Avari cities whose entire populace all faded thousands of years ago.

The gates are open, yet you know you are watched as you walk in.

Surely that is the sound of a bustling marketplace around the bend? But no, you reach the square and its empty of life. The stalls are open, but none sell food.

You take a wooden knickknack from one stall. As you walk away you feel— thiefthiefshameguiltyguiltyTHIEF

You double back and leave a coin. The pressure fades.

On the counter of the inn is a mug of fresh beer, waiting for you. You leave a coin. No, two coins. This was generous.

You sit at an empty table and do not feel alone. You can almost hear the bawdy singing and smell the roasting pork.

The ale tastes like the farm in the dells where you danced with your husband in the wheat fields and kissed him below the endless stars and the bedroom where you promised your eternal soul to his and the floorboards he cut himself that you buried his empty shell under and the green door you closed behind you for the last time as you set out for something new and the eastward breeze that sometimes carries his voice out of the Uttermost West and the answers you’ll never give him

You were never married. You’re not thirsty anymore.

As you lie down in an empty room, nothing wishes you peaceful dreams.

You wake up. The bed is a mound of dirt. The inn is dust. The marketplace is stones and overgrowth. The gate is closed. The walls about it are gone.

In what might have been the rot of the stall you visited, no copper gleams. You take the toy you purchased from your pocket. The paint is still unchipped.

You leave through what might have been a watchtower, once. Remember, you do not hear it say.

[Excerpt from Sorrow Beyond Words: Collected Testimony of the War of Wrath, 4th Edition; ed. Elrond Peredhel. Archive of Cîw Annúminas, inaugural collection]

“Simply reaching Menegroth was a struggle. Doriath had become a twisting nightmare of overgrowth and rot and mists, as Morgoth’s power warred with the remains of the Girdle and our old songs. Ai, our home, our haven! I know the name of every holly in Region, before the exile. We found deadfalls surrounded by dozens of animals who’d lain down beside the trees and rotted before they died. Blind moose more antler than flesh staggered towards us even after a dozen arrows. Vines covered in dripping thorns reached for our eyes. The cherry trees were overladen with fruits that smelled like gangrene. Deildhod stumbled into a nest of maddened vipers, and only escaped because their tails were all tangled together into a festering mass and could hardly move. We never saw or heard a single bird. I’m amazed we lost no one in that whole push through Region. No, I speak a lie. I know how we passed through with nothing worse than scrapes. Elrond was with us, and the ghost of Melian’s love still recognized her kin.

“Esgalduin had nearly been dammed by one of Hírilorn’s fallen boles, but the bridge still held. We crossed and reached the ruined gates, wrought twice and broken twice. Within there was only darkness to be seen; we knew not what manner of horrors Morgoth had sent to infest the city, but Ingwion was unwilling to leave them at the rear of his forces as he moved north, if it could be helped. Celeborn stood at Elrond’s right and myself at his left. Far less an honor guard than the heir of Elu Thingol and Melian Besain deserved. Yet in those dark days it was all the honor we could muster. King Dior Eluchíl had known thirty-six summers when he was unrighteously slain. Queen Elwing Nimaew thirty-five when despair took her to the sea. Lord Elrond Peredhel beheld the city of Elu for the first and only time in his twenty-ninth summer.

“Elrond stood before his inheritance and Sang. He sang a lament, for the lost endless years of joy and peace, for deep halls lit by birdsong and echoing with wisdom, for the Forsaken People who awoke the forest and earth with many voices, for the works of beauty never to be seen again on this side of the sea. He sang a promise, that the glory of Menegroth will be remembered in the songs of Middle-Earth for as long as its children endure. He sang thanks, for the protection the halls granted us until it could shelter us no more. As his song at last ceased, I thought I heard nightingales answering him.

“Stars shone on his brow, and his hair glistened as the vault of night, and the memories of our once-eternal bliss in the woods of Thingol’s realm under Elbereth’s gifts arose in my mind. Let Oropher dream of a deep hall for his own; let Celeborn reign where he will at his wife’s side! I knew in my heart, as the echo of nightingale songs faded, that there was no lord or king I would ever stand beside save Elrond Elwingion.

“The living stone in which our kingdom once thrived knew his voice, and at long last laid down its burden and passed. The darkness over Menegroth was lifted, and we went forth into its corpse, and no beast or orc could stand before us. I do not sing of what we found and left behind when we cast down the bridge and gave leave for the river to flood the caves. It is not worth remembering.”

[Excerpt from Sorrow Beyond Words: Collected Testimony of the War of Wrath, 2nd Edition; ed. Elrond Peredhel. Armenelos Royal Library, copy received SA 870]

“When we retook what must’ve been Nargothrond—with barely any fuss, mind you; only the dumbest and most desperate orcs wanted to stay near that dragon-stench��the one thing I remember most was the silence. The caverns stretched on and on and on; hall after hall after kitchen after dormitory after garden stretching into the hills. Not a soul in sight but us. Not a ghost but the ones we made up in our heads, to try and give the emptiness reason. Merynn whispered to me, afterwards, that there’d once been a hundred thousand elves living there. I’ve never had a head for numbers, so I can’t say if that’s the truth or not. But looking at that hollow city, and thinking of how few elves there were on Balar before the Host of the West arrived…you can’t help but feel sad. It was never supposed to be so silent. So dead. Wasn’t right.

“The High King—the Western one—was there, with one of the Vanyar captains—don’t recall her name, but she had a fierce spear-arm, and a singing voice like a warm hearth. They slipped away from the other scavenging parties while no-one was watching. Must’ve been looking for something. When they came back, we all politely pretended not to notice they’d been crying. I don’t think they found what they were searching for.”

first sentence: "Upon his return from the War, Eärwen found Finarfin changed."

That should not have surprised her, the War was—well, she’d seen enough of it herself. But if he was changed more like the Lindar who could no longer bear torches or crowds, or the once-chained who crowded under Lorien’s trees hoping to relearn peace, or her far-niece soaring the salt breeze more often than she walked the land (birds cry only to clean their eyes, Elwing once confided), or their Returned eldest son only half at home in his skin; that she could understand.

Instead his smiles were too wide, his bows too deep, his dancing too flawless, his lovemaking too empassioned, his speeches too cunning; if he spoke of the War at all it was if it were already a distant history. Who was this bright King who threw himself into the politics and lawmaking that he once threw himself at the seaside and herself to avoid? Just what exactly had returned from the pits of Angband, wearing her husband’s flesh?

*sword unsheathing sound*

YOU'RE NOW LISTENING TO

*boat incineration sound*

87.3

*huan barking*

AMON EREB ROCK FM

*kinslaying*

WHERE WE PLAY NOTHIN BUT OATHS, OATHS, AND MORE OATHS

*opening chord of nodolantë*

*eternal wailing and gnashing of teeth in the Everlasting Darkness*

THIS AIN'T YOUR DARK ELF'S STATION

*imagine dragons - radioactive starts playing*

Dispossessed

They don’t drift apart so much as never coagulate again.

Celegorm vanishes into the deep woods as hastily as he can manage, before the shock of his Return (“Him first? Of all of them!?”) fully ebbs; if the hounds of Oromë howl in strange voices, they have always been a little wild.

Caranthir builds a house on a quiet hillside, and counts naught but the stitches in his tapestries; he has not ceased to weave since with the first thread he closed his harsh mouth for ever.

Curufin lifts a hammer once—and sees only shattered fingers upon the anvil.

Maedhros lies at the feet of Mercy Undeserved until he remembers how to cry again, then dons a dark veil of his own, padding through the halls of Fui to lend what tears he may, unnumbered as they are.

Ambarussa are never seen again—not directly; a lick of flame, trembling leaves, a fox’s scream; at the edge of perception, copper entwines with fate, glimmering beyond reach.

Maglor returns with pride tempered but unquenched, with a tongue tired of laments, with many deeds of selfless kindness ready for praise, with expectations—and finds ashes, and a land long moved on.

Edit: now on AO3 with some slight changes: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53245837

!!! celebrian in valinor fic!!! 👀👀👀

It probably won't be out for a while yet, since I still need to figure out what the heck I'm actually doing with it. Right now I just have pure angst. Which is fun! But I'd like to get to some healing eventually.

She cannot bear Gil-Galad, so altered by the release of his long burdens that she hardly recognizes his serenity. She cannot bear Celebrimbor, once her dearest friend, now forever overlaid by his dangling corpse and his accursed shackles binding her husband and her mother to his doom. She cannot bear noble grandmother Eärwen, who has never walked the far shore and known its inundating grief. She cannot bear kind grandfather Arafinwë, always with the correct words and actions to just for a moment, make her forget how marred she is. She cannot bear radiant uncle Finrod, for what are her scars against his? She cannot bear uncle Angaráto, nor aunt Eldalótë, nor cousin Orodreth, nor the absence where uncle Aegnor should be, for her story is of little note next to the tragedies and triumphs of their age. She cannot bear the dozens and hundreds of family, old friends, old acquaintances, well-wishers she has never known. “What a pity. What a pity. What a pity!” She doesn’t want to heal. She can’t heal. The scar tissue is all she is now, layer upon layer, down into the marrow. She should have stayed and persisted in that half-life among her true family. She should have faded into a memory of rain on silver glass. She should have laid herself down in Elladan’s gardens and let grief wash her to the Halls of Awaiting. She had to leave. She couldn’t let them bury her. Couldn’t let them see what she is. Queen of Ruination! Spoilt and turned, not even worth twisting into an orc. A footnote in a story nobody will ever read.

So it goes. Moping and wallowing in her deserved misery as the scars heal and start to fade. Until one day she looks up from the embroidery she is mangling and sees another footnote has seated herself across from her. “Hello, cousin,” says the once-Princess of Minas Tirith, of Nargothrond, of a sunken grave. “Gwindor and I have a third ticket to the Flinnrysc concert tonight. You’re coming along.”

Yes I know Celeborn has family too but shh, I'll think of how to integrate them later (and I'd need to come up with names for Galadhon and Galathil's wives).

[Excerpt 6 from Sorrow Beyond Words: Collected Testimony of the War of Wrath, 4th Edition; edited by Elrond Peredhel.]

“It—it would have been easier, I think, if the rest of Beleriand was as dead as Anfauglith. Not just easier to march through. I don’t miss the mosquito-wetas. But—it’s one thing to march through a choking wasteland when you know there’s no refilling your canteen 'til you get to the other side. It’s another thing entirely to walk through thirty leagues of verdant wetlands and every single spring and lake you find is so clear you can see all the skeletons at the bottom. Every fucking time you get your hopes up that maybe, maybe, this one will be drinkable—but—but…

“Not all the skeletons were at the bottom. Some of them still almost looked like people, too.

“No food, either. Fruit trees? Pah. Every apple that isn’t rotten is full of worms and wasps. Herbs? Poison. Roots? Also poison. Game? You fucking guessed it, poison. Or viruses, whatever. Sorry that we never really had the leisure time to reinvent microscopic biology here.

“It, well—it wasn’t entirely ruined, I guess? He left Hithlum mostly untarnished to keep the Easterlings a little happy. Heh, not happy enough apparently to stop most of them from jumping to Elros’s banner the moment they could. Nan Dungortheb was as much a pain in his arse as it had been in ours, especially once Mindeb gave up holding it back. We think the spiders ate a Balrog, actually. Good for them. He never touched the ruins of the Havens either. Guess he liked the statement that sent better than more despoiling.

“But, uh, in some ways that was more disheartening. The little bits which were still standing, or seemed to still be standing. There were still lots of too-clear pools. But you’d come across the ruins of a homestead with the garden only overgrown with normal weeds, or an orchard where the fruit still smells fine; and then you’d look twenty feet away and see what's left of the former inhabitants and another fucking field of razorwheat and another cloud of hornets that want to lay eggs in your eyes and a pool that only isn’t clear because Glaurung shit in it eighty years ago. That’s worse, if you were wondering.”

Maedhros & Maglor Week day 2: Trust/Distrust

Double drabble. Warning for discussion of canon-typical treatment of escaped thralls.

One alchemist, mixing a warming draught, says: “You can tell by the eyes. Look closely, when he wakes. If they are the eyes of a dead thing, he is already gone.” One weaver, dying yarn the yellow of Arien’s hair, says: “Their memories give it away. They cannot recall details, will mix names, will refuse to describe their torment.” One fisher, returning from the lake empty-handed, says: “They cannot last long without revealing themselves. If they haven’t tried to gut or strangle anyone within a sennight, they are safe.” One chieftain, scowling over a map of the Noldor’s encampments, says: “They are already gone. You cannot see it, you cannot prove it, you can only wait until the knife is in your ribs and the gates are unbarred. You do not make such a mistake a second time. None return from Angband.”

So the Mithrim say. So here Maglor waits, blade in hand. He will allow none other to hold this vigil, has bartered knowledge from Artanis of the songs of wakefulness improvised on the Ice in exchange for his best harp. It is an easy task for the regent-king. After all, he has already condemned Maitimo to death once.

Maedhros & Maglor Week day 5: New Horizons

(It's still Thursday somewhere, right?)

Dialogue-only snippet for today yesterday's @maedhrosmaglorweek prompt, about a post-canon reunion.

“Nelyo, you look—you look well.” “And you look like shit.” “Well excuse you, is that how a disciple of Lady Mercy should address their long-lost brother? But yes, perhaps I should have bathed since arriving.” “This disciple of Lady Mercy just so happens to be on leave, and may say whatever he wishes to his over-delayed brother. Who needs a bath.” “As if you would smell any better after a moon at sea, with an elderly halfling and your half-wild husband for company.” “Oh, husband? My congratulations. And condolences. Have you told your wife yet?” “I will burn that boat when I get there.” “...Pray, do not tell me that has become a turn of phrase in Middle-earth.” “It has not! It is my own invention, composed along with many other twists of language that would make father blush, alone, at the seaside. By myself. Alone. Brotherless. Did I mention alone?” “Kano…” “Ah! No, no, do not cry! You are on leave, no sorrow allowed! Aye, you left me, when I had chosen to follow you, to whatever end. And that hurt! Not as much as the Silmaril, but it hurt!” “I… I have envied you, after a fashion. That you were strong enough to walk away where I could not.” “I thought it cowardice, at the time, that I could not have the strength to follow, to give myself up to Judgement.” “And I thought it cowardice, that I chose death instead of life, that I fled from you who had given so much for me.” “…” “…” “Heh…” “Heeheehee…” “Ahahahahahaa! Look at us! A pair of sorry old cowards! Well! I have not survived three ages of the world by running away from all troubles; and you, dear brother, are bold yet in ways I cannot fathom, to be willing to face the crimes of our house and those whom we wronged greatly. Which I suppose I must now get around to doing. Do you think I should apologize starting from the first crime or the latest?” “I think you should start with a fucking bath.”

The Way I Fly to You

Arm over arm. Hook the elbow. Lift. Grab the next rung. Lift. Step by step. Two rungs with each left. Lift. One with each right. Lift. Do not look down. The Light is above. It calls. It is worth it. It must be. Lift.

Almost there. Alm— oh.

“Hullo, kinsman! Before you think of climbing the rest of the ladder, I’d like to point out that it’s easily detachable from the deck, and the ground is a considerable way down. Now, I do believe you owe my wife and me several apologies?”

“Honk!”

Maedhros really should have thought this through.

First sentence suggestion: "At that moment, he resented Caranthir’s control of the wine trade bitterly."

😁

As opposed to the times he resented Caranthir’s control of the mithril trade, or Caranthir’s control of the textile trade, or Caranthir’s control of the parchment trade—really, whose idea was it to put the one cousin who had been stingy in ever-abundant Valinor in the lands closest to the East, and the only access to the dwarves of the Blue Mountains and the approaching Men from beyond?

His glare did little to dissuade the merchant, and likely contributed to how she straightened out her tunic so that the Feanorian star on the breast shone clearer—reflecting the evening sun right into his eyes, in fact; quite rude.

“My prices are most fair, milord, and I do need to close up shop soonish, whether you’re buyin’ or not.”

Aegnor grit his teeth, but forked over the damned coin. The wine was for dinner with Andreth after all, and for her, any price was worth it.

Maedhros & Maglor Week day 7: Storytelling

Going a bit literal with this one for @maedhrosmaglorweek. Could've stretched it out into a drabble, but eh. Think it'd lose its snappiness with another 25 words..

Who's the narrator? What are they even talking about? Good question.

“What a sad tale, of the eldest sons of Fëanor. One tortured soul, half-broken by defeats, conquered only by himself. One tortured soul, finding kindness too late to undo the harm he caused, finding regret but not enough to refuse to cause more. It’s a good story, isn’t it? Makes you feel something. A little pity, a little anger, more than a little yearning for more. A good story. Almost good enough to be true.”

[Excerpt from Sorrow Beyond Words: Collected Testimony of the War of Wrath, 3rd Edition; edited by Elrond Peredhel. Kortirion Public Library, copy received TA 2510]

“The worst thing I saw during the War? Ancalagon of course, but you won’t find anyone who won’t mention him. Second worst thing? It was a few months later, once Morgoth had been de-footed and dragged out by the stumps, and we were cleansing Angband. We knew we had limited time; the continent was barely holding itself together before a certain dragon collapsed Thangorodrim in its death throes. Delving into the iron hells, with practically every maia of Ulmo, Aulë, Yavanna, and Tulkas singing continuously to keep it from collapsing utterly and taking the entire north with it, just having seen what they brought out of the upper levels, was a rather daunting task. Still had a curiously large number of volunteers, since within you couldn’t hear Morgoth laughing and screaming in his cage.

“So we went fast, killing orcs, experimental monsters, the occasional Umaia. Glad to say I missed the Balrog in the forges; it killed two score before Meril finally took it down. All distractions, regardless. The pits were the real goal.

“How do I even describe them? There were, as best I could divine, about three tiers of thrall quarters. The cells, for prisoners Morgoth and his lords deemed important, general quarters for most thralls, and the pits. The Valar said that he could no longer twist elves into orcs even by the time of his first imprisonment, but from the conditions there, from the bodies we pulled out…I don’t think he cared. Every torture, every debasement, every abomination against the Eruchîn that could be imagined. For each we thought might survive if we got them to the surface, there were five who wouldn’t, and ten corpses. And in the deepest, blackest pit of them all…

“The second worst thing I saw during the War of Wrath was High King Finarfin’s face when he found his sister again and knew he couldn’t save her.”

Maedhros & Maglor Week day 1: Treelight

Two drabbles for @maedhrosmaglorweek, day 1 prompt Treelight, focusing on the Silmarils and their final fate. Warnings for suicide (duh) and mild gore for the first one.

I have no fucking idea what's up with the second. Believe me I'm just as confused as y'all are.

The crevice before him releases scalding air into his face. He can almost feel his hair burning, his skin blistering, as if that pain means aught anymore. Only one fire matters now. His fist clenches around the stone as tight as it can until the searing agony chars bones and melts nerves and snaps muscles and he has no choice but to release— And only then, as the Silmaril drifts on the thermals to settle into its new home, does he realize he cannot live without its Light. To step forward into nothing is the easiest choice of his life.

He turns away as soon as the throw is made, never sees its arc (absolutely picturesque, immaculate form, precisely 30 degrees above the lateral from exactly seven feet above sea level, launched at 50 miles per hour, traveling 156 feet horizontally before it strikes the waves moving at 76.33 feet per second, well done, well done indeed by the second son of Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, the rotting sack of self-loathing cowardly murdering kidnapping love-stealing scum who doesn’t even have the decency to die poetically, and that’s a nine, a nine, an eight, and a three from the Angbandian judge).

Preamble: the state of Beleriand after the First Battle

Ah fuck guess I'm writing this now. Bullet-point style because all the best AUs use it (yes I'm talking about @thelordofgifs's The Fairest Stars) and definitely not because I'm lazy.

Quick synopsis of the First Battle in Y.T. 1497:

Morgoth upon his return sends two orc-hosts through the northern passes, the west-host down Sirion and Narog and the east down Celon and Gelion.

The east-host is beaten by Thingol and the Laiquendi, but the Laiquendi take heavy losses, and their king Denethor and his kin are all slain on Amon Ereb before Thingol can reinforce them.

The dwarves of Mount Dolmed deal with the surviving orcs.

The west-host cuts Thingol off from Círdan, and the Falathrim are driven back to Eglarest and Brithombar and besieged.

The aftermath:

Thingol pulls his people into Neldoreth and Region, and Melian raises the Girdle. Doriath is founded.

The surviving Laiquendi either scatter into Ossiriand or join with Thingol's people.

Orcs have the run of West Beleriand.

Eglarest and Brithombar are besieged until Fëanáro's host arrives and the siege is called off to go deal with them (and they're destroyed by Tyelkormo's forces).

...But in this universe, Fëanáro and the rest of the Noldor are still on the Helcaraxë for another 25 solar years.

Now we're getting into conjecture:

In canon, Eglarest and Brithombar are besieged and destroyed a year after the Nírnaeth, thanks to Morgoth's siege engineers. This is despite the elves of Nargothrond helping to rebuild the cities during the Long Peace, and the Falathrim's reinforcement by survivors of the battle and the fall of Hithlum. Only a few survivors escape with Círdan to Balar and the mouths of Sirion. Three fleeing ships also sail far further south and found Edhellond near where Dol Amroth will eventually be. The rest of the Havens' inhabitants are killed or captured.

It's still Y.T. 1497. Morgoth hasn't had centuries to innovate his siege technology, but Círdan's cities also haven't been rebuilt with Noldor walls.

The Grey Annals says Fëanáro's host arrives some seven solar years after Melian raises the Girdle.

(Yes if we go by the usual "1 tree year = 9.582 solar years" then it could've been upwards of 25 solar years since the Darkening in 1495 before the landing at Losgar.)

(I hate Tolkien's timelines sometimes.)

Círdan holds out for over a decade. The orcs can't completely starve them thanks to the ocean, but repeated assaults on the walls wear down the defenders, and there's only so much fish and seaweed.

Meanwhile, the Northern Sindar of Mithrim and Nevrast are constantly harassed by the rest of Morgoth's west-host. Círdan sends ships north to evacuate those he can, but he only has so many ships and men.

The orcs have them cut off from Doriath, but they're not living this far away from Menegroth because they like Thingol's rule. They theoretically acknowledge him as king but realistically mostly ignore him.

(Any claims that Thingol hates them due to closeness to Angband and rumors they sometimes serve as Morgoth's spies are unfounded exaggerations.)

And while normally he'd ignore them in turn, they're still his people in some form or another.

Thingol sends what sorties he can to harry the west-host, but Doriath's forces are still exhausted from the First Battle and much of the kingdom's resources are tied up in getting the many refugees settled.

It also doesn't help that Melian warns him that should he die, her grief will not allow her to stay on the continent and maintain the Girdle.

One of his chief vassals is dead, and the other is besieged. His lands are being ravaged. But he can't leave his borders, because he isn't willing to risk himself (and therefore the Girdle) falling and exposing the main part of his people to attack.

So he throws himself into making sure his people are as happy as can be and entrusts the war to his captains.

So that's the state of things for the next 15 solar years. Orcs gradually hunt down the remaining wandering Sindar who don't find shelter in Doriath or some hidden refuge. Mithrim and Nevrast slowly depopulate from the Falathrim's evacuation missions, orcs, and what few refugees can sneak by Morgoth's forces to Doriath. Thingol holds lavish banquets and listens to Beleg and Mablung's reports while everyone else sleeps off the wine. He doesn't permit himself time to cry.

Midway through Y.T. 1498, Brithombar falls.

(to be continued eventually)