, cold, dreadful host. My nine year old could plan a more enjoyable party and he doesn’t even like parties (he takes after his mother that way). My horse could arrange a better party.”

-Húrin Thalion, Lord of Dor-lómin, captain to king Fingon

“I do not wish to speak of what I witnessed on the one occasion I was brought to attend one.”

-Gwindor of Nargothrond

“I never got to attend. I was deemed too unruly and defiant and I was never so important that my mere presence in the halls could be something to laud over. but I remember the faces of my fellows when they returned from one as well as some of the overseers who returned raucous and glad.”

-Rog of The House of the Hammer of Wrath, Lord of Gondolin

Constellation

Fingon x reader

Warnings: fluff, mortal reader, poetic confession, falling in love, first-love troupe, Fingon being charming

Words: 1.5k

Synopsis: Fingon treats you to a night under the stars.

“If you look over there, see those four stars that make something like a box, that’s the Valacirca. It’s a very early creation of the Lady Varda.” Your eyes trailed, following the hand of Fingon that pointed into the night sky showing you the outline of the stars.

The both of you were currently laying on the grass in the fields of Dor-lómin stargazing. After a long, stressful week, the prince had invited you to spend some time with him once his schedule was clear. Today was the third day in his cleared schedule and he chose to spend the night showing you all the stars of creation that the Lady Varda made.

You were unfamiliar with many of the names since as an Edain, your folks carried their own names of the stars in a different tongue. This was the first time you were learning the Quenya names for them and for some unknown reason, the names seemed to roll off your tongue quite heavily.

“Your pronunciation isn’t that bad as compared to other folks I know.” Fingon joked as he listened to your attempt at pronouncing the name, instead, only to nearly take a bite of your tongue, literally.

“I think if I continued practicing, I’d get the hang of it in no time.” You responded as you held your hand to your eyes, preventing the tears from flowing. Had you understood that Quenya was a lot different from Sindarin, you would have withheld from asking the prince to teach you.

“Well then, that means we’ll have to have more nights like this for me to teach you.” You were able to hear hopefulness in his voice as he turned to speak directly to you, holding eye contact.

It was no joke that the prince was fond of you, you even heard the whispers from the workers whenever the prince showed up at your house asking for your company or to give you a tour. To you, you believed that the prince was doing his best to make you stay in his kingdom as an Edain, as enjoyable and comfortable as possible. He was aware of how troublesome it would have been for you to settle in, so he was personally going out of his way to assist, and everyone took that as him fancying you. You’d admit, the prince was very charming and pleasant to be around, but for some unknown reason, you couldn’t see the prince placing himself with a mortal. You understood that the difference between you two would make a relationship trialling.

“Uh – yes, of course, why not.” You fumbled around with your words as you found it difficult to speak now that the prince was directly staring at you. Dropping your gaze which the prince intensely held, you wouldn’t have missed the soft look he cast your way at your shyness. He was very aware of the effects his actions had on you and was secretly enjoying it.

“Well then, why don’t we continue, we still have a few more hours before you need to turn in?” At the sound of his voice, you raised your head to reply, only to end up holding another intense eye contact. Gazing at each other, you saw how his blue eyes were sparkling under the moonlight along with a few constellations reflecting in his orbs. His dark circles were evident under his eyes, yet the appearance of them did not deter the beauty you saw as you inspected him.

During the time you had spent dwelling with the elves, you understood that they were terrifyingly beautiful, and it was something that you found unable to adapt to. You always felt as though your eyes would be blinded from the light they emanated or their beauty. However, whenever you were around the prince, his presence or beauty had never once scared you, it was calming and alluring. Many times, you needed to resist the urge to dwell within his company whenever proposed; too afraid of becoming attached. Though you learned that it was something inevitable since constantly being around him made you feel as though you were being pulled in closer.

Scooting closer to him and pulling the blankets around your body tighter to reduce the cold wind, you raised your body off the ground to kneel on the grass and leaned into his face. All this time, Fingon sat there with a puzzled expression, curious to learn what your next moves were since he understood that you weren’t very daring or bold with your actions and always required a tad bit of support.

“Telumendil.” Your finger was now pointing at the constellation reflecting in his blue eyes. Pleased you were, that you were able to remember the name of the constellation and pronounce it somewhat correctly because the prince’s reaction was enough to say so. Raising his brows and parting his lips, a faint gasp escaped his mouth as he was pleased with your attempts to remember the earlier constellations he pointed out; however, he was still unaware of the reason for you pointing your finger in his face.

Letting out a soft chuckle, he moved his hand to hold your smaller one, all the while gauging your expression, and guided it gently into the night sky to point at the star cluster. At the contact of his hands on yours, you felt a small spark run through your body which made you jolt at the touch. A light blush had made its way across the expanse of your cheeks, slowly spreading across the rest of your face, but due to the coldness of the night's wind, the blush appeared mild in colour.

All this time, Fingon’s hand still encompassed yours, holding your hand to point at the cluster of stars. He’d admit, this was the closest he had ever gotten to having skin-on-skin contact with you, and he found it exhilarating.

“Telumendil is in the northern direction, not on my face.” He chuckled softly to you, unaware of your awestruck appearance.

“Your – your highness, I – um – meant to point at your face for…never mind.” At the sound of your voice, he turned his head to face you with an encouraging expression, urging you to continue your speech. He was desperate to learn what you were attempting to tell him.

“No, please, continue. I am listening.”

You couldn’t help but turn your head in the opposite direction as a smile graced your face from looking at him. The intensity of his stare along with his beautiful smile was too much for you to intake. When you assumed that a simple night stargazing with the prince would be a breeze, instead it turned out to be an emotional mess for the both of you, mainly you since the prince was better at controlling his emotions.

Now, you didn’t know if explaining your reason for earlier actions would cause the prince to change his perspective of you or continue his friendship with you. You didn’t want the good you shared with him to be ruined, but when he was more than friendly with you, believing that the rumours were true was sounding more convincing.

“I – I just wanted to say that I… saw the stars in your eyes, that’s why I was pointing at your face.” You were still facing away from him when you mumbled your declaration to him, not sure if he had picked up on any words as the wind chose to blow at the most inopportune time.

Fortunately, he did hear your words because the look of relief on his face said it. Using his hold on your hand, he gave it a small tug that caught your attention in time to observe him bringing the back of your hands to his lips and planting a kiss. If you were previously blushing strawberries, you were now tomato. Bowing your head in your blanket to hide the blush and smile, you felt the prince’s arm snaking around your waist and lifting you to sit closer to his side. Burying your face further into the blanket because you didn’t believe you could handle the turn the situation took, you released a nervous laugh. 

“Now what’s so funny?” Gingerly lifting your head to meet his eyes, you saw how the prince was looking at you lovingly. His hand that was still holding yours was now intertwined with your smaller one. Staring at the hand, you raised them both indicating to him that you were holding hands. Trailing his eyes to observe your hands intertwined, he gave it a light squeeze before he leaned his head down to let his lips meet with your forehead. An act that he longed to bestow upon you. At his kiss to the crow of your head, you curled into his chest and buried your face to giggle at the affectionate gesture.

“If this is what I believe it to be, then you understand what will happen soon?” You asked with great worry in your voice, knowing that in time to come you will pass from this world and leave him alone.

“I would rather spend one lifetime with you than to face the ages of this world alone.”

Taglist: @spidergirla5

Masterlist

Never forget when Glaurung dragged Túrin for a filth

“Thankless fosterling, outlaw, slayer of thy friend, thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy, and deserter of thy kin. As thralls thy mother and thy sister live in Dor-lómin, in misery and wants. Thou art arrayed as a prince, but they go in rags; and for thee they yearn, but thou carest not for that. Glad may thy father be to learn that he hath such a son; as learn he shall!”

And He Was Loved by the King

1/4 explanations as to how and why Fingon gave Hador the Dragon Helm of Dor-lómin.

Hador loved the Prince of Hithlum since the first time he laid eyes on him.

They all loved him. The boys who fought their first battle, tightly holding onto their swords too heavy in their shaking hands. The men with silver strands in their golden beards, doughty warriors whose nerve was hardened by skirmish after skirmish. The women, who still sang for their dead as they striped a sharpened knife between their skirts, for war knew no difference between a battlefield and a home.

They loved him because Fingon sang as he rode out to meet his enemies, his plaits threaded with gold flowing in the wind, his laughter echoing against the mountains that bordered their country. And Hador's people - boys, men, and women - heard his voice and forgot their own mortality. They marched onward, fighting, killing, daring to follow him into feats they never believed possible.

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Fëanorian Counternarratives - Maedhros

For Maedhros, one of the more interesting lines in HoME is from HoME 3, The Lays of Beleriand:

Maidhros tall (the eldest, whose ardour yet more eager burnt than his father’s flame, than Fëanor’s wrath)

The standard, almost universal portrayal of Maedhros in fanfic is as responsible, pragmatic, thoughtful, stoic; the Team Dad of the Fëanorian brothers. But what if he wasn’t like that? What if we followed what this line says?

What if Maedhros and Fingon were close in Valinor not because of differences, but because of similarities? What if they were both passionate, impulsive, a little reckless? What if they were both genuinely, passionately on their fathers’ sides in the Unrest of the Noldor and it caused genuine anger and division between them?

What if they both saw passion and impulsiveness and recklessness result in devastating consequences - the Kinslaying, the Doom, the burning of the ships, Fëanor’s death, Maedhros’ capture, the crossing of the Helcaraxë - and became more thoughtful and responsible as a consequence of this?

We know that Fingon follows that trajectory, to a degree. His desire, during the Return of the Noldor, is (similar to Galadriel) to “to see the wide unguarded lands and there to rule a realm at [his] own will.” He jumps impulsively into the Kinslaying based on false assumptions.

But in Middle-earth, he appears to have less independence of action than any of the other Noldorin princes; his role in Hithlum is largely as a support to his father. Initially he does have the rule of Dor-lómin, but that later passes to the House of Hador when they settle there, leaving him with no territory that’s specifically and exclusively his. Rather than having more space and scope to rule independently, he becomes a steady, reliable understudy - and frontline general, going by his substantial combat achievements - to his father. (While meanwhile his brother, Turgon, who would previously have been considered ‘the stable, responsible one’ of the family, completely disappears.)

So why can’t Maedhros have a similar trajectory, starting out somewhat passionate and reckless and prone to jumping into things, and concluding over the course of several years chained to Thangorodrim (plus Losgar and has father’s death serving as previous moments indicating that this glorious campaign against Morgoth for the purposes of avenging grandpa isn’t going quite as planned) that maybe he needs to put a little more thought and consideration into his decisions?

I don’t have any objection to to the more typical Maedhros portrayals; I just think that it could be interesting to have some material that departs from the default assumptions and gives us a very different personality for Maedhros in his youth, and a very different tenor to his interactions with Fingon. The canon that we have leaves scope for it.

elves of arda ✹ gondolindrim ✹ headcanon disclaimer ✹ @gondolinweek

          Itarillë Vanisailë was the daughter of Turukáno Ñolofinwion and Elenwë Calimiel. She was only a child when the Ñoldor marched across the Helcaraxë, a treacherous journey where she lost her mother. Her father, always a serious nér, grew even grimmer after this tragedy and kept Itarillë close to his side.           The arrival of the Noldor in Beleriand allowed for Itarillë to exercise slightly more freedom than she had been allowed on the Ice, though Turukáno still would not allow her to wander far. As she grew into adulthood, Itarillë loved and resented her father in equal measure, for he was the only parent she retained and yet denied her the agency she craved.           Itarillë went with Turukáno to Nevrast, and while she loved the sea she missed the company of those few friends who had not quailed from her father’s intimidating presence, including the young healer Meleth who charmed her to distraction. She missed also her uncle Findekáno, a gay and jovial prince who indulged her more rebellious tendencies and shielded her from Turukáno’s anxiety. Itarillë grew restless in Vinyamar, chafing against her father’s stern watch, and eventually fled secretly to visit her uncle in Dor-lómin (and Meleth, who served in his house) without Turukáno’s leave. Turukáno lost his temper dramatically when he discovered her flight, an incident that resulted in his close friend and cousin Finrod taking him away on a journey to come to terms with his fears and losses.           Turukáno was gone for a year, during which time Itarillë finally felt she could breathe and discover what kind of nís she wanted to be. Finrod arranged for her cousins Orodreth and Tyelperinquar to keep her company while Fingon, Galadriel, and Aredhel kept watch over the band of youths; the cousins engaged in many lighthearted adventures and dramatics, including teasing Orodreth over his infatuation with the Sindarin princess Amathluin, daughter of the rulers of the Mithrim Sindar. Itarillë and Meleth flirted for several months, exchanging a few kisses and love letters before they decided that they were not fated to bond, settling instead into a deep and abiding friendship that would stand the test of time.           When Finrod and Turukáno returned, the distance between father and daughter had mellowed their tempers, and they were reunited with gladness. As Itarillë, or Idril as she became known in Sindarin, came of age, Turukáno gradually relaxed his vigilance over her safety and grew to confide in her of his plans to build a city safe from the dangers of Beleriand. Idril proved an invaluable counselor as he began work on Ondolindë’s construction, and Turukáno proved his trust in her by granting her a noble House of her own once they retreated into the city’s walls.           In the safety of Tumladen, Idril reassumed her Quenya name, and was known both as the Princess of Ondolindë and the Lady of the House of the Wing. She took this symbol from the swans she had loved in Vinyamar, having learned their language from her kinswoman Galadriel, originally of the Teleri of Alqualondë. Among the folk of the Wing were Itarillë’s friend Meleth and her house-carl Hendor, a footman she had befriended during her year in Fingon’s court.           Itarillë was a skilled dancer, both as a solo performer and with her friend Meleth as a partner, and for this and her habit of walking about the streets of Ondolindë unshod, she earned the epessë Telpevontál, or Celebrindal. She was for the most part removed from the politics of her father’s court, for she held more interest in dancing and tending to the palace gardens than quarrelling with her fellow lords. Nonetheless, when she held an opinion on King Turukáno’s policies, she was certain to make her voice known, and all respected her input.           Though Itarillë was not herself a hunter, she would sometimes accompany her aunt Aredhel, Lady of the Tower of Snow, on expeditions outside the city limits. She still yearned for freedom, and though the confinement within the white stone walls of Ondolindë was less stifling for her than it was for her aunt she wished to breathe the open air and have space to herself from time to time. When Aredhel left Gondolin to visit Fingon in Dor-lómin, Itarillë half-wished to accompany her, but she knew her place was at her father’s side. Upon Aredhel’s disappearance and her later death, Itarillë was deeply grieved, for she had loved her aunt dearly.           Though Aredhel perished, her son lived, though Itarillë knew not what to make of Maeglin Lómion, the cousin she never expected to have. His apparent apathy upon the execution of his father unsettled her, and though she was naturally sympathetic to a young ellon so cruelly orphaned his oddness made her hesitate to befriend him. It helped not at all that he seemed to shy away from her, even as he grew more confident in his position as the King’s nephew and revealed a more charming and charismatic side to the people of Gondolin.           Penlod, the Lairde of both the Pillar and the Tower of Snow after Aredhel’s demise, would still at times invite Itarillë to accompany them on hunts outside of Ondolindë. On one such occasion, Penlod also extended the invitation to Maeglin, and he eagerly accepted the chance to see some of the outside world. While on this ill-fated expedition, the hunters were attacked by white wolves from the mountains, and Itarillë and Lómion were separated from the rest of the group.           Lómion suffered a great injury in defending Itarillë from the wolves, and Itarillë, who had learned some healing from Meleth, insisted on treating his wounds. When conventional methods did little to staunch the bleeding, she insisted on Singing the wound closed despite Lómion’s great reluctance. Itarillë and Lómion both were strong in ósanwë, though Itarillë’s talent lay in perceiving the minds of others and Lómion’s in shielding his mind from any who wished to peer into his thoughts; Itarillë had long been curious—and, admittedly, a little suspicious—as to what lay hidden in her cousin’s heart.           As she Sang healing into Lómion’s hröa, their fëar mingled and Itarillë was shocked to discover that Lómion’s secret was his infatuation with her despite their close kinship, now rising to the surface of his thoughts. Astonished and not a little bit horrified, Itarillë faltered, retreating from his mind and succeeding only in making his injury worse. Luckily, they were recovered by Penlod soon after, and Maeglin was tended to by more experienced healers, but the incident deeply affected both cousins. They never spoke of it again, and Itarillë distanced herself from Maeglin more than she had already, engendering further bitterness between them.           When Turukáno marched with ten thousand soldiers to fight in the Fifth Battle, he first asked Maeglin to act as regent in absence, but he insisted on accompanying the King to war. Privately, Itarillë was glad to see him gone, for she trusted her cousin less with every passing year and did not wish to leave Ondolindë in his hands. Indeed, she was offended that her father had gone to him first with this request, and offered the regency to her only after Maeglin had refused. Nevertheless, when the warriors departed, it was Itarillë who ruled the city until the King’s return.           Not long after the disaster of the Nírnaeth Arnœdiad and her father’s ascension to High King of the Noldor, a Man arrived in Gondolin with a message from Ulmo. This was Tuor, son of Huor who had dwelt a year in Ondolindë as a child, and Itarillë was fascinated by the noble bearing and easy charm about him almost as much as she was troubled by Turukáno’s refusal to heed Ulmo’s ominous warning.           Itarillë befriended Tuor, and when Turukáno—encouraged by Maeglin—dismissed her counsel again and again, she and her new companion began to work together on a secret tunnel out of the city and into the mountains. As their collaboration progressed, Itarillë found herself growing deeply fond of Tuor, and gladly accepted his advances when he requested to court her.           At first Turukáno hesitated to see their love developing, but he recalled the last words of Huor his friend: “From you and from me a new star shall arise.” Meditating on this prophecy, he at last agreed to Tuor’s proposal of marriage, giving him the green stone known as the Elessar, once a symbol of his brother’s marriage, to his future law-son as a token of approval. Tuor took the stone and commissioned the smith Enerdhil of the Hammer of Wrath to restore it to its former glory and set it into a necklace he gave as a wedding gift to Itarillë. Tuor joined his wife as the leader of her House of the Wing; in only a year’s time, their son Eärendil Ardamírë was born.           Itarillë’s suspicion of Maeglin only grew in these years, for her cousin made no secret of his distrust and jealousy of Tuor. He gifted little Eärendil a small coat made of mithril, and while she was not so foolish as to deny such a precious gift, she resolved to watch him ever more closely. In Eärendil’s sixth year, Maeglin delved deep into the mines of Anghabar for longer than he ever had before, and Itarillë guessed he was preparing for some twisted scheme.           When at last Maeglin returned to Ondolindë, he was even grimmer and harried than usual; he would often approach Itarillë in private and attempt to speak to her, but his words would die in his throat and he would flee into the darkness. Itarillë confided her worries to Tuor, and her husband thereafter made an effort to remain by her side as often as he could. Shortly before the celebration of Tarnin Austa, Maeglin for the last time caught Itarillë on her own, insisting she take as a gift a curious dagger that would glow should the Enemy come near. Deeply troubled by this veiled threat, Itarillë set aside the blade and never used it, fearing it was somehow cursed.           At last the dreadful doom for which Tuor and Itarillë had long been preparing came to pass, for on the morn of Tarnin Austa the armies of Morgoth attacked Gondolin and its great Fall began. Once more Tuor and Itarillë begged Turukáno to flee the city, but at Maeglin’s urging he instead chose to fight and attempt to hold the city. Itarillë left at once to prepare her secret way, knowing that the hidden kingdom would fall and she would need to lead its survivors to safety, while Tuor reluctantly rallied the House of the Wing to arms.           As Itarillë made her way to her tunnel with Eärendil, she was accosted by Maeglin, whose mental defenses were now tattered and torn. Seeing clearly now that he had betrayed them, Itarillë attempted to fight him off, but with a few of his folk to aid him he captured her and dragged her to the cliffside. Raving and mad, Maeglin ranted that Morgoth’s victory was inevitable and it would be a kinder fate for them all to die at his hands than be tortured by the Enemy’s servants; he seized Eärendil and would have thrown him off the walls of the city had Itarillë not resisted him. He sneered at her for forgetting the blade he gave her, and in a moment of desperation their minds touched briefly one last time.           In that moment Tuor arrived, rushing to the defense of his wife and child. Maeglin swung his blade wildly, striking little Eärendil, but his blow was in vain for the child wore the mithril coat he himself had crafted. Swiftly, Tuor broke Maeglin’s arm, recovered Eärendil, and as soon as Itarillë had the boy safely in her arms he pressed Maeglin to the edge of Caragdûr and shoved him off the edge. Thus fell Maeglin, dying the same death as his father—but Itarillë was reeling, for in their very last moment of contact Maeglin had bared his soul to her entirely, revealing that his treachery had been coerced and that he was under a spell of Morgoth, and that he had been attempting to warn her of the attack for months. It was not enough to make up for the death and destruction and doom, but Itarillë could not find it in her heart to be glad that he was dead.           Yet there was no time to process her roiling emotions, for the battle raged on. Itarillë resumed her efforts to usher the commonfolk of Ondolindë into her tunnel, and Tuor led his warriors back into the fray, leaving his friend Voronwë to guard his family. Tuor forced his way to the battle at the gate, fighting alongside Ecthelion of the Fountain, where he slew three orc-lords and five Balrogs. He was forced to retreat when the walls fell and Ecthelion was injured, and the Fountain and the Wing fell back to the Square of the King, joined by the Tree on their journey. There a bitter last stand was made, in which Ecthelion perished killing Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, and at last Turukáno saw that Gondolin was indeed fallen. He ordered Tuor to lead the retreat of those who yet lived, though despite Tuor’s pleading he refused to flee himself.           Tuor and Itarillë led the surviving exiles through their secret way, giving charge of little Eärendil to Hendor, Meleth, and Voronwë while they ensured the safety of their people. As they fled into the mountains and the city crumbled behind them, the refugees were attacked once more by a Balrog, and were saved only by the intervention of the Eagles and by the valiance of Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, who was dragged to his death by the demon he slew.           Idril and Tuor led the Gondolindrim on a long and winding journey to the Havens of Sirion, and after seeing their son married, departed out to Sea in search of Valinor where Idril had been born. There is more to their tale, and though it is filled with great sorrow it concludes in joy and family reunited against all odds, for though Arda was Marred it shall not be so forever.

Women of House Bëor

Adanel was a Wise-woman who helped preserve the tale of Man’s original sin, when, soon after awakening, some Men chose to worship Melkor instead of Eru. She passed this story along to her niece, Andreth, who became known for her wisdom, as well. Adanel married Belemir and bore Beren, the great-grandfather of Beren Erchamion.

Andreth was the eldest daughter of Boromir, Lord of Ladros. She was raised by her aunt, Adanel, and surpassed her aunt in wisdom. After falling in love with the elven prince, Aegnor, Andreth vowed to never marry as she could not marry the person she truly loved. She was a close friend of Finrod Felagund and often discussed with him the lore of Elves and Men.

Emeldir the Man-hearted was a matriarch of House Bëor who led the women and children of her family to safety during the aftermath of the Dagor Balloch. Due to her bravery, she was given the nickname of “Man-hearted.” She married Barahir and bore the famous Beren Erchamion.

Beldis was a woman of House Bëor. She married Handir, the Lord of the Haladin, and bore a son, Brandir, who was permanently lame. She nurtured her son’s interest in nature instead of combat. She cautioned her son against aligning with Túrin Turambar, but her son fell under the curse of Turín and died by his sword. Her son was the last Chieftain of the Haladin.

Morwen Eledhwen was the Lady of Dor-Lómin and married Húrin of House Hador. She bore three children: Túrin Turambar, Lalaïth, and Nienor. She was described as being elven-like in beauty and possessed a stern, stoic manner. She was separated from her husband and remaining children during an Easterling attack on her land. She lived under elven protection until she was eventually reunited with her husband.

Rían was the cousin of Morwen Eledhwen. She was described as being gentle of heart, a lover of trees and wild flowers, and was known to compose and sing songs. She followed Emeldir to safety during the Dagor Balloch where she wed Huor whose brother, Húrin, married Morwen. When her husband unexpectedly died in battle, Rían gave birth to a son, Tuor, leaving him in elven care before dying of grief.

Love Struck Prince

Fandom: The Silmarillion Pairing: Fingon x Erestor Rating: T Summary: Fingon, had no trouble admitting that, he had a crush. Well, truth be told, he was more than a little in love with his head librarian and advisor. Words: 1465 Notes: Written for fictober-event,  prompts #9 “will you look at this?” & #30 "just say it"

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Fingon, had no trouble admitting that, he had a crush. Well, truth be told, he was more than a little in love with his head librarian and advisor.

Erestor, was a very handsome elf, in his own – perhaps not so humble – opinion. Tall, blackest hair he’d ever seen, warm green eyes that looked like new leaves under the summer sun, noble face and smarter than just, well, most everyone. Possibly including himself. Voice warm, like crushed velvet. He didn’t dare to think of how he’d look without the dark robes he usually wore. And he was very aware that his crush had developed at first sight. And now, with the few - very formal meetings they had held, that crush was growing.

Problem was, that for all his so called ‘bravery’, he had no idea on how to approach him. He was a warrior, prone to adventures, he liked to hunt and spar and ride in the early mornings. Erestor was simply his opposite. Yes, he was aware that Erestor was a fine shot, but the advisor preferred indoor activities.

He also didn’t know if Erestor preferred ellyn or ellith.

They were cordial, but their relationship was strictly professional. After all, Erestor was newly arrived to Dor-Lómin, his father had sent him over, with a letter saying that Erestor would be a fine addition to his council chamber and library.

He had thought, long and hard as how to approach Erestor, and so far, he had not succeeded. He closed his eyes, swirling his wine before taking a mouthful. Erestor liked books, that was a given, so perhaps he could start from there…? Maybe forging a friendship based on books would be a good way to start. But what if he… Yes, that would do just fine.

Grinning madly, he finished his wine and hoped that Erestor wasn’t at the library at the moment. He didn’t run, that would be undignified, but he rushed towards the library. His luck held true, for once when he arrived, the whole place was empty. He closed the door, making sure there was no one around or outside.

Once he finished his work, he left and waited near a corner, hidden. A short while later, Erestor came into view and so, he left his hiding spot and made it look like he was going to the library. “Evening, Erestor.”

Erestor, bowed, “Good eve, my Prince.”

He beat Erestor to the door, opened and crossed the threshold, then stopped. He nearly felt Erestor bump against him. Feigning surprise, he turned, “Will you look at this?”

Erestor peaked above one of his shoulders, jaw dropping a bit before he regained his wits. “Dear Elbereth. Who…?”

He walked in, Erestor close behind him. The library, was, in few words a mess. The first four bookcases had been tipped over and the books had spilled all over the floor. The bookcases laid atop them. He sighed. “I think,” he said. “It’s better we fix this.”

Erestor, looked at him surprised. “There is no need, my Prince. I can manage on my own. Or if you would, perhaps you could send for two of the junior librarians, we could have this fixed in no time.”

He waved a hand at Erestor, “There’s no need, I am not going to bed soon. Just tell me where everything goes and we’ll have everything in order in no time.” He quickly lifted the bookcases, then he knelt and began picking up books, looking over the spines and holding some beneath his arm. “Come, let us get to work.”

Erestor watched him wearily, then sighed and nodded. “If you’re certain.”

“I am.” He looked up and gave Erestor, what he hoped was a dazzling smile. “Poetry, those go where?”

Erestor approached, crouched low and began to pick books himself. “Second bookcase, the one labeled 4-B.” Erestor looked at him, so he did the only thing he could, he smiled again.

“So, tell me about yourself Erestor, I’m afraid I don’t quite know much about you.” What a lie that was, as if he hadn’t observed Erestor like a hawk to prey. As if he hadn’t made discreet inquires around. Oh well, Erestor didn’t need to know that. “How are you liking Dor-Lómin.”

The look that Erestor gave him was one that seemed to say, that he’d grown a second head. But still, Erestor did answer, “I was born in Hithlum, my parents still work for High King Fingolfin. My father’s a soldier, my mother a librarian,” there, Erestor’s whole face softened. “I inherited my love for books from her, my father says.” He shook his head as he placed a book in it right spot. “My life is not very exciting your Majesty, but I appreciate the inquiry. However, I will say, that I quite Dor-Lómin more than Hithlum.”

He beamed, “Nonsense, Erestor! I quite like learning about my people, and you’re one of mine now. Is it not my duty to know about it?”

“Well, yes,” Erestor conceaded. “I just – well, I don’t think I’m very interesting.”

He shook his head, “None of that. Now, uh, where does botany go?”

Erestor gave him a tiny smile, “2-A, your majesty.”

And so, they spent more than two hours placing books in their rightful place, talking and sharing little stories and by the time they were done, he was sure that Erestor would be more talkative with him now. Hopefully, something would come out of that.

It did, but it had taken them quite a few years. Erestor, at first reluctant and disbelieving, did his best to dissuade him, but he was nothing if not undeterred and stubborn. He wooed Erestor slowly, with care and the utmost patience, a strange thing for him – seeing as he didn’t have much patience to begin with, but he did. In the end, he managed to convince Erestor to give him a chance. From then on, it was smooth sailing. Well, mostly. They were discreet in their love, for even without needing to be told, he knew that many would scorn and do their best to try and have him set Erestor aside. A king needed heirs, he knew they would argue. Erestor took it all with surprising calm, understood what being in a relationship with a king meant for both of them and, with all the wisdom that he had grown to know from Erestor, he simply stated that Kings didn’t have much freedom.

Their love grew and was a steady, it was his calm and steady refuge against Morgoth’s ever looming darkness. It lasted until his death. And beyond, for he woke in the lands of his birth with Erestor’s name upon his lips. He knew that one day, Erestor would come and join him. So he waited.

It took millennia, but the day arrived when Erestor, alongside his great-grand-nephew Elrond’s ship finally docked in Tol Eressëa. He kept as much dignity as he could, but that didn’t prevent him from enveloping Erestor in a bone crushing hug.

“I missed you,” he whispered against his lover’s ear. “Welcome home.”

Erestor looked the same, only his eyes were deeper and keen with age. But he was smiling, with the same smile that he had given him in their private moments alone. One reserved only for him, one that he hoarded like a dragon would.

“It’s good to be home, beloved.”

“Come, I’m staying in a lovely cottage. Bring your things, then, when you have rested and regained your land legs, we can go home. Our home.”

Erestor feign shock, “Fingon, people will talk!”

“Let them, I don’t care. Not anymore. I’m not letting you, ever.”

“Greedy dragon.”

“For you? Aye, I am.”

Erestor gave him a look of fond exasperation. “Come on then, let us go to this cottage you speak of. My things will come later.”

Hand in hand, they made their way towards the home he had rented. He had already prepared a meal, it was only a question of reheating it. Erestor could bathe while he did.

It was much later, when they had been laying in bed in the dark, that he had spoken. Softly and carefully, as if confessing a terribly sin. “I have something to tell you.”

“Go on, love.”

“Well, it’s a bit awkward for me, you see.”

“Fingon, just say it.”

He swallowed. “It was me who messed the library that night in Dor-Lómin.”

Erestor snorted. “You’re lucky I love you. Sleep well my love.”

“Wait, you’re not angry?”

“My love? I already knew.”

“How in Man…”

He wasn’t able to finish, for his mouth was suddenly captured in fierce kiss. “I have my ways. Good night beloved.”

He only managed to squeak, “Night.” All was well, they were home and now, they had forever.