let's do what normal people do

Fandom Snowflake Challenge Day 3

2014-01-04T02:07:50Z

Day 3

In your own space, post a rec for at least three fanworks that you did not create. Leave a comment in this post saying you did it. Include a link to your post if you feel comfortable doing so. See if you can rec fanworks that are less likely to be praised: tiny fandoms, rare pairings, fanworks other than stories, lesser-known kinks or tropes. Find fanworks that have few to no comments, or creators new to a particular fandom who maybe aren't well known or appreciated. Appreciate them.

Sister, Don't Let Go by Lise

An absolutely beautiful (and slightly heartbreaking) fic that focuses on Aredhel and Elenwë's friendship. Like everything by this author, it is an absolutely amazing piece in terms of both writing and storytelling.

The Fire and the Hearth by Elleth

I think this is the second fic by this author that I ever read (the first was definitely this one which is also very good), and is also part of what made me fall in love with her writing. This one's Maglor. And Curufin. And an exploration of Feanorian family dynamics that's really just wonderful.

Lacrimosa by Friendsheyho

Idril and Maedhros interaction -- how often do you get that? I will also note that I wanted to rec the author just... as a whole, since every story by them that I've read I have thoroughly enjoyed. This one, I will admit, was one of my favorites. (Though I also loved this Maedhros/Fingon fic: the author has a very realistic approach to the aftermath of Maedhros' capture that I find refreshing.)

Nothing but Dreams by Unsung Heroine

Caranthir and growing insanity, with appearances by ghost!Haleth. Not only is this something I still ship pretty hard, but it incorporates one of my favorite things ever (insane Feanorians, of course, what else did you expect?)

--------------------

There are definitely about a million that I'm forgetting and one day I will write up a legitimate recs post and it will be very, very long. But for now, this should do :)

Fandom Snowflake Challenge Day One

2014-01-01T20:56:56Z

Fandom Snowflake Challenge 2014: Day One

In your own space, post a rec for at least three fanworks that you have created. It can be your favorite fanworks that you've created, or fanworks you feel no one ever saw, or fanworks you say would define you as a creator. Leave a comment in this post saying you did it. Include a link to your post if you feel comfortable doing so.

The Dying of the Light (on SWG)

The breaking of the Silmarils. (Alternatively: Fëanor at the end of the world).

The idea for this one sprang from the two quotes included in the story notes, and I was rather pleased with how it turned out. I even managed to piece together a pretty strong ending, which is something I often struggle with.

Deterioration (on SWG)

The fall of Númenor: a soldier of the King in the Caves of the Forgotten, slowly losing his mind.

Oh dear. This fic--is kind of everything I liked writing (still like writing?) and is definitely one of those things that is me writing a fic that I would want to read. Basically a slow progression into insanity, complete with weird not-death and hallucinations.

A Beautiful and a Burning Thing

Thuringwethil has been searching for the one she loves for a very long time - countless centuries - and at last has found her. (Modern AU in which Lúthien and Beren are reborn every generation or so and Thuringwethil is always just a little behind them.)

I have a weakness for modern AUs and this pairing. That... is my only excuse. Another summary might very well be 'how a lesbian vampire outwitted fate and triumphed over the heterosexual love of the century', but I'm not sure anyone would take it seriously that way.

(Who am I kidding, no one's going to take it seriously anyways XD)

And while I'm doing this I will note that the two runnerups were Hold You Tonight (SWG) and let the rain wash the blood away (SWG) which are both Maglor in the aftermath of dead brothers. (The former is Eönwë's ongoing fascination with the last son of Fëanor as the Second and Third Ages pass, the latter is Maglor after the ruin of Doriath.)

(I mean that one Nellas/Niënor fic that is also on SWG was also one that I thought was pretty okay so I’ll also link to that one, yeah. I wrote that one for Elleth, and it is most of the reason that I ship that pairing.)

astris_eldalie @ 2013-11-03T15:31:00

2013-11-03T20:29:39Z

I spent a good part of this afternoon making three sets of earrings and a bracelet for my grandmother, who was in town--it's sort of a tradition at this point, since there's a wonderful bead store in town that we both go to. She picks out the beads and I craft earrings for her. It's a thing.

And so I made sparkly stuff :D

Mother-of-pearl and purple beads with a silver seed bead at the bottom.

Silver seed bead at top, with silver and black beads below.

Blue and white center beads with transparent beads on either side. (All of these look better irl, I swear)

Same bracelet, second picture zoomed in a bit more. Crystal and (fake) pearl on silver chain. I also have one of similar design in red and orange and yellow with gold chain that I am wearing right now but am not even going to try to photograph with my webcam.

So that's what I did with my afternoon, basically.

fic: To Love What Is Mortal

2013-08-23T19:02:21Z

Title: To Love What Is Mortal
Rating: T
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Lúthien, Thuringwethil
Pairing: Lúthien/Thuringwethil
Summary: Thuringwethil pays a visit to someone she once knew. (Rather onesided Lúthien/Thuringwethil).
Warning(s): No warnings apply
Word count: 2,542

Also on AO3.

To live in this world:

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

~'In Blackwater Woods' by Mary Oliver

The winter wind was cold and the air tasted of snow, clean and bright. The sound of the river was muted by the thin layer of ice that had formed over it as the sun set, tinted silver now by the crescent moon above, set amidst jewel-bright stars that seemed magnified by the thin air.

There was a darkness coming to Tol Galen, borne by the wind from the north.

Once, she had worn a winged form in truth, leathery wings and iron claws, clad in shadow and blood. That had been taken from her, and now the breeze blew her wherever she willed, and when her shadow touched the land animals fell silent and fled, and children cried out in their sleep, and grown men shivered without knowing the cause.

She had traveled far, for she was searching for something – someone.

Smoke rose from the chimney of a small house at the edge of the forest, sparks whirling up amid the light grey smoke that stained the night sky. The house was built of hewn logs and clearly fashioned by hand, but sturdy nonetheless. Her nose twitched, dusty-warm woodsmoke mingling with sharp pine sap mingling with something changed... but familiar.

(Starlight reflected in grey eyes and a brilliant invasion of streaming light and the painful-sweet smell of the starlike flowers that had sprung from dark grass so long ago to greet the new light–)

The door opened, just a crack, spilling yellow warmth across the frozen earth, and she flinched away from the light. Footsteps, then a head peering out through the doorway, shadow cutting long and stark across the bare dirt. A voice from within, querying tone clear despite the indistinct words, and the woman in the door turned her head to answer, words lost in the sudden blast of wind from the mountains. Then she was turning and venturing out, feet crackling on the frozen grass.

In the shadows, something shifted. The woman's head turned, body tensing, ready to spring into danger.

"I see you there. Come out."

The words were a command, the tone keen as steel – the same voice the one in the shadows remembered. Before she quite knew what she was doing her feet were moving, stepping out from under the eves of the forest of their own accord, whisper-soft on the carpet of pine needles. The woman's eyes widened at the sight of her, and she wondered if she would be recognized – it had been a long time.

(And how much the other had changed in that time – not visibly, of course, or at least not obviously, but the difference was there, screaming at her.)

"Thuringwethil."

A shiver of something unidentifiable shook her at the sound of that voice saying her name, and she felt a smile twist her lips, baring sharp, gleaming teeth. "Lúthien," she replied coolly, as though she had not whispered that name to herself, alone in the dark, night after night. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Are you – did you follow me here? Have you been searching for me?" Lúthien's hands were open by her side, but Thuringwethil could see the hilt of a knife at her belt, a heartbeat's movement away from being drawn. She was moving closer still, away from the house, towards Thuringwethil.

"Perhaps." But not for the reasons you might think.

"But I... was it because of what I took from you? Your bat-fell – it was lost in Angband, when Beren and I–"

She let out a hiss at the sound of that name – Lúthien's love – and she saw Lúthien draw back, startled, hand fluttering at the hilt of her knife, not quite drawing it. Once, that might have frightened her, but the woman before her now was no longer of the ancient blood, and was perhaps powerless before her.

And perhaps more powerful than you know, for all that she is caught in the doom of the second-born.

"Nay," she laughed, pushing the unexpected onrush of feeling aside. "I care not for my wings – the wind can bear me on its back, and I no longer need to play courier for Morgoth now." She had not, in fact, ventured back to Angband since Lúthien had visited her, trusting in the ineptitude of Morgoth's spies to conceal the fact that she had not perished in giving up her winged form.

(And perhaps part of her feared what would happen if it was discovered she had been willing to aid Lúthien, had allowed her to strip her of her wings, hoping for something beyond what she had always known. There was shame, for wishing that, but shame mingled with desire – for the light, and for Lúthien.)

There was a flash of something, not fear, not quite, only... distrust, perhaps, in Lúthien's eyes, and Thuringwethil shook her head, forestalling the next question. "I have not come to harm you."

"No," Lúthien replied slowly, "no, you didn't hurt me last time either, did you?" The rest of her sentence went unspoken – even though I came to take something from you and gave you nothing in return but a glimpse of the light, and that glimpse enough to haunt your dark dreams for the rest of your immortal life.

There was a silence, broken only by the wind whistling through the branches above them, and it bore to her Lúthien's scent – changed, somehow, in a way she could not quite pin down. The star-bright smell of nimphredil was still there, but it was muted, muffled, as though something was masking it. There was a new smell, somehow fiery, as though Lúthien were burning up from the inside out, bursting with flame and light and energy, too much to be contained, on the verge of exploding outwards.

She wondered if that was the smell of mortality, evidence of Lúthien's irrevocable choice.

You could have been immortal – you were immortal. And you gave that up for... for what? A short time with your doomed lover, then oblivion beyond the seas, sundered from your own kind for the rest of eternity – if you even have eternity afterwards.

Lúthien was regarding her, grey eyes thoughtful, and she wondered what memories her appearance had triggered, what emotions.

"Do you remember?" she found herself asking, and Lúthien nodded.

She remembered everything in stark detail – light blinding her, light as she have never seen in all her years of darkness, and the request.

I need your skin.

And if I refuse?

It is to save the one I love.

Splintering pain as she was torn apart, yet as she parted beneath the hands of Lúthien there was a curious want mingled with the agony – strip me of this darkness, lay bare my soul, remake me – break me – and she had known pain before, had always known pain, but this was new and different and somehow right.

(hurt me, because I deserve it. break me and make me as clean as you.)

She had smelled flowers on Lúthien's skin, and had recoiled from its foreignness, afraid of the way it seemed to cut through the shadows that enveloped her. The light had hurt her everywhere it touched, a clean, sharp pain unlike anything she had ever felt before. It had hurt, but she wanted nothing more than to keep it with her, on her, touching her – she wanted to take it into her, feel it inside of her, burning outwards and cleansing her until there was nothing left but ash and shining brilliance.

You are the light, she wanted to tell Lúthien, but the words seemed clumsy and she was afraid.

"I asked you what love was, when you told me you needed to save someone. Didn't I?" The words came without warning, and she wondered at their source – was this why she had come here?

"You did." Lúthien had relaxed slightly, but she was still eyeing Thuringwethil warily, waiting for her to make any sudden move.

"You said it was something you know inside, like you know that the earth will pull you down if you fall from a high tree branch." She had never climbed a tree, never stood on the wind-swept top and felt it bend about her – but she had flown, and knew what it was to fall. "You said it was when you would give yourself over to the gravest danger for someone else, and know that they would do the same in return."

"I – yes, that's–"

"And you said sometimes people have to do things for love that they couldn't ever do otherwise, things that they maybe should never do."

"Yes."

Thuringwethil stared at Lúthien, wondering. "Then – you did what it was you needed to do?"

"I did." Her voice was stronger now, and her gaze darted back to the house behind her, windowpanes shining with firelight. "There was danger, and darkness – but we succeeded. Yes."

We succeeded. Thuringwethil wondered what it was to be part of something called we, to be connected to someone so tightly. She let the silence fill the space again, watched the moonlight glance off the iced-over river, unable to quite meet Lúthien's eyes.

You have not changed, not really – your eyes still shine.

Lúthien shifted slightly, and Thuringwethil noticed for the first time that she was trembling with cold. She could not help thinking that she would not have felt such things, before.

"Do you... do you want to come inside?" Lúthien asked, gesturing to her house, unsure.

Thuringwethil shivered, thinking of the unbearable light streaming through the windows. It frightened her – and she desired it.

"No," she lied. "I should – I should leave soon." Leave and return to the shadows of the forest she had been sleeping in for the past few days, and wake to continue sojourning the land – or perhaps to stay here, since she had found what she had been searching for. Yet she made no move to flee, and Lúthien's gaze was holding her down, trapping her.

"Why did you come here, Thuringwethil?"

She hesitated, eyes skittering away from the piercing stare of the mortal woman before her. "I – I do not know." Liar. You know – you wanted the light, and thought she knew a way for you to find it.

She brought the light to me, something in her cried. She can give it to me – everything–

Lúthien was regarding her intently now, brows furrowed with confusion. "What are you? Were you once of the light – or born in darkness?"

Thuringwethil started – it was as though Lúthien had reached into her mind, lifted the very words from her. "I do not remember light." Except you.

She imagined Lúthien's face, if she ever spoke the words that hovered on her tongue every time she thought of her – if she would turn away in disgust, leaving her forever, or would take her hand and say, I can make it better, I can show you the light – come and see, it's easy, I won't hurt you.

(I will hurt you, because it is what you deserve, but in the end you will come out clean as I.)

It was impossible.

She wanted to sink to her knees, beg for something she barely even knew how to articulate – take me, purify me, make me a child of the light as you. She wanted Lúthien to hurt her again, burn her clean with nothing more than her bare hands, purify her with the touch of skin on skin, bare and immediate and painfully intimate.

"And after this... where will you go?" As though Lúthien knew why she had come here, as though she knew that Thuringwethil would likely fade into the darkness after this, a forgotten relic of darker times.

"I'll find someplace. Live. Which is one thing you won't be doing for much longer, I suppose." The words came out a little more bitter than she had intended, and the emotions behind it frightened her – what would she do, when Lúthien had died?

"It was my choice," Lúthien replied, voice soft.

"And you gave up eternity for – for–"

"My love."

What is love? "Love of a mortal man, one who could never know the foreverness of you, not as a fellow immortal could–"

Something crossed Lúthien's face and she took a step forward, tilting her head, bird-like, to one side. "What are you saying, Thuringwethil?"

"Only – only... if it was your choice, then there had to have been an alternative." An alternative to an eternity of nothingness, an alternative to this world – and me – losing you.

"There never was. Not for me."

Thuringwethil closed her eyes, feeling Lúthien's words settle into her mind, heavy and final. Coming here had been futile – and she wasn't even sure what else she had expected. The woman before her still held the light, true, but it was a light that would never touch Thuringwethil. Perhaps that was right.

(After all, what is light without darkness?)

No. I cannot – I need–

She opened her eyes, meeting Lúthien's gaze. "Have you ever–" Loved. "–longed for something, knowing that if you ever were to have it in your grasp, it would only lead to your ultimate death?"

A small smile touched Lúthien's lips, and there was something like understanding in her eyes. "Yes," she replied simply, glancing back at the warm, yellow windows of the house behind her. "Yes, I have."

Thuringwethil nodded, suddenly incredibly tired. The other words had fled her, leaving her mute.

"You could stay here, you know," Lúthien said abruptly. "If you ever came back and needed a home–"

She stepped forward, closing the space between them with a single step, and pressed her lips to Lúthien's cheek. The shock of touch startled her – how long had it been? – and some distant part of her realized her lips would feel ice-cold against Lúthien's warm skin. Her face was hot, and there was a tingling on Thuringwethil's lips as she pulled away.

"Thank you," she whispered, and something deep within her shifted, as if this was what she had come to do. Thank you for showing me the light, however brief it was. For giving me something to live for when the darkness finally ends.

(And after? Perhaps what is broken can be remade.)

Lúthien nodded wordlessly. Thuringwethil stepped back again, letting her arms fall to her sides, feeling the breeze pick up around her, whipping away the scraps of shadow that clung to her still. The bright stars above were mirrored in Lúthien's eyes, pinpricks of light. She froze that memory, light in shadow, and carefully tucked it away, something to hold onto in the eternity alone that would follow this.

She spread the wings she no longer had and let the wind take her away.

astris_eldalie @ 2013-08-21T20:31:00

2013-08-22T00:29:31Z

Title: Before You Wake
Rating: T
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Curufin, Finrod
Pairing: Curufin/Finrod
Summary: This was not love, it was battle of a different sort, two wolves circling each other and searching for a weakness. Curufin never made the mistake of thinking of it as anything else. Curufin/Finrod.
Warning(s): Incest
Word count: 972

Also on AO3.

Curufin had always been an early riser — up while Telperion's light still peeked silver and silent from between the cracks in the shutters, and, later, before the sky to the east had more than the faintest streaks of light blue and rose. He liked to be up, doing something, even if it were as unproductive as straightening his already perfectly-organized forge for the ninth hundredth time.

If it bothered his wife to wake and find his side of the bed cold, sheets straightened and tucked in (for it irked him to leave anything in disarray), she never spoke of it. He supposed she understood that he saw no point in spending unnecessary time there. Or maybe it was just another one of those things they didn't talk about, things that built up and grew in importance and heaviness until they couldn't talk about them, and by the time he thought he could have spoken to her for real, it was too late.

(He had loved her, in his way, and she him. If it hadn't seemed like it to others, that was none of their business — they had been happy, and their son had been happy, and when he had found her in a pool of red on pearl-strewn beaches, four bodies stiffening around her and a bare blade in her hand, he had mourned her and held her and cursed himself for being too late — and then stood up, continued on, and never spoken of her again. It was not in him to show unnecessary emotion, and she would have expected nothing else.)

There had been days when he had lingered, though, and watched the way her eyelids fluttered as she dreamed, dark hair spread across the pillows, the faintest sheen of sweat on her brow. He had always stolen away before she could wake, perhaps the slightest bit unwilling to be caught staring at her.

Years — decades — of waking alone had followed this. He had forgotten what it was like to wake to a warmth beside him rather than cold sheets, forgotten what the sun looked like on the closed eyelids of one who had recently shared something with him.

He told himself he did not need it — and in telling himself so, decided to let it fade from his memory.

And when this... when he had fled to Nargothrond, and he and Finrod had begun this, whatever this was, there had been no waking beside one another in the mornings — only shared breath in shadowed corners, frantic movements behind closed doors, shame and want painting Finrod's cheeks red, something darker than hunger and sharper than need curling inside Curufin, and it had been a secret, a mistake, and they had never spoken of it, and there seemed to be no need to (or so they told themselves, as the shadows grew and fate closed in around them — the story always ended the same way, and they were no longer children, but they could still pretend).

This was not love, it was battle of a different sort, two wolves circling each other and searching for a weakness. Curufin never made the mistake of thinking of it as anything else.

They fell asleep in Finrod's bed once, sweat sticking their hair to their foreheads, limbs tangled amid twisted sheets. It was an accident, of course. Finrod usually forced Curufin out, as though he were ashamed, as though sleeping beside another was reserved for love (something which even he never really pretended to have for Curufin). But it had been a long day, and Finrod had closed his eyes, murmuring, "Just for a moment, then," and had followed that with a soft snore. Curufin had seen no alternative but to remain there.

He woke first, as he always did, and instead of rising and slipping out, stayed.

Finrod had left marks on Curufin's skin the night before, red against white, that still burned even as the light of dawn crept in, and there was an ache like fulfillment still in him as he regarded his cousin, hair spread pale gold across the soft white sheets. He ran his gaze down the arch of Finrod's throat, so painfully exposed, a vein pulsing in the shadows beneath his chin, and down the plane of his chest, over scars from hunting accidents and battle.

(He had left marks on Finrod's throat, and drawn blood with his nails down that smooth skin about his collarbones, leaving his mark and thinking mine.)

When his eyes reached his cousin's face again, those dark blue eyes were open, regarding Curufin.

"Why do you do that?" Finrod asked, voice rough and drowsy.

"Do what?" Curufin replied, feigning ignorance.

"Watch me like that." He rolled over, propping himself up on one elbow and peering up at Curufin from beneath long golden lashes.

Because you remind me of a home I lost, and you lost, and we all left behind, he thought, but did not say. "Does it unsettle you, cousin?" He saw how Finrod at times avoided his gaze, the reflection in his eyes betraying what he saw in his cousin's face — Curufin bore more than a shadow of resemblance to his father, and certain ghosts still haunted every one of the exiles.

"Not in the slightest," Finrod replied dryly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and reaching for the robe he had discarded the night before. Curufin watched the rippling movement of muscle under the skin of his back, and smiled.

So fair and distant, cousin. Under that cold crown of yours is something beautiful and warm — and in the early morning, before you wake, it's mine.

Perhaps he should sleep here to wake beside Finrod more often. It was... something to consider.

fic: let the rain wash the blood away

2013-08-19T18:28:44Z

Title: let the rain wash the blood away
Rating: T
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Maedhros, Celegorm, Maglor
Summary: Maglor in the aftermath of Doriath
Warning(s): Major character death
Word count: 1, 561

Also on AO3.

The halls were strangely silent, emptied of the cries and clash of weapons, the moans of the dying, the battle cries of the doomed that had filled it only hours earlier. Puddles of wind-blown water were forming beneath the shattered windows, cold winter rain pooling and running across the marble, turning red as it flowed about the dead. Maglor's boots slipped in cooling pools of blood as he strode forward, down the hall where Dior's throne had sat. There were bodies there, now, crumpled forms in bloody armor where once finely dressed lords would have stood to seek audience with the King of Doriath.

There is no King here, not anymore, he thought, and a savage, mirthless smile twisted his features. The sons of Fëanor had descended on this land with fire and blood, swords cutting down all who stood in their path - even their King, with his haughty eyes and golden armor, even he had fallen eventually. He must have, though Maglor had not seen it with his own eyes, else his soldiers would never have lost hope as they had.

And where were his brothers, where were the victorious butchers? For is this not what they have become - kinslayers, murderers, hated perhaps as violently as the one they came here to fight?

We do what is right. We do what we have to do, because the Oath drives us, and our pride drives us, and the love we still feel for our father - even after so long - that also drives us.

A sound behind him, the shifting of steel against stone, made him spin, bringing his sword up. There were dark brown stains on the silvery steel, dried blood he had not yet had the time to clean off, and it reminded him too much of the first time this sword had been used for real, in the shade of the white ships so long ago, before the Sun, before the Moon.

It's the wrong color. Red - not black -

"Kano." The soft voice shocked him out of his rapidly spiraling thoughts - a familiar voice, roughened with exhaustion, but still his brother's. Celegorm was sitting, half-slumped against the wall, his sword beside him stained with someone's blood. Maglor let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"There you are." He let his sword fall back to his side as he crossed to where Celegorm sat, beside a crumpled body in a fine grey cloak. "I was looking - Maitimo said he saw you in this area during the battle."

"Ah." Celegorm let out a noise that might have been a laugh and might have been a sob. "I - I found him, Kano. That half-Elf bastard that refused us the Silmaril. I found him." He gestured weakly with one hand to the body beside him, and for the first time Maglor looked at it - the spill of black hair matted with blood, the fallen crown.

"Is that...?"

Celegorm nodded. "We fought. He fell. I was just... resting, 's all. But I beat him. I won, Kano." He offered up a smile, like he wanted Maglor to congratulate him, but all the older brother felt was rising dread. The scent of death filled the room, harsh and black, and there was blood bubbling up on his little brother's lips.

This - no. This is wrong. It cannot be happening.

"Tyelko, you - you're hurt."

"I'm fine!" Celegorm's hand slid in the pool of blood - his or Dior's, it was impossible for Maglor to tell - as he struggled to rise. "Help me up, Kano."

"It's not - Tyelko, if you're hurt, you should stay still!" That much he knew about healing, though little else. He needed Maedhros, or Curufin - anyone that could keep Celegorm from bleeding out under his hands. "Where did he injure you?" He glanced at his brother's armor, but the dented steel was stained with too much blood, in varying shades of red and brown, that any from Celegorm was lost in the mess.

Celegorm's breath was coming faster, eyes darting wildly from Maglor's face to his hands and back again, but his voice was steady, with a light-hearted note that was so obviously forced. "He didn't get me too bad, Kano, it's fine-"

Maglor's fingers brushed his stomach and Celegorm sucked in a breath, a sound that was not quite a cry slipping from his lips.

"Don't-"

"You are injured," Maglor snapped, fear and worry making his voice sharp as he deftly reached behind his brother and unclasped his cloak, shoving it aside. "Dammit, Tyelko, why do you always pretend it's nothing?"

"I don't - want you to worry-" Celegorm smiled with an obvious effort, and a bubble of bright red popped at the corner of his mouth. He slid further down the wall, leaving a bloody streak on the stone, and Maglor's hands pressed against his brother's skin, feeling the rush of warmth between his fingers and knowing it was too late - but refusing to believe.

"Look at me." He grabbed his brother's face in both his hands and pulled Celegorm's face up, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Look at me! You are not dying on me, do you hear?" We shouldn't have been here, I was a fool to support him in his pride, and now he's-

"Don't cry, Kano," Celegorm said quietly, eyes unfocused. Maglor started to correct his brother, tell him he hadn't been weeping, but there was a splash of warmth on the back of his hand and his brother's face was blurring as tears warm as blood ran down his cheeks. He swiped them away, furious with himself and with Celegorm for getting hurt like this.

"I'm going to get you a healer, you just have to stay still," he insisted, still wanting to pretend it was all going to be okay - the sons of Fëanor had survived so much, it couldn't end here, like this, not under a strange roof beside the bodies of those they had killed even though they had never really been the enemy.

Celegorm's eyelids drifted shut and he forced them open again with a visible effort. "I'm fine, Kano," he whispered, voice trailing off into silence.

Maglor stayed by his side for a few, long seconds, then brushed Celegorm's face with the back of his hand, closing those blue-grey eyes - eyes that had always been flashing with life, filled with pride and vitality, unafraid of what the world had to offer. And now they were fixed, glazed with death, an unfamiliar blankness in them. They did not seem like his little brother's eyes.

Unbidden, tears rose again and he let them fall, splashing hot onto Celegorm's face. They mingled with the blood there, but the younger brother did not stir.

The sound of footsteps from behind him, accompanied by a soft voice: "Makalaurë?"

"You're too late." Maglor's voice was empty as he turned to his older brother, streaks of blood painting his cheeks under pained grey eyes. "He's - Tyelko-"

Maedhros' eyes flicked towards the bodies behind Maglor, and his expression did not change - there was not a trace of shock on his face, nor grief. Part of Maglor would have hated him for that, had he still been able to hate, had he been able to feel anything. But there was only a empty coldness, right now - and later, there would be pain, he knew, but for now, nothing.

"And now there are four of us," Maedhros said, almost musing. Maglor blinked, waiting for the words to sink in, wondering at the doom there.

"Four...?"

"Curvo and Moryo have fallen. They were doing battle elsewhere - they fought side by side." Still distant, disconnected. Maedhros' silver-flecked eyes were dry, his face pale but clean - somehow, he had found the time to wipe the blood from his skin, in the midst of this battle.

No. They can't be. That's - that's not possible-

"Fallen," he repeated, voice cracked and hoarse. "They fell - Curvo and Moryo both-" And Tyelko. All of them. He shook his head, disbelieving. "Eru," he whispered, and again: "Eru." A prayer, or a curse - or maybe the only words he could say, in the face of this impossibility.

"Eru can't hear you," Maedhros snapped, voice harsh. He had still been holding his sword in his hand, and he sheathed it now with a sudden snarl. "The Valar don't care. They-" Something flashed across the face of the eldest son that reminded Maglor for a moment of another elf, one that had spoken an oath and led his sons to doom. There was a fire there, fury and despair and pain - and no small amount of insanity. For just an instant, Maglor was afraid.

"Maitimo?"

The fire drained from Maedhros' face with a suddenness that surprised Maglor. He stood there for a few seconds longer, then shook his head and turned away.

"Come. We must find wood."

"Wood? What for?"

Maedhros glanced back at the body of his younger brother, and looked away. "To build a pyre. I will not leave my brothers' bodies for the wolves and ravens."

No. They deserve better than that. Maglor closed his eyes, saw the blood trickling from Celegorm's lips, staining his pale face, saw the crackle of flames they had lit already, and the ones they would light again. Once for death, and again for death. But they deserved better than this, too.

fic: Reforging

2013-08-17T18:37:48Z

Title: Reforging
Rating: G
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Maedhros, Celegorm, Maglor
Summary: Maedhros recovers after Thangorodrim.
Word count: 1,362

Also on AO3.

Maedhros learned to use a sword again, and it was like trying to relearn how to walk — something he knew he could do (or had been able to do, once), something that had always been instinctual, natural. But the sword was too heavy, his movements clumsy and unbalanced, and he couldn't wield it left-handed with anything even near the skill he had had before. He was too weak, still, and it was too hard, and the way he fought before he was broken was too deeply ingrained to truly dispel, as was the way he did everything else. It was a struggle to eat, to get dressed — something even the smallest child could do but that he, eldest of the house of Fëanor, spent painful hours attempting. But he wouldn't (couldn't) let anyone help, though it would speed up the process considerably and eliminate the need for his brothers to pretend to not notice his crooked robes, his half-buttoned tunic, the ripped cloth where he had finally lost his temper.

(Fingon had helped him, at the beginning, but even he had been pushed away, because Maedhros did not need pity or help or anything except the strength to do it on his own — and that was the one thing he lacked)

He was trying to get used to being like this, being a cripple, and it was hard to even think the word but it was the truth and he had to live with that truth, so he whispered the word to himself as he battered clumsily at straw-stuffed dummies with a wooden sword, spitting it out — cripple, cripple, cripple — with every blow. He tried to pretend that his own weakness didn't hurt, that he didn't even want to rise most mornings and face his own uselessness.

Part of him (most of him) still thought that dying had been the better option — not that he was really given a choice, in the end. But he saw how his brothers and followers and all the rest of the Noldor continued the long fight against Morgoth, and knew: It is not for me to give up now and let them find their way on their own. I must do what I can, I owe it to them all—

And the Oath, after all, did not allow for giving up.

In the end, it wasn't Fingon who helped him the most on the road to recovery, and neither could he do it himself, no matter what he pretended. No, it was his brothers that did the most, and that was only right. The sons of Fëanor stood by each other, and even if part of him raged against them —they never came, they left me at Morgoth's mercy for years and years, too craven to attempt a rescue— he could never hate them, because they were bound together by sin and blood and shared Oath, but also days in gold and silver light, hunting and playing before the darkness fell, and bandaged scrapes, and stories read aloud as sleepy eyes closed.

Some things, in the end, could not be broken.

He never asked who had tried to convince the others to rescue him, and who had decided to condemn him, because in the end it had been Maglor'schoice (the choice of the eldest, and what would he have done if it was another brother taken?), and the right choice. But there was always that question.

Maglor had wept into his shoulder when he returned, choking out broken apologies and falling to his knees in front of everyone, clasping Maedhros' hands and begging for forgiveness (and a small, hard part of him had been glad that Maglor, too, had suffered, but he had shoved that down and raised his brother up, wondering what he had become, and hating himself).

The others never spoke of their choices to leave him to Morgoth's mercy, only did their best to help him rise again.

It was Celegorm who offered to spar with him, teach him to fight again with his weakened body and useless left hand. He did not truly wish to relearn how to fight, and he never wanted to be in battle again — but he had to protect his people, and he had to fulfill his Oath, and to do that, he needed to be able to use a sword.

His little brother showed no mercy, and Maedhros expected none. He didn't need easy lessons, and he didn't need pity. Every bruise, every cut, every bone-deep ache after — they were lessons that he needed, and a fitting reward for continuing to live. Celegorm did what he had to do to make his brother strong again.

One day, after a frustratingly difficult day of sparring in a week of little to no improvement, he returned to his tent to find Curufin there, waiting for him with a wrapped bundle in his hands and no expression in the grey eyes so like their father's. Maedhros stared tiredly at him for a few long seconds, wondering why he was just standing there.

And what choice did you make, Curvo?

"Here. It's for you," Curufin said without preamble as he placed the bundle into Maedhros' hand with enough care to tell him that whatever was in there, it was something the fifth son had made with his own hands.

He unwrapped it, balancing it precariously on what was left of his right arm and fumbling at the cloth with his left hand. Curufin didn't offer to help, even when the bundle almost fell, though Maedhros did catch the slight, worried tightening at the corners of Curufin's mouth before the elder brother managed to catch it.

The blue sheen of steen made him pause, then toss the cloth aside. His hand closed around the hilt as he lifted the sword, watched the light of the setting sun flash blood-red from it, reminding him of torchlight long ago. The hilt, incised with the star of the House of Fëanor, fit perfectly in his hand, and it was the first time he'd felt comfortable holding a sword in his left hand — and even if it wasn't as much an extension of his arm right now as his old sword had been, he knew immediately that it could be, in time.

"Thank you," he said with honest sincerity, tilting the blade back and forth, feeling the way it balanced perfectly, the way it seemed almost alive under his fingers. "It is... beautiful." And it was, in a certain, deadly way — all tempered shine and razor edge, keen as a star and bright as flame.

He brought it to Celegorm the next day, and his little brother wordlessly helped him into his armor. They sparred with live steel that day, the clash of blades painful and musical, and for a few moments Maedhros almost felt whole again — and then his sword went flying as Celegorm disarmed him with a flick of his wrist, leaving a stinging welt across the back of his gloved hand.

Pick it up. Keep going. That's all you have to do.

And life went on. Some days, he collapsed in his tent at night, every muscle aching, hating himself for how weak he was, angry at Celegorm for trying to fix him and Maglor for letting this happen to him and the others for believing in him — and most of all, Fingon for saving his life. But gradually, there was a change, and one day he woke up and dressed himself without (much) fumbling at his buttons — buttons that had been re-sewn by Caranthir so he could do it more easily — and that small accomplishment pleased him so much he spent the rest of the morning smiling brightly at befuddled soldiers as he passed their tents.

And one day he disarmed Celegorm halfway through their sparring match, and the next day he pinned his little brother to the ground, their swords trapped between their bodies, both of them more than a little bit shocked.

"You're getting better," Celegorm gasped, trying and failing to look dignified while trapped under the taller elf.

And Maedhros laughed, and stood, and helped his brother up.

fic: For My Only Love

2013-08-16T17:25:25Z

Title: For My Only Love
Rating: G
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Míriel Þerindë, Indis, Finwë
Summary: ""What if the one you love is already promised to another?" Indis and unrequited love - but not with someone you might expect."
Warnings: Character death
Word count: 3,356

Also on AO3

Rúsekáno (Russo) is an OC. Þellillë (Þ is pronounced th) is a diminutive nickname for a little sister, according to almare (who was very kind about my random question and also very helpful and if I've screwed up in the application of her suggestion then it is only my fault!).

Originally posted on July 20th - the international day of femslash, in case you were wondering.

When the messenger arrived bearing the gilded invitation, Indis set aside the spear haft she had been carving (a begetting day present for her brother, the blade already made) with a sudden, heavy feeling in her stomach. It was not that this missive was unexpected - quite the opposite. She had been waiting for it for a long time, not with anticipation, but with something like dread.

She dismissed the boy with a word and a kind smile, hoping this served to hide her inner turmoil. It was only once he had closed the door softly behind him and she could hear his footsteps receding down the hall that she slit the ornate seal with one fingernail, noting the crest of the High King in the red wax with a pang. The scroll - of course it would be a scroll, it was just like Finwë such an elaborate and dramatic way of sending messages when a simple envelope would have sufficed - was heavy paper of the finest quality, the writing itself the finest script in ink of red and gold, the starburst of his heraldic device splashed across the top.

The first few lines were nothing out of the ordinary - standard invitational speech, full of phrases like request the pleasure of your presence and sincerely hope you will be able to attend. She skipped down to the middle, where the ornamentation on the letters was so thick it would have been hard to make out the names if she had not known exactly what they were.

...the marriage of High King Finwë and Míriel Þerinde, on the twelfth day of this month, at the waning of Telperion.

She wet her lips with her tongue and reread the names, burning them into her mind, then closing her eyes and watching the afterimage of those letters on the back of her eyelids. Finwë and Míriel.

The last time she had seen those names written together on such fine paper had been nearly a year ago, when everyone in Tirion had been summoned to the event that customarily preceded this - a celebration of the betrothal. It had been an occasion of great import, as the High King of the Noldor hardly got betrothed every day, and as the niece of one of Finwë's closest friends (not to mention another King), Indis had been expected to go.

Indis had enjoyed herself immensely, spinning from laughter to dance to song with the sweet taste of summer wine on her tongue, golden and shining. She had seen the way her red silk dress, sewn with seed pearls from the Telerin beaches, had drawn admiring gazes, and had known that for once she had made a correct wardrobe choice - usually a slight struggle, since despite what others might have thought, her brother had more of a sense for clothing than she did and was often forced to correct her choice of attire.

She had paused between dances beneath a tree, leaning back against the bark to catch her breath and watching the light of Laurelin play off of the fluttering leaves above. The play of light and shadow lulled her into such a trance that the voice from behind came as quite a shock.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Lady Indis?"

"Yes!" She spun, and met a pair of piercing dark eyes. "I am enjoying myself-" The words were cut off by something she couldn't quite put a name to, and she swallowed, suddenly aware of the prickle of heat that was spreading across her face, the slow pool of something heavy and warm in her stomach. "Excuse me!" She darted off into the bushes, ignoring the concerned questions from behind.

Later, she had watched as the couple made their way across the dancing area, Finwë gazing down into the eyes of the much shorter Míriel, an expression of utter devotion on his face, one that was mirrored on hers. His betrothed rested her head against his chest as they swayed, matching robes swirling about them, and Indis had reflected bitterly that whatever small success she had had regarding her own dress, these two far outshone her, and no doubt with far less effort on their part.

But there had been something unrelated to Finwë and Míriel's wardrobe success (because that was such a trivial concern, and it only crossed her mind now because it was a safe thing to think about), something that made Indis' insides twist - maybe it was only the way they moved so perfectly together, as though they were one person, one body already.

He is a perfect match for her, and she for him.

She had wondered why this thought hurt her so much.

"Indis?"

She glanced up, jerked from her thoughts and into the present, automatically stuffing the scroll between her seat cushions as though caught reading something illicit - though there was nothing abnormal about having such an invitation, she knew they would have been sent out to nearly everyone in Tirion. A tall elf stood in the doorway, cloak thrown over one arm. "Russo. I thought you were attending the tournament?" Belatedly, she remembered the spear haft leaning against the wall next to the door, intended for this very brother a week from today, but luckily he didn't seem to notice.

"It ended early - Elveändil was injured during the wrestling match." Rúsekáno was twenty years older than her, as well as several inches taller, but they had the same golden hair and blue eyes, the hallmark of the Vanyar.

"How badly?" She wasn't truly concerned with her brother's friends at the moment - though the one in question was a polite, kind boy, one that seemed to show up often at their house with excuses to talk to her about trivial things such as the weather and the next scheduled spear throwing competition - but such conversation was about all she could manage right now. Besides, it wouldn't do to have him wonder why she was acting oddly.

"Nothing too major - broken arm. Should heal within the week, the healers say. They have to be careful the first few days, though - last time this happened, it healed crooked and they had to rebreak it to set it properly-" He stopped, scrutinizing her face, and she tried to school her expression into one of polite interest. "Is there something wrong, Þellillë?"

"Not at all." She lifted an eyebrow in what she hoped was surprise. "Why do you ask?"

"You seem... out of sorts. Is there aught troubling you?"

"Of course not!" She rose, gathering her skirts about her.

"If you say so." He caught sight of something behind her and nodded towards the invitation she had so hastily (and rather clumsily) hid. "Is that what I think it is?"

"I suppose it is." Unable to refuse without arousing suspicion, Indis handed it to him, smoothing out the wrinkles caused by its sojourn between the chair and the cushion. He looked it over with the air of one who already knew its contents, then handed it back to her.

"So they finally scheduled it, eh? Well, it's hardly as though it was a big secret that they wanted to have it soon."

"I suppose we must begin preparations? They will expect some sort of gift, surely."

Rúsekáno nodded, seemingly reassured by her reply. "Let's talk to Uncle Ingwë about that. He'd probably know more about what the High King likes and dislikes." He turned and swept from the room, not even looking back at his little sister. Indis followed a bit more slowly, pausing to glance at the invitation that lay on the chair, forgotten - the swirl of letters still visible from here, and even if she could not read them the words were shadows on the back of her eyelids still - Finwë and Míriel. Míriel and Finwë.

Indis waited a few days before posing her question to Rúsekáno, turning it over and over in her mind, struggling to put her thoughts into words (they were so clear in her mind, but so hard to articulate in any kind of concrete way). It was easy enough to get him alone - merely a task of cornering him as he returned from his daily activities and before he left with his friends on whatever mission they had that night. Both she and her brother were odd in that they were unmarried, and still living in the same household as their parents, though the reality was that the two of them kept to their (reasonably independent) side of the house and their parents kept to theirs.

She caught him in the kitchen, tearing a hunk from a loaf of brown bread he had baked that morning. "Russo?"

"Yes?"

"There's something I wanted to ask you. Do you have the time to stay for awhile?"

He turned, caught sight of her pale face, and nodded. "Of course, Þellillë. What troubles you?"

"What if..." She swallowed, aware that her question was more befitting of a young girl than someone like her, but if she did not get the words out now, no matter how awkwardly phrased they were, they would never come. "Hypothetically. What if you love someone, and they do not love you back?"

Rúsekáno blinked, glancing at her in surprise. She met his gaze challengingly, willing away the blush that threatened to rise in her cheeks. "Why do you worry about that, Þellillë?" he finally asked, eyebrows knitted together. "Surely one as beautiful as you has any number of suitors clamoring for your affection?"

"That isn't the issue," she replied, biting off her words, a surge of annoyance rising in her. "The number of suitors I may or may not have is irrelevant if the one I love will not - cannot - be among them!"

"Cannot?"

Now she looked away, breaking eye contact. "Russo... what if the one you love is already promised to another?"

There was a long, pregnant pause. "The Laws and Customs-"

"I know the Laws and Customs." Damn the Laws, damn the Valar - this isn't a sin, it can't be.

"Then... then you know that it's impossible." He smiled at her, trying to comfort, and reached forward to tuck a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear. "It's best if you put such things from your mind, Þellillë. There are others no? And you have all the time in the world to choose or to not, as you wish."

She felt his eyes on her, knew that he expected some sort of positive response. It was a small matter to smile at him, to sit up straighter as though the mere words of her older brother had wiped all her troubles away. "Thank you, Russo. That is... a comfort." You have not helped me at all. I do not know why I thought coming to you would help in the slightest - but it was because she had to talk to someone, had to put the thoughts into words even if it were only for her own sake.

"Good," he replied, taking her light smile at face value, as he always did. Unexpectedly, she felt a surge of contempt - he and Uncle Ingwë and all the others (the men) always fell from her laughing words and cheerful smile as though completely unaware of what flowed underneath, everything about her.

"I expect your friends are waiting for you," she said smoothly, reaching into the basket beside her and tossing him an apple. "Don't be rude and make them impatient. Go on!"

He caught the apple, tipping her a wink. "Don't forget about the wedding tomorrow."

I'm not likely to, she thought, watching him leave.

At the mingling of the lights before the wedding, Indis was suddenly struck with a crippling bout of stomach cramps, attributed to the Telerin delicacies she had partaken of (perhaps to excess) at the feast preceding. This, of course, meant that she was forced into her bed for the foreseeable future, unable to move more than the three or four feet necessary to reach the chamber pot. It with great regret that she informed her brother that she could not bear rising from her bed, even to attend the wedding of the Age. She even managed to coax forth a few tears to add to the effect.

Her uncle visited her in her darkened chamber a few hours before the fading of Telperion, already in a festal robe made especially for the occasion. "How are you feeling, Indis?"

She rolled over tentatively, peering up at him through a gap in her covers. "I am... I-" She broke off, doubling over with what she hoped was a reasonable approximation of terrible pain. "I wish I could go," she gasped out weakly.

Ingwë placed the back of his hand against her forehead. "I do believe you are fevered. Do the healers expect you to recover soon?"

Lying under heavy blankets in a closed room tended to have the effect of heating one up whether one had a fever or not, though Indis wisely refrained from pointing this out. "Not soon enough for the wedding," she said, sounding sufficiently disappointed. Her uncle nodded and swept out, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care. She threw the blanket from her, wiping her sweaty forehead on her pillow, and listened to the rest of the household leave for the wedding.

She could not, however, escape the feast a few years later, one that celebrated the birth of an heir to the High King. Not only was she too well-known of a personage to be able to avoid two major events in a row without arousing suspicion, but a part of her also wanted to see the result of this union, the offspring of one she had once loved from afar.

But no longer, she told herself firmly, tugging on her blue satin slippers as she prepared to leave. That was long ago, and foolish. There is no point in loving in despite of all the Laws and Customs, especially when that love is not reciprocated. She could even tell herself that time had worked its magic on her, that even were she presented with an opportunity to seduce her love, she would turn away from it, cold and unaffected. Admittedly, she had seen neither Finwë nor his wife since their betrothal ceremony, had in fact consciously (and subconsciously) invented many excuses to escape minor festivities when she knew either would be in attendance - she was tired, she had to visit her friend in Alqualondë, she had to attend a tournament.

Still, surely she had outgrown the delusions of an earlier time by now.

The High King stood by his throne to receive the guests while his wife sat in it, holding in her slender arms a babe with a well-developed head of his father's smooth black hair. Indis waited in line along with the others, laughing at her brother's jokes, bestowing small, kind smiles on his friend Elveändil and wondering why she had never noticed the small scar that split his let eyebrow, or how much older it made him look. When it was her turn, she turned to the throne and paid her respects in a calm, even tone, eyes never wavering from the smooth marble floor.

"I welcome the birth of the Crown Prince," she murmured. "I hope his parents are doing well?"

"Well, why don't you look up and see?"

She raised her eyes at the sound of that voice, and all her lies fell away - nothing had been forgotten, nothing had faded. Rúsekáno nudged her, and she realized that she was expected to say something, that she was standing there with her lips parted, a flush rising in her cheeks-

Stop this foolishness!

"It's very nice to see you, Indis," Finwë said, smiling down at her.

"And I you," she replied, now itching to be gone, to escape the eyes that pinned her where she stood as if they knew (those eyes that weren't quite the grey she'd remembered when she'd allowed herself to, they were so dark, like nothing she'd ever seen before).

"I hope you are completely recovered?" Míriel's face was pale and drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes, as though she had not slept for weeks. The child in her arms, by contrast, was sleeping peacefully, round cheeks flushed pink, eyelashes fluttering slightly. Indis could almost imagine that the babe - named Fëanáro, if her sources were correct - had sucked the life from his mother, taken it for his own and left her with nothing for herself. Which was ridiculous, of course. Birthgiving took something from a mother, yes, but no babe had ever killed his mother simply by being born.

"I - of course." She supposed Míriel was referring to her bout of supposed food poisoning that had kept her from the wedding, but that had been so long ago. "That was hardly anything to worry about." You, though - you look as if you need several long nights of sleep, undisturbed. She wondered if Finwë was bothering to give his wife those nights, or if he was trying for another child already.

Behind her, Rúsekáno said something about the baby, and Míriel laughed. Indis wondered if she was the only one to notice the strained note to her voice.

The bells that rang in Valmar seemed subdued, as though even the Valar mourned for Míriel Þerindë. And it was perfectly possible that they did.

She has refused rebirth, they had said. She will not return to us.

The High King had reportedly not slept for days, instead pacing his hall and gazing out windows with a dark-haired shadow tagging along behind him, a child's questions echoing in the suddenly too-quiet rooms - what's wrong with Mother, why won't she wake up? - and the King had no answer for him.

They have laid her in the gardens of Lórien. She will not wake.

Indis found her lying in the shade of a cedar tree, dress arranged neatly about her, hands folded on her stomach. The attendant that had been hovering beside her withdrew at the sound of Indis' footstep on the soft earth, and she was left alone with someone who looked as though she could have been sleeping.

Míriel looked healthier than the last time Indis had seen her, and she wondered for how long that would last - how long the body could survive without the spirit, and where exactly that spirit was now.

"It was you, you know. All along," she told the body, kneeling beside her and gazing down at the fine features, the spread of silver hair. Whatever spark had lit that face and drawn Indis to it so irrevocably was gone now, leaving behind only a frail husk. She took one of Míriel's limp hands in hers, entwining her hand with the skilled weaver's fingers.

The wind sighed through the tree above them, throwing dapples of silver across Míriel's still face, and Indis remembered another tree, another time - a time when this face had been smiling at her, speaking to her, a time when she could have said the words she hadn't had until now, when it was too late.

"I think you knew. But even if you did, I don't think it would've made a difference. Because you loved Finwë, didn't you?" It wasn't really a question - anyone who had eyes to see with had known what Finwë and Míriel had felt for each other.

She paused, twining her fingers in the silver hair that was tangled with the grass she sat on. "But... who's to say that one person may not love more than once in their life?" This was said so quietly as to be nearly inaudible.

There was no answer from Míriel. Indis sighed and smoothed back silver hair from the face of her love, then pressed her lips to the still mouth below, a tear slipping from one eye and splashing the still cheek below.

"I wish you'd wake up so I could tell you," she whispered against Míriel's lips.

Wherever you are... I hope you know.

She stood and left the garden without another glance.

fic: keep you in light

2013-07-07T01:42:13Z

Title: keep you in light
Rating: G
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Thingol, Lúthien
Summary: Thingol sits by his daughter's side, and waits for her to return to him.
Warnings: Mentions of character death
Word count: 1,180

Also on AO3

"This is my fault," Thingol told his daughter distantly, smoothing back her dark hair, adjusting her already perfect blue dress. She lay as though asleep, eyes closed, limbs relaxed on the long grass — but he knew better.

They said her spirit had fled, that she had forsaken this land of darkness and gone to the lands of eternal light that lay in the West. But Thingol had been there, before shadow and blood stained it, and knew that the light of the Two Trees was gone, and there was nothing for Lúthien there — just as there was no longer anything for him here.

Where are you, Lúthien?

"Elu?"

He had not heard his wife's approach, but then again, Melian was ever light on her feet, seeming to barely touch the earth as she moved whisper-soft over stone and grass alike. Probably one of the side effects of being a Maia, and one of those things he had learned to take for granted all these years.

"You should come inside. There are others who can watch — others who can stay by her side."

He looked up, intending to reply, but a flash of white caught his eye and he absentmindedly plucked the pale blossom from the earth, tucked it behind Lúthien's ear, a flash of star-like brilliance against her hair. These were the same blossoms that had sprung up when she was born, to greet the princess of Doriath, fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar. He had known she was special (then again, every father thought his child was the one that would change the world, but there had been a ring of undeniable truth to the words when he spoke them to Melian, she will be great, and she had nodded with the foresight of her kind in her eyes). All he had wanted was for her to be happy—

Was she happy?

When he looked up again, Melian was gone. He wondered distantly if she had grown impatient with him at last and flown back to Valinor. Maybe she could find their daughter there.

Lúthien…

He had wanted her to be happy, but he had wanted her to be safe, too. And in Doriath, that was possible — here, in the center of the war-torn Beleriand, was a sheltered garden for his flower to grow in.

For years, that had been enough. Lúthien had grown up here, had blossomed into maturity here — and if Thingol had a tendency to use flowery metaphors when thinking of her, it was only because he always had some vague sense that if he could only do the right thing (as when he gardened — the right amount of water, the right amount of light, the right leaves clipped off) then he could keep his daughter happy forever.

Daughters were not, apparently, flowers. It came as a surprise the first time she rebelled against him — over some small thing, he did not even remember what now — and Melian had had to remind him that Lúthien had reached her full maturity and was able to make her own decisions. He bit back his protests and watched as his child began to make her own way in the world, something like pain inside him.

Still, he had thought he could keep her in Doriath, safe. And she had stayed in his forest — but danger walked right in and asked for her hand in marriage nonetheless.

The idea of a mortal — baseborn, doomed to death, ignorant — laying a hand on his daughter was enough to tip him over the edge into fury. He had laughed scornfully in Beren's face, ignoring the hurt in Lúthien's eyes and the despair when he set the mortal with an impossible task. It shook him (only slightly) when Beren laughed right back at him and told him he'd be back with a Silmaril, but he thought nothing of it. The Man would die, and his daughter would be with him still.

He did not foresee Lúthien's open rebellion, did not expect to be woken by a servant frantically gasping out the words — she's gone, her bed's empty, I don't know where — and when he sprinted to her platform (it had been for her safety, and right, no matter the disapproval in Melian's eyes) he had been afraid, for the first time in a long time.

When the letter from the two brothers arrived, a proposal that was really a threat, he crumpled the parchment in his fist and stood, trying to keep the anger back (that anger that was always there, now, no matter what he did to rein it in) — and then he snarled, and tore the letter into two ragged halves, casting them to the floor and storming out.

I just want her back, he had told the sky above, and received no answer from the clouded vault.

Yet his prayer had been answered, in the end, and even as news of a new terror on the border reached his ears — the mortal's fault, again, was there nothing Thingol could do against him? — his daughter returned, hand-in-hand with Beren, a happiness on her face that almost made him regret his earlier words.

For you, Lúthien, I will smile.

He let Beren take her hand before his throne.

Then again, back into danger, and this was far too close to his home, and too close to Lúthien. There was nothing he would not do to keep Carcharoth as far away as possible from her, and he could see the same desire in Beren's eyes, and almost thought this mortal could, perhaps, be the right one for her. Almost.

He saw the light die in her eyes when he returned with Beren's bloody body, fallen defending his wife's father from the Hound of Morgoth, dead fulfilling an oath he should never have had to swear.

"I'm sorry," he told her, and she looked up at him, eyes bright with tears, before leaning over Beren, smoothing back his hair and running her hands along his bloodied chest, fingers probing the wound as though she could seal it, give her lover back his life.

Thingol had spent enough time in his garden, tending his plants, to know when a flower was going to die. Plants had the same curse as the race of Men — mortality. Perhaps it had been that fleeting beauty that attracted him to them in the first place, prompted him to spend hours alone among twisting vines and blooming flowers. But his daughter — she was not mortal, she should not have had this distant, dark look in her eyes, and there should not have been the same feeling of death about her as there was about the shriveled petals of an autumn rose.

He felt the moment her spirit fled.

She was still as beautiful in this not-sleep as she had always been. He could still protect her — still sit by her side, comfort her (even if she could not hear him), and guard her from further harm.

I'm still here, Lúthien.

He plucked another niphredil, dropped it on her dress, and waited.

I should read non-fiction more often

2013-07-07T00:44:10Z

(...mostly because of super-accurate quotes.)

[There is] a common tendency to confuse an explanation of causes with a justification or acceptance of results. What use one makes of a historical explanation is a question separate from the explanation itself. That's why psychologists try to understand the minds of murderers and rapists, why social historians try to understand genocide, and why physicians try to understand the causes of human disease. Those investigators do not seek to justify murder, rape, genocide, and illness. Instead, they seek to use their understanding of a chain of causes to interrupt the chain.

--Jared Diamond, Guns, Germs, and Steel

I find this very relevant for some reason.

Daily Book Quote

2013-05-12T18:29:13Z

It is a condition of monsters that they do not perceive themselves as such. The dragon, you know, hunkered in the village devouring maidens, heard the townsfolk cry 'Monster!' and looked behind him.

Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor

fic: Everything In Its Own Time

2013-04-24T22:23:16Z

Title: Everything In Its Own Time
Rating: G
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Caranthir, Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm
Summery: Caranthir wants to go hunting with his older brothers. They won't let him. Oneshot.
Warnings: No warnings apply
Word Count: 1734

Also on AO3.

When his older brother stopped playing his harp, it took a few seconds for Carnistir to register the fact. The sound was such a constant, always there under the bustle of the busy household - Father's hammer ringing in the forge, Mother's apprentices chattering, the dogs barking - and somehow the silver notes faded into the backdrop after awhile, so that one almost forgot they were there. Besides, it wasn't as if Kanafinwë played much besides the same scales over and over, and a few songs that others had made first (though Carnistir knew that he composed his own music, sometimes, even if he was oddly shy about performing it for the others). Some days it was annoying, hearing him pluck those stupid strings and sing his stupid songs when he should have been doing something useful like manning the bellows in the forge next to Maitimo or watching the baby for Mother so she could work in peace.

Years later, that music would be the thing he missed the most about that house and that time - when they all grew up and moved on, Carnistir lived alone in echoing halls filled with a bleak silence that was nothing like the sun-bright sounds that used to flow from those harp strings. But today was a special day, and the light was still there, and the stilling of the music was important.

Carnistir lept from the window-seat, tossing the toy horse he had been holding onto the scarlet cushion. Nearly tripping over the rug, he steadied himself on a nearby table before bounding from the room and hurtling down the hallway, his bare feet squeaking on the smooth dark wood. He nearly ran into one of Father's apprentices, eliciting a surprised curse from the tall boy. Giggling, he rounded the corner and dodged a maid scurrying in the opposite direction up the stairs with a tray balanced in her hands.

He made it outside without further incident - the others in the house, servants and apprentices alike, were used to him being underfoot, the wildest of the sons of Fëanor. He was a slim child, a few months past nine years old, with tangled black hair, rich and glossy, and tan skin. His knees were adorned with half-healed scrapes and bruises, as were his elbows-all souvenirs of the escapades of a child, battle wounds from fighting wars against invisible monsters in the backyard and forest. There was a lively light in the grey eyes that were several shades darker than any of his brothers', and a sly curve to his thin lips.

Two older boys stood in the courtyard, in the shade of the wall. He dashed across the cobbled stone, feeling the soles of his feet scrape rock, and hurtled into the taller of the pair. Maitimo huffed with surprise, the air forced from his lungs by the impact of the tiny body.

"Carnistir. What're you doing?"

Carnistir buried his face in his brother's tunic and inhaled, letting Maitimo's scent creep into him. Sweat and the heat of Father's forge and the sharpness of ink, dusty parchment and the hearthfire bright as his hair - that was what the oldest brother smelled like.

Beside Maitimo, Tyelkormo scowled. "Who said you could come out here, brat? Does Mother know you left your room?"

Carnistir pulled back to glare at his brother, and had to resist the urge to stick his tongue out at the light-haired boy. "Of course she does," he lied. Tyelkormo wasn't all that much older than he was, really, but he tried to act like he was so much more mature, always off playing with their cousins, never letting Carnistir come along.

"Well, why don't you go back inside?" Tyelkormo's grey-blue eyes were narrowed with annoyance, gleaming hard as the jewels in Father's forge. "You don't need to be out here."

"Be nice, Tyelko," Maitimo said automatically, shaking his head and shooting his younger brother an exasperated look. "What's taking Kano so long?" He glanced back towards the house, frowning. "I wanted to get going by midday."

"He only just stopped playing," Carnistir blurted, grabbing his brother's hands and pulling the attention back to him. "Maitimo?"

"Yes?"

He shifted from foot to foot, eyes darting across his older brother's face - now that it came to it, he was hesitant. "C-can I come with you and Kano and Tyelko? Come hunting, I mean."

Tyelkormo's response was a bark of incredulous laughter. "You? You aren't even big enough to sit a horse. You'd fall right off."

"I can too-" he began hotly, but Maitimo laid a gentle, heavy hand on his shoulder and looked down at Carnistir's scowling face, pity and something that might have been amusement warring in his steel-grey eyes.

"Carnistir, he's right, you're too little." Carnistir's face fell, and his brother added, "But soon, I promise!" Maitimo's words were probably meant to be comforting, but Carnistir's angry expression made it clear that he only heard - or only registered - the rejection. And when his brother reached down to tousle his hair with one hand, he ducked away, face burning.

"I am not too little," he protested. "I'll be ten next nameday!" What did they think he was, a baby like little Curufinwë?

"Carnistir-" Maitimo began, then trailed off, shaking his head. He was saved by the appearance of a dark-haired boy hurrying across the courtyard, tying his long hair back, a flustered expression on his pale face.

"So sorry, Maitimo!" Kanafinwë gasped, skidding to a halt beside his brothers, barely even seeming to notice Carnistir. "I completely forgot-"

"It isn't a problem," Maitimo interrupted smoothly, his best diplomatic mask on as he turned away from Carnistir, his relief at the appearance of the second son palpable. The two had always been closest to each other - much more, certainly, than Tyelkormo and Carnistir, who tended to fight at the slightest provocation. "Let's get going, shall we?"

"Wait!" Carnistir tugged on his brother's sleeve, looking up at him. It suddenly struck him that his brother was much taller than him-he'd never truly thought about that before, but from down here, trying to get his brother to listen when he was so far above... he felt so small, and that made his brow furrow and face flush red. "Let me come with you!"

"Carnistir, I told you... you're too little." This time it was said bluntly, no trace of patience. Maitimo was ready to leave, and he had no time for his little brother's requests.

The boy's face crumpled and he bit his lip, fighting back the burning in his eyes and the lump rising in the back of his throat. "B-but I want to come!" he cried, aware that his voice was shrill and childish, knowing that every word was just another reason to leave him at home - but he couldn't just letthem leave him behind, could he?

Kanafinwë blinked. "What's this? Maitimo, if he wants to come..."

Carnistir turned to the dark-haired boy with wide, beseeching eyes, but Maitimo shook his head with an air of absolute finality. "No is no, Kano. Now let's go." He turned and swept through the door. Kanafinwë followed, giving Carnistir a small, sympathetic smile. Tyelkormo stuck his tongue out as he passed, and Carnistir growled under his breath, clenching his fists. He watched through a blurred haze as the three of them mounted up and rode out, Tyelkormo's dog barking at the heels of his master's horse.

Doesn't matter, he tried to tell himself, stumbling back across the yard, ducking through an arch and into the cool green of his mother's garden. It doesn't matter, they don't matter - but of course it mattered, and no amount of denial was going to make it otherwise. At least he managed to hold the tears in until he was hidden, huddled under the glossy, dark leaves of a nearby bush. Then they flowed over his cheeks and splashed onto his bare hands, hot as blood, but at least no one could see him - and his brothers least of all. They were gone, and they didn't care-

He leaned back against the thorny branches, ignoring the way they pricked his skin, scratching thin red lines along his arms. The light filtered through from above, golden and soft, and he palmed the tears from his eyes, grimacing. There was no sound save the rustling of leaves and the distant ringing from the forge, far away. By now his brothers had probably found their cousin and were off riding through the woods, everything else forgotten, especially little Carnistir back home, with his stupid, childish dreams of joining them.

I'll be a better hunter than all of them one day, just wait and see. His hand fastened around a nearby stick and he brought it up with sudden, savage speed, the end whistling through the air. It slashed through the leaves above, sending a flurry of green dancing to the ground. He levered himself to his feet using the bush as a prop and pressed the attack, the stick a blur. Every leaf was his prey, helpless beneath his mighty sword - and if some of them had his brothers' faces, then that was only natural, wasn't it? He'd be better than all of them, one day, when he was older - once he wasn't solittle - and then they'd be the ones begging to come with him, and he'd be the one rejecting them-

The stick snapped, one end flying off into the garden, and he paused, chest heaving. His dark grey eyes stared blankly at the splintered end in his hand for a few, long seconds before he let it fall with a helpless sob. He sat down heavily amid the tattered leaves, wrapping his arms around his knees.

fic: Hold You Tonight

2013-04-14T01:24:03Z

Title: Hold You Tonight
Rating: G
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Maglor, Eönwë
Summery: He's not really sure why he keeps coming back. Maybe he just wants to put this broken Noldo back together. Or maybe that's impossible and he's just wasting his time. But it's always easy for him to find Maglor - he just has to follow the music.
Warnings: Maglor's depression
Word Count: 4318

Located on AO3 only due to excessive length.

( the highway don't care if you're coming home (but I do, I do) )

fic: Ends Life, Kills Laughter

2013-04-13T21:39:43Z

Title: Ends Life, Kills Laughter
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Maeglin, Idril, Tuor
Summery: "It had not been pain, in the end, that made him submit. His betrayal had been for love, love that was as tainted by the darkness as everything in his life was..." Maeglin's point of view at death. Written for B2MEM 2013."
Warnings: character death (canon)
Word Count: 1118
Also on AO3.

Written for Back to Middle-earth Month 2013.
Prompt from Day 6:
"It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt.
It lies behind stars and under hills,
And empty holes it fills.
It comes first and follows after,
Ends life, kills laughter."
From The Hobbit Chapter V, 'Riddles in the Dark' (so naturally I go a write a Silmarillion fanfic for it, what else would I do? Maeglin's point of view, warnings for character death and descriptions of torture. Expanding on the theme of 'darkness'.)
----

----Work Text:

He was dying, body broken on the rocks, blood glistening on the cold grey stone and broken bones grating against each other, making every moment agony. Above, the sky was purpling with dusk. Stars were appearing. The air tasted of smoke and ash and ruin, but it was blessedly silent. Gone were the screams of the dying and living alike... and she was gone, too.

Itarillë...

His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile, dark and savage. She was gone, and her mortal husband was with her - and the half-mortal spawn of their union as well. But she had known, in the end... and it had killed him, but it had been worth it, to hold a knife to the brat's neck and see the terror on her face.

For once he had held the power, after so long.

She had been afraid of him.

But that fear had fled from her eyes when that Man came, the Man that should have never been allowed into the Hidden City, the Man who had stolen her from him. And that was what hurt him the most. Idril had been his, Maeglin's beautiful light...

Never yours, though, something in him whispered, scornful and bitter. Tuor stole something that could not ever be yours, so why should you care?

And then another thought, flat and final: She would have been mine. It was promised.

Promises made in the red grip of pain, when he felt his very soul was being ripped from his body as he screamed to the unhearing Valar - but he had never begged for death. He had not granted that to Morgoth, never. Would not.

It had not been pain, in the end, that made him submit. His betrayal had been for love, love that was as tainted by the darkness as everything in his life was.

"I can give her to you. Your... Itarillë. You desire her, do you not?"

The Elf whimpered, twisting away, chains clinking. His dark eyes were wide and staring. Blood trickled down his pale face. The darkness swirled around him, yanking his chin up. Something flashed silver and his body jerked, a red, weeping gash appearing on his shoulder. A scream lanced through the gloom.

"You want her." The darkness caressed him, darting downwards, where even now the thought of his cousin aroused him. He shuddered at the touch, tried to pull away, but the chains held him motionless, helpless.

"Don't you?" It was a harsh hiss, the sound curling around him like a lover's embrace. The denials he had practiced all those years - waiting for his secret to be revealed, waiting and almost hoping someone would see - rose in his throat. They never left his mouth. Not here, not in this darkness. Lies were useless here, with his soul laid bare, ripped apart.

"I can give her to you."

And that was all it took to tame him. All it took to doom his people - and himself.

They called him kinslayer as he slew them - and if he had had the time, he could have told them that he was just living up to his mother's legacy. He was of the house of Finwë, was he not? Perhaps this was the bloody proof - betrayal and murder and death. They had always looked at him scornfully for his father - was this not the final proof that he was his mother's son?

Kinslayer.

There had been fury on Tuor's face as he had dragged him to the edge. Cold fury, under a mask of stony justice - the Man believed he had the right to sentence the traitor to death in the place of their king, and that had infuriated Maeglin more than everything else.

Not you, you bastard. You were not the one that should condemn me thus. You had no right.

Right or not, nothing and no one had stopped Tuor from shoving him into oblivion. No one had stepped forward to help. And Idril's eyes had been colder than the ice his mother had crossed, and her arms had been wrapped around her son, the boy that should have been Maeglin's.

He closed his eyes.

He had watched the city fall, watched the ruin of his mother's people, and wondered at its glory. This - this had all been his doing. Fire and blood spreading through the Hidden City, and he was ruler of it all for one glorious second.

Remember who you are, the darkness whispered, and he shuddered at the memories. Thin spiderwebs of pain crept along his back, where Morgoth's sharp steel had sliced into him, ripped the skin from him until he howled, writhing on the floor with the chains digging into his wrists and ankles.

Other screams now tore the air around him - mothers and fathers and children, watching their loved ones cut down before their eyes, watching their own death swoop down on wings of darkness.

Maeglin stood and watched the destruction of Gondolin, a laugh bubbling up in his throat. He threw back his head and howled his mirth to the sky, tears leaking from his eyes - from sorrow or joy, even he could not say.

"It wasn't my fault," he whispered now, voice cracked and dry. He licked his lips and forced his heavy eyelids open. Night had fallen while he lay there, and he was still alone.

It was fitting, he supposed, that the child of the twilight died as darkness fell.

Your Lómion is coming to you, mother... after so long.

His father had fallen from here, too, all those years before. Had he lain here too, feeling the life drain from him, helpless in the face of death? Had he cursed those that had thrown him into the void, those that had stood by and watched and done nothing? He had cursed his own son and wife, then, and that curse had never faded.

They had called him unnatural, spawn of a Dark Elf. They had called him a bastard, because a forced wedlock meant nothing among the Noldor. He could have raged at them - had, in the beginning - but there was no use in that. All he had to do was wait...

All he had to do was betray them.

"Itarillë..."

It was my fault. But only for the love of you. Only for the love- The thought spun away, fragmented, and he tasted iron heat in his mouth.

The Hidden City had fallen, and he had fallen along with it. Down the stony cliff, into the smoke-stained sky. He sucked in a breath, tasting ash, and wondered where she was.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and was glad there was no one there to hear.

The darkness took him.

fic: By Doom Mastered

2013-04-13T21:36:01Z

Title: By Doom Mastered
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Nienor Niniel, Turin Turambar
Pairing(s): Nienor/Turin
Summery: "Her mother had spoken of a brother, lost before she was born, sent away to the Elf-king in Doriath, where he'd be safe. And as they had traveled, Morwen had spoken of her son, a fond light in her eyes, and Niënor had listened." Oneshot. Warnings for canon character death and mentions of canon incest. Written for B2MEM 2013.
Warnings: character death (canon), suicide, incest (canon)
Word Count: 680
Also on AO3.

Written for Back to Middle-earth Month 2013.
Prompt from Day One: 'Loss of Innocence': "Then Glaurung died, and the veil of his malice was taken from her, and she remembered all the days of her life. Looking down upon Túrin she cried: 'Farewell, O twice beloved! A Túrin Turambar turun ambartanen: master of doom by doom mastered! O happy to be dead!' Then Brandir who had heard all, standing stricken upon the edge of ruin, hastened towards her; but she ran from him distraught with horror and anguish, and coming to the brink of Cabed-en-Aras she cast herself over, and was lost in the wild water."
From The Silmarillion Chapter 21, 'Of Túrin Turambar'
----

------Work Text:

Do you remember?

Glaurung's eyes were a deep gold, slitted like a cat's, filled with fire. The moon gleamed off of them, silver-bright, and she shrank back, because those eyes were suddenly so familiar...

Niënor, daughter of Húrin.

And the dragon's eyes drifted shut, and everything fell away - and she remembered.

(tall and dark, his eyes like the storm)

He had found her in the darkness and brought her to the light, clothed her and taught her to speak again, loved her and held her when the dreams that she could never quite remember came. And he lay in her arms now, eyes closed and skin ashen-grey, struck down by the dragon's spite.

And he was her brother.

Master of doom. Turambar. No - Túrin, son of Húrin.

Her mother had spoken of a brother, lost before she was born, sent away to the Elf-king in Doriath, where he'd be safe. And as they had traveled, Morwen had spoken of her son, a fond light in her eyes, and Niënor had listened. Eyes like a stormy sky, her mother had said. Dark hair, from her - not like Niënor, with the spun-gold hair of her father.

Had she remembered?

Not until now.

He never wanted to tell me his name. And she had wondered why, because something in her whispered it might be important - she had known it was important, though she had not known why.

She stood, distant and cold, letting him fall from her arms, words spilling from her mouth - and she wasn't even sure what they were, only that they were a cry of grief and terror, because now she knew.

Knew the truth, knew her doom.

Master of doom by doom mastered, she thought, and almost laughed.

The night they had wed, he had held her in his arms as they tumbled onto the bed, her laughing, him with a small smile on his dark face. The most she'd even really gotten from him was that little upturning of his mouth, a smile that never touches his eyes - those grey eyes.

(like the storm)

They'd looked almost familiar, then, and she had almost shied away, but that had been their night of joy and nothing should sully that. And afterwards, when he'd collapsed over her, spent and panting, she'd let herself melt into his warmth and forget that familiarity and everything it implied.

She was good at forgetting.

Her hand strayed to her stomach, brushing over the fabric of her dress. The worst of all his deeds you shall feel in yourself, Glaurung hissed, and she flinched, hand clenching, nails digging into her skin.

It wasn't my fault, she protested. Nor was it his - the blame cannot be placed on either of us, we were cursed...

And she looked down at this man, her brother and husband, lying before her, broken. She wondered where his strength had gone - this could not be her husband, sleeping as though dead before his foe, his hand burned and wrapped in a scrap of her dress. There was some mistake. Turambar would rise, and he would not be her brother, and this would all fade again-

(twice beloved)

"No," she whispered, then louder: "No!" She staggered away, distantly aware of someone calling her name, begging her to wait - but she was done waiting, done with everything. She might have called back something to that effect, but it didn't matter.

Oh, twice beloved, Túrin Turambar... my husband...

(my brother, the father of my child)

She ran through the woods, branches tearing at her skin, drawing thin red lines of blood, and she remembered another flight through the forest, away from the dragon, away from her mother - to her brother.

The river raged below, white and grey under the pale sky, and it reached up with cold arms to welcome her. She stepped into its embrace, and her last thought was of him and what they had created together. Her hands clenched around the soft swell of her stomach, tightened, digging into her skin.

There was no one else for her to run to.

fic: The Holy and the Broken

2013-04-12T01:22:05Z

Title: The Holy and the Broken
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Curufin, Finrod
Pairing(s): Curufin/Finrod
Summery: A conversation about death and unbreakable oaths and other such things. Featuring established!Curufin/Finrod.
Warnings: slash, cousincest
Word Count: 1479
Also on AO3.

Pairing: Curufin/Finrod
I promised myself I'd write for this prompt. Kinda written for Back to Middle-earth Month 2013.
Prompt from Day One: "Be he friend or foe or foul offspring/of Morgoth Bauglir, be he mortal dark/that in after/days on earth shall dwell,/shall no law nor love nor league of Gods,/no might nor mercy, not moveless fate,/defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance/of the sons of Feanor, whoso seize or steal/or finding keep the fair enchanted/globes of crystal whose glory dies not,/the Silmarils. We have sworn for ever!"
------

----Work Text:

"Don't you feel like this has happened before?" Curufin whispered, lips brushing Finrod's skin. The taller elf stiffened at the feather-light touch, body tensing against his cousin's.

"What do you mean?"

Curufin let out a soft, low chuckle that sent a shiver down Finrod's spine. "Death and doom, dearest cousin. This... darkness. From sworn word."

"You're talking about Beren," he replied, pulling away and looking into those pale grey eyes, flatter and colder than ice.

It was not a question, and Curufin did not treat it as such. He blinked, slowly and languidly, regarding his cousin with a thoughtful expression, as though Finrod was an interesting alloy, something he could shape in his forge, heat and bend to his will. (And he tried not to think about how apt that description was, not now, not here)

The blonde elf's eyes narrowed. "I swore an oath, Atarinkë. Surely that's something you can relate to."

"Perhaps." Curufin's lips curled slightly, that half-smirk that was the closest to a smile Finrod ever saw from him. "And what will the King of Nargothrond do about this oath of his, hm?" The words were almost mocking, would have been mocking in any other voice, but the tone was flat, emotionless - and cold, so cold Finrod almost shuddered.

"No less than a son of Fëanor would do," Finrod snapped, this time managing to step away from those eyes, that silvery smile that pulled him in. "Fulfill it."

"Oh." His cousin's eyes were half-closed, glinting in the soft light of the fire. "Was that meant as an insult, Ingoldo?"

Finrod closed his eyes, tried to will away the frantic drumming of his heart. He did not want to step back into those arms, did not want to let himself fall into those eyes again, like he had so many times before. And at the same time, that was the only thing he wanted to do.

The firelight played off of Curufin's pale skin as he regarded Finrod, highlighting scars and casting his face into shadow. His bare torso had a gleaming red cast, as though he himself was formed of flame, and Finrod wondered at how like his father he looked just then. But had the Spirit of Fire ever stirred him thus, sent heat coiling through his stomach like this? Had the elder Curufinwë's grey eyes sent needles of ice down his spine in this shameful blend of attraction and wanting?

The answer to that was the same as it had always been. Never. They are not as alike as others say they are - the father and the son.

And yet they are.

"What will you do about this - about Beren?" Finrod asked, and it was a challenge, daring Curufin to tell a lie - because both of them knew what the truth was, it was there in the room with them, heavy and dark and laden with the stench of death. There was only ever one truth, with the sons of Fëanor. And it was a cold truth, colder than betrayal - and hotter than flame, all-consuming.

"I only ever do what I am expected to do. No more, no less." Curufin tilted his head, lifting his chin, the firelight falling into his eyes, gilding his pale neck with a soft gleam. "As do you."

"And what am I expected to do?" He shook his head, purposefully looking off into the fireplace, until the light had dazzled his eyes and he could look away again, afterimages racing across the blackness, erasing his cousin. "That has never been the same for you and I, Atarinkë. You know that."

Curufin was quiet then, staring at him with those storm-grey eyes, and Finrod wanted to flinch away. He had always hated it when his cousin watched in silence. There was always that feeling that Curufin saw so much more than anyone would want him to see, saw beneath the feeble actions to the motivation beneath, past the facade to the actor playing his doomed role. And Finrod was not sure he wanted anyone that deep. This cousin least of all.

"What do you want?" he asked, more to break the silence than anything - and mostly to get Curufin's eyes away from him, off of him.

"Want?" Curufin repeated, sounding almost amused - as amused as he ever sounded, that was. The corners of his mouth twitched again, teeth gleaming ever so slightly from under his upraised lip. "To fulfill my Oath and avenge my father, cousin dearest. Surely you know that."

"No," Finrod said, anger rising in him for no reason he could name. "What do you want? Not what you tell everyone you desire." Because nine times out of ten that was a lie, and the last time was always what everyone expected from a son of Fëanor - the Oath, always the Oath, nothing beyond that.

"And why should those two things be different?" Despite the detached words, Finrod thought there might have been something besides the customary coldness in Curufin's eyes as he looked past his cousin, into the fire. "Besides. It's never really mattered."

What hasn't mattered? Your own desires, or...

"Then why should it matter what I want?" Finrod pressed, not sure why he was trying, not sure why it was so important to him that his cousin understand what he wasn't even sure he understood. "An oath is an oath. I will not be forsworn - no more than you."

Curufin glanced up, something unreadable flashing across his face. "You are merely repeating my words."

"Does it annoy you?" There was a feeling of walking on the edge of a knife - one misstep from falling, one misstep from cutting himself on that steely grey - and every word that fell from his mouth was another step forward, another chance that he might fall. And there was something about that danger that took his breath away. "Do I annoy you, Atarinkë?"

"Never." Curufin arched one eyebrow, stepping closer. Finrod had to fight to remain still.

"That's a lie," he whispered, glad that his voice remained steady, not a tremble in it to betray him.

"I've only ever told you the truth, Ingoldo," Curufin replied, breath warm against his face. They were suddenly close enough for Finrod to see the flecks of black in his cousin's eyes, to smell the faint spice of wine on his breath. That didn't surprise him - his cousins seemed to drink often, as though through long habit, but where Celegorm got aggressively drunk, Curufin never seemed to really lose that steel-sharp focus, that utter control. And there was something about the way Curufin leaned in now, all cold grace and quiet power, that made heat blossom in Finrod's stomach.

"Atarinkë, what-?"

"You asked what I want, Ingoldo." There was not a trace of tenderness in Curufin's face as he pressed against Finrod, looking up at him, reflected sparks dancing in the grey sky. "And I told you the truth." He buried his face in Finrod's neck, breath hot across the soft skin of the taller elf's neck, and Finrod stiffened, fire racing up and down his body.

Spirit of Fire, just like his father - that's what they all said, wasn't it?

"And what do you want?" Curufin whispered into him, lips tickling his shoulder.

What I want...

"It is as you said." Finrod replied, closing his eyes. "It doesn't matter." And it never would. He was caught in the tide of darkness and light and oaths and blood - and if he had been the one to jump into the chaos in the first place, then he could not complain when he was swept away, could he?

He pulled Curufin in - yanked, really - lips parting slightly, not a trace of gentleness in his kiss. The shorter elf did not stiffen, or pull away - merely fell forward into him, melted against him. His teeth fastened on his cousin's lower lip, and the star-bright burst of pain made Finrod gasp. He tasted blood.

Curufin let out the smallest hiss as they sank to the floor - barely an indrawn breath, almost inaudible. Finrod met his eyes, and the fire that burned in the grey was mirrored in his, hot and bright and so alive.

And oh, Eru, there was something about those eyes, that smile, that he couldn't escape.

"Ingoldo..." Curufin arched against Finrod and pulled him in, fingers hot on his bare torso, forge-rough calluses catching on the skin of his back. "If there is any way I can do what I must without..."

Finrod closed off his cousin's mouth with his own, because if Curufin finished that sentence, he didn't know what he would do next. Something dark and quiet stirred in his heart - he knew what was to follow, what had to follow (had always known, in a way).

I will do what I have to do. And he will, too.

Nothing could change that.

fic: Nothing More To Say

2013-04-12T01:18:38Z

Title: Nothing More To Say
Rating: G
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Fingon, Fingolfin
Summery: In which Fingolfin prepares to ride off to fight Morgoth and Fingon tries (rather unsuccessfully) to convince him to stay.
Warnings: prelude to character death
Word Count: 901
Also on AO3.

Written for B2MEM 2013.
Prompt from Day One: Courage: "He passed over Dor-nu-Fauglith like a wind amid the dust, and all that beheld his onset fled in amaze, thinking that Oromë himself was come: for a great madness of rage was upon him, so that his eyes shone like the eyes of the Valar."
~From The Silmarillion Chapter 18, 'Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin.
----

-----Work Text:

"Atar, wait." Fingon hurried after the taller Elf as Fingolfin strode down the corridor, eyes burning with rage and grief. "Atar, please..."

"My brother's sons have been slain by Morgoth. My people are dying," Fingolfin gritted out through clenched teeth, staring fixedly ahead, resolutely refusing to meet his son's eyes. "And you advise me to wait, Findekáno?" He reached the door to his rooms and flung it open, the heavy wood thudding against the wall.

Fingon followed his father in, biting his lip. He could almost hear his sister's voice: Talk to him, Findekáno. You're the only one he listens to.

Only on good days, Ireth. And never when he's in a rage like this. But I'll try.

"Rushing into battle like this only gives Morgoth the advantage," he offered. "If you'd just wait, gather a force and make a plan-"

"I've had enough with plans," Fingolfin spat, pulling his armor down from its stand in a clatter of steel. "Will you help me with this or should I ride off unarmored to face Morgoth?"

Fingon lifted the silver and blue breastplate and Fingolfin stepped into it, reaching up behind his back to buckle it. For a few moments there was silence, as the son helped the father strap on the heavy steel and chain mail, forged in Valinor, wrought in the blue and silver of Fingolfin's house. His shield was blue as well, overlayed with countless crystals that sparkled like stars as Fingolfin lifted it into the sunlight.

What do I say? How do I make him see reason? Fingon frowned, wishing he had someone else here, someone to help him - but Turgon and Aredhel were in the Hidden City, safe - or so he hoped - and his cousins were scattered, leagues away or dead.

So many had been lost.

And you will lose your father, as well, if you do not stop this madness, a voice that sounded almost like Maedhros whispered.

"Bring me my sword." Fingolfin's voice was flat, face a mask of stone-cold anger - but his eyes burned brighter than fire, filled with something Fingon couldn't quite put a name to, something that made him shiver.

Wordlessly, he crossed to the carved oaken chest at the other end of the room, moving as slowly as he dared. There was a hollow feeling of despair settling in the put of his stomach. If he couldn't keep his father from leaving...

But you're used to people leaving, aren't you? Curufin taunted. Fingon flinched from the memory of his cousin, but couldn't escape the scornful words.Even your darling Maitimo left you, let the ships burn. So why shouldn't your father?

Fingon lifted the lid of the chest. There was a leather wrapped bundle in it that he carried to Fingolfin, still dragging his feet. There was so much he wanted to say, but none of it would make his father stay.

Ringil glittered like ice as Fingolfin swept it from its sheath. His father held it up to the light, turning it, watching the sun flash off it. Despite himself, Fingon couldn't help but admire - just for a moment - his father's courage. Riding off to face the Foe of the World alone like this, with no backup and no escape plan...

On second thought...

Seems more stupidity than courage, Caranthir drawled, and for once Fingon was forced to agree with his cousin.

"Atar, you're the High King of the Noldor. You can't just go off to face an enemy you could never hope to beat in single combat." Not that Fingon doubted his father's skill, but there was a difference - a quite substantial difference - between fighting Orcs and fighting a god.

"A king protects his people. I will not sit by idly and allow Morgoth to slaughter the Noldor with impunity." Fingolfin sheathed Ringil and started for the door, armor clanking softly. "Besides. There is no hope for us. If I am to fall, I would rather it be now than after I am forced to watch everything I love fall to ruin."

Fingon caught his father's arm. "It is not all lost yet, though," he hissed. "You can't just give up, atar! There's always something to keep fighting for, can't you see that?"

"If there is still hope... I cannot see it, Findekáno." For a moment, Fingolfin looked into Fingon's eyes, a tenderness there - longing for days past, perhaps, or love for his child. He reached up, brushed his son's dark hair back from his face, and kissed his forehead. "You're the king now, my son."

The shorter Elf stiffened. "But you're coming back, atar," he protested, even though he knew it was a lie. You have to come back, he wanted to scream.Or better yet, don't even leave. Stay here.

"I do not plan to return." Fingolfin's voice was hoarse with anger and despair. "There is nothing left for me here."

I'm here, you still have me, but if you leave now and throw away your life like this, I won't even have you anymore.

"Atar, please."

Fingolfin stepped away, that empty look back in his eyes. He turned away, and Fingon felt something in him twist.

"Atar..." Don't leave me, please don't leave me, I can't do this on my own.

"I love you, Findekáno. Never forget that." And then his father was gone, and Fingon was alone, hands shaking, the silence pressing in around him.

fic: Don't Let Go

2013-04-11T01:35:59Z

Title: Don't Let Go
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Caranthir, Celegorm
Summery: Celegorm once made a promise that he'd always come find his brother. This is the story of that promise. Begins in Valinor, ends in Dior's halls, cuts through Nirnaeth Arnoediad.
Warnings: descriptions of violence, character death (canon)
Word Count: 2707

Located on AO3 only due to excessive length.

( we are alone with our changing minds )

fic: When Darkness Falls

2013-04-11T01:27:57Z

Title: When Darkness Falls
Rating: G
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Character(s): Mouth of Sauron
Summery: A oneshot from the p.o.v. of the Mouth of Sauron.
Warnings: none apply
Word Count: 857
Also on AO3.

Written for B2MEM 2013
Prompt from Day One: Vanity: "He it was that now rode out, and with him came only a small company of black-harnessed soldiery, and a single banner, black but bearing on it in red the Evil Eye. Now halting a few paces before the Captains of the West he looked them up and down and laughed.
'Is there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me?' he asked. 'Or indeed with wit to understand me? Not thou at least!' he mocked, turning to Aragorn with scorn. 'It needs more to make a king than a piece of elvish glass, or a rabble such as this. Why, any brigand of the hills can show as good a following!'"
From The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter 10

------

It had been long since he had seen the sunlight. Real sunlight, that was - gold and warm and vibrant. The only light that filtered through the dark clouds of Mordor was sickly and somehow dirty, as though it had been tainted by its passage through the smoke and grime. It never seemed to truly illuminate anything, only cast more shadows and make the darkness even more deep.

He didn't really mind, though. The darkness had always been more comfortable than the light.

How long had he been here, in the smoke and ruin of his master's land? He had forgotten, along with so many other things - like his name.

What is my name?

Once, he had been from a proud race, a noble one. There had been others of his kind. He had lived and loved and fought - or had that all been a dream of his? Maybe there had never been anything other than the darkness.

It doesn't matter.

What do you want? Is it riches, power, women? I can give it to you, and it costs you nothing.

Nothing but his life, nothing but his soul. A small price to pay for immortality, wealth, power... all things he had asked of Sauron, the master he willingly served. And he had received everything the Dark Lord promised. Everything and more - more than he could have ever dreamed.

An eternity serving a dark master, slowly forgetting all else but what he was allowed to keep. And when he woke one day - or did not wake, as he did not sleep any more - and could not remember his name... there was nothing else to do but accept that his name was not necessary. It did not matter, like so much else - like the light, and the day, and the stars he hadn't seen for centuries.

But sometimes he wondered who he had been, all those centuries ago. Before Sauron had wooed him, before he had turned to the darkness. What had his name been? (Had he ever had a name?)

Some days - or nights, did it matter where the sun didn't dare show its face? - he could almost remember. A sound, on the tip of his tongue, so close... but never quite there. The shadow of a memory - fitting, in a land where nothing but shadows dwelt. But if an Age of living in the darkness had taught him one thing, it was that there was no point in chasing after shadows.

He was content with his life, the life his master had given to him. He was lord over a great host - and if that host was a savage, filthy race, lower than the lowest Man he had ever known in times before, what did it matter? He had power, the power he had been promised and more.

And there was always more to be gained. His master was a cruel lord, but it was a cruelty that was justified. Those who dared stand against him, those that tried to resist the storm of darkness, they were the ones that deserved to fall.

He would benefit from their fall. Already, his master promised a lordship over the tower to the west, over the lands of the horselords. Once, that tower had been raised by his kinsmen - but their names, too, were lost in the shadows of time. None were remembered. Only the work of their hands stood, needle-sharp and ink-black, piercing the sky.

He wondered if the sun shone there, too. If it ever had.

Immortality is cheap. I can give you that, if you truly desire it.

What man did not, in his heart of hearts, fear death? He had been no different. There was always that pathway into the hearts of Men, no matter how noble they were, by whatever high names they called themselves. And his master had known that, had always known that, as had the one-who-came-before, the Foe of the World.

Mortality was an ugly thing.

And Sauron offered an escape from it.

Immortality is cheap. The only price I ask is your life, your soul... your name.

None could stand against his master. These Men that rode against him, accompanied by a scattering of Elves - lingering, falling remnant of the long-forgotten West - these were nothing more than a last, guttering candle, shuddering in the wind of the coming storm. They could prance about before the Gates all they wished, it would be to no avail.

There was no one alive capable of defying his master.

Go out. Go out and show them the might of the Dark Lord. Send them home with their tails between their legs, revealed as the dogs they are. Laugh at them, spit in their faces, revile them. They deserve it, for daring to challenge the power of your master.

These Men could not fight his master. No one could. And he - his master's mouth, his messenger, his trusted servant - knew that better than anyone else. Everyone was helpless against the might of his lord.

What is my name? It doesn't matter, it never did, it was such a small price to pay...

Such a small price.

fic: Pain and Regret

2013-04-10T00:52:25Z

Title: Pain and Regret
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Maedhros, Maglor, Elrond, Elros
Summery: Some things never end. Some things can't end. Even if you try... you can't escape some Oaths. Fëanor's Oath drove him and his sons to their deaths, all but one. Oneshot. Maglor's point of view. Stretches from the Havens of Sirion (and Elrond/Elros being adopted by Maglor) to Maedhros' death.
Warnings: canon character death
Word Count: 1262
Also on AO3.

These children, the sons of Elwing, were the last two alive, even as the two Noldor were the last of their brothers. One held the other close, glaring up at the tall brothers with defiance and no small amount of fear in his dark eyes. Around them were the crumpled bodies of all those they knew, their kin and friends. Maedhros stood before them, sword held in a trembling hand, the silver blade streaked red with blood. In his eyes was regret for the murder he had to do, the murder he had already done.

(ilar thanyë, ilar melmë, ilar malkazon sammë, osta ilar harwë, lau Ambar tana, só-thauruvá Fëanárollo, ar Fëanáró nossello)

Not even children were exempt from that oath of vengeance.

( iman askalyá ar charyá, ar mi kambë mapá, herá hirala ar haiya hatá Silmarillë)

(neither law nor love nor league of swords...)

The eldest son of Fëanor raised his sword and closed his eyes. Of all the deeds of bloodshed, was killing a child the worst? Or had the first murder been the worst, there in the lamplit quays of Alqualondë, so long ago?

Maybe they were all the worst.

Maglor's hand closed around his brother's wrist. "Stop. Stop it, Maitimo." His words were clear and cold as ice, stern as stone. They came as a shock. Maedhros had not heard his brother's approach.

The taller Elf turned and looked into his brother's eyes, something burning in them, but Maglor shook his head.

"I will not allow you to kill these children."

And they were so like those two long ago, the two that they could not find in the forest, only this time it was Maglor begging for them to be alive. These two were maybe even a bit younger (but they're the same, in a way they're all the same) and maybe that was part of why they had to live.

"Why should these two survive when the rest have died?" His brother's voice was a whipcrack of anger and pain. Maybe he, too remembered Elwing's brothers. Maybe he saw Eluréd and Elurín in these faces before him.

(not Doom itself shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin)

"Maitimo... please."

He had no doubt that that was anger there in Maedhros' eyes, anger that burned like fire mingled with that same terror that Maglor himself felt- that terror of an Oath unfufilled. "Would you cherish their lives as though in penance for those you have taken? Maybe are these a replacement for the brothers we ourselves lost today?" Maedhros' voice is hard, his face set as though craved of stone. "Or had it escaped you that the Ambarussa also fell this day?"

(they fell they died for something vain)

(their deaths were meaningless)

"I seek no absolution, Maitimo," Maglor whispered. "I only wish that you spare these children."

Maedhros spared the twins one glance and in his eyes was all the pain and regret and horror he had seen, this day and all his days here in Middle-earth. "Keep them, then," he spat. "They will hate you in the end. And they will be right to." With those words he turned and strode from the bloody hall, bootheels tracking on the marble floor the blood of those he slew in that place. He did not let his brother see the tears that fell from his dark eyes.

(this is him)

The two boys were so alike to Maglor and Maedhros, yet so different. They had none of the darkness that trailed the two Noldor, the darkness that seemed to penetrate every facet of their lives now. But the love that Elrond and Elros had was the same love that bound Maglor and Maedhros to their father and their brothers.

(this is my brother, these are my brothers)

That love drove them to the Oath, that Oath drove them unto death.

(they are the ones who died for me, the ones who I would have died for had they only asked)

(and how I wish they had asked)

Was this how it was? Love unto sworn word unto death? Perhaps love had ever been the most dangerous weapon. It had always been the one to claim the most from those it used. Would the world end because of love, not hate?

(the ones I killed, the ones that killed me)

(my brothers)

"All these deaths, and for what? We have yet to even touch one of the Silmarils, let alone hold one. Can't we stop? Can't we end this, Maitimo? Don't you see how hopeless this is?"

"It will never end. And who do we have to blame for that but ourselves?"

"We started this. We can end this. All this bloodshed, all this darkness... it can end. Don't you believe me?"

"It's never going to end, Kano. We swore an oath."

"Then break it, Maitimo. Break our oath. We cannot live like this anymore. This has gone too far."

Oh, Eru, it burns.

The Silmaril was beautiful, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was beautiful even as it burned him, burned the hand that was unworthy of holding it.

(only the pure may hold this)

He was no longer pure. How many had he killed, how much blood had he spilled to reach this?

(no hand of evil, no thing unclean, shall touch these the Silmarils of Fëanor)

His hands were burning.

Varda, have mercy on us.

(will this ever end?)

It had ended.

"If we break this oath now, we render all their deaths meaningless. Would you have that? Would you go to the Halls of Mandos and tell our father and our brothers that they died for nothing, Kano?"

"They did. They did die for nothing. Their deaths were meaningless, and if we continue on this path then we will die as well. And our deaths will have no more meaning than did theirs."

Silence, then: "So be it."

(have no doubt, that is fear in his voice, but it is fear mingled with determination and hatred of the world that has forced them to this, despair for himself and his brother)

He loved his brothers, and maybe that was why they died, and why the Noldor fell. Because the sons of Fëanor followed their father for love, did they not?

The blood on Celegorm's armor. Caranthir's dark eyes staring blankly up at the sky above with the sightlessness of death. Curufin on the funeral pyre, wreathed in flame, his body falling to ash as did his father's.

(all of them)

The Ambarussa, Amras burning with the ships and Amrod throwing himself into death at the swords of Elwing's people, for in the end neither twin was willing to live without the other.

(and the ones that fell beneath your own sword, too many to number)

(you are alone)

Maedhros' eyes alight with terror and pain and no small amount of insanity, cradling to his chest the radiance of the fire that burned his hand, falling, falling into flame, fulfilling his Oath in one final act of desperation and despair. The fire was all that was left to him, now, and so it ended for the eldest of the seven sons.

(can this blood be burned from our hands?)

But it did not end for Maglor, though he wished for the oblivion of nothingness with all his heart.

(you are alone)

"And what is left for us, Maitimo? What do we have now? Only the Oath. Only the Oath and death."

"Oh, Kano. Can't you see? That's all we've ever had."

That thing where I post things

2013-04-10T00:46:57Z

In an attempt to seem like any kind of semi-legitimate livejournal-thing (what do you even call these, again? Journals? See, that'd make sense, and I don't do things that make sense) I seem to be posting all my Silmarillion fanfiction. Admittedly, a LOTR fic or two and some original writing (pfft original writing do I do that?) may find their way on here but it's mostly a mess of feelings about the House of Fëanor.

Because I love the House of Fëanor.

But the thing is... I'm not sure how good most of this is... because my writing has, I hope, gotten better as time has gone by? And since I'm posting this in order of what-I-kinda-want-to-hide to what-I-sorta-almost-like, it's nowhere near the order in which I wrote it. Which might be bad and it might... not be.

I don't even know what's going on right now.

But is anyone even aware that this exists? Since I'm pretty sure that's a resounding 'no' on that front, I'm probably safe no matter what...

This has been a text post mostly written to break up the stream of fanfiction. Not that there's anything wrong with fanfiction. At all. It's just, you know, good to have variety?

~~even if this whole post was about fanfiction anyways~~

fic: It Ends In Flame

2013-04-10T00:20:35Z

Title: It Ends In Flame
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Maedhros
Summery: Maedhros' p.o.v at death.
Warnings: canon character death, suicide
Word Count: 1127
Also on AO3.

So it ends. In flame, in water, in the heavens. Here it ends for me, too, at the last. In fire, in blood, in darkness.

Your eldest son is dying, father. Dying for words spoken long ago in a land far from here, a land that we may no longer return to. We are exiles indeed, cast from our birthplace because of our rash words and the blood we spilled. I die in flame with my oath fulfilled at last. That which we fought for all these years is even now in my hand.

Am I now so different from you, father? Am I not now the one that was most like you, though in life you counted me among the disappointments of your children? For now I, too, am a spirit of fire, consumed by the flames around me that burn still less than that which I hold. And I, too, have led those I should have protected to their doom.

Will it end now? The killing, the dying, the agony of knowing that no matter what happiness we may attain here, the oath will haunt us to the end of our days... will all of that fade away? That oath chased us to our deaths and doomed countless others to theirs. Will Ilúvatar ever forgive us? How long in the Halls of Mandos till this sin is washed away?

The kinslaying at Alquelondë. The burning of the ships. The slaying of Dior and his people in the Thousand Caves. The assault on the Havens. And in between, the thousand deaths caused as we threw ourselves at Morgoth, dying for something we could not even touch in the end. Set in motion by words spoken under the stars by eight headstrong fools, eight Noldor that knew not what they spoke. We continued your legacy by killing innocents, by abandoning babes in the forest, by leading our own people to their deaths.

My hands are as bloodstained as yours.

This blood will never be washed from our hands. This blood can only be burned from us. Not a thousand Ages in the Halls of Mandos may release us. I am doomed to the Darkness even as you are. Yet even that seems preferable, now, to the life we have lived. We have been hunted by our oath to the ends of the world and to our own ends. And now, I simply wish for it to end.

We followed you because we loved you, father. We followed for love and we killed for love and we died for love. What evil my brothers and I did was in the name of love, though we were driven by the words of the oath we spoke with you.

I killed for you, father.

I die for you, father.

Do you remember how our swords shone red in the torchlight, as though already stained by the blood they would shed in the days to come? Do you recall the doom we felt as we spoke those words, calling upon Ilúvatar himself and the Everlasting Darkness? We named in witness those who would stop us, protect us from our own reckless arrogance. And then we marched from the land we knew into the darkness from which we came.

How many deaths, father? How many deaths have the sons of Fëanor caused to reach this goal, only to have it end thus, in fire and water and air?

Amrod and Amras have fallen. Celegorm and Caranthir and Curufin have fallen. Maglor and Maedhros alone now remain- and we are unworthy of that which we have strained for all these ages. For the words spoken by the herald of Manwë are true: what right the sons of Fëanor had to those jewels was long ago lost in blood and darkness.

It burns me, father. I am unworthy to hold the Silmarils all my kin died for. Did you know it would end thus? Did you know when you spoke that oath that even were we to all throw our lives into this, throw away our lives for this, the deeds we did would never let us claim what was ours?

I have led my people into death, even as you did. Am I now so different from you? I die for the fulfillment of this oath. I die with a Silmaril clutched in my hand, a hand it burns even now in remembrance of the fact that I am become as evil as he who stole them.

Do they vilify the seven sons as they do the father? Do they speak the name of Maedhros with the same hatred that they name you? I cannot doubt it now, after all that we have done. I stood aside from the least of the evils for the love of my cousin and watched the ships burn, but did not shrink from murder. I followed a path of doom and led my brothers to their deaths.

So I, perhaps, was most like you in the end, Fëanáro. Son of the Spirit of Fire, drowning in flame. Haunted by the faces of those of my kin that I slew, leading my people and myself to destruction for the love of the works of your hands.

Are you proud of me now? Are you proud of your sons? We have lived as you lived, died as you died, searching for something that was never ours, disregarding our people and the words of those wiser than all of us. Our path is a blood-soaked one, leading only into the darkness. The Everlasting Darkness. That which we doomed ourselves to by our own words.

There are none we can blame but ourselves.

That oath has never left the sons of Fëanor. It has chased them to their deaths, made them sick and weary so they wished in their hearts to die. And now it is revealed that their oath was in vain. For in its very fulfillment they made it beyond their reach to keep their word and keep their life as well. So it must end like this. One final act that puts the Silmarils beyond the reach of all until the Breaking of the World, even if it cost our lives. Even though it costs my life.

Perhaps, in the end, it was the only way to be free. Now we are at peace. I go to join you, my father, join you and my brothers. Our oath is fulfilled- the Silmarils are now beyond the reach of even the Valar. One in the sky, one in the Sea, and one in the very heart of the earth. And here shall be my grave as well, purified by the flame, released from this pain.

Let it end here.

fic: See You Again

2013-04-10T00:10:56Z

Title: See You Again
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Caranthir, Haleth
Pairing(s): Caranthir/Haleth
Summery: Caranthir visits an aged Haleth years after their first meeting.
Warnings: minor descriptions of violence
Word Count: 2736

Located on AO3 only due to excessive length.

( said goodbye, turned around, and you were gone )

fic: Faithful Son

2013-04-09T23:44:06Z

Title: Faithful Son
Rating: G
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Curufin, Celebrimbor, Maedhros, Caranthir
Summery: Celebrimbor's renunciation of Curufin and his father's reaction. Also starring Maedhros and Caranthir as those brothers that Curufin gets to complain to.
Warnings: no warnings apply
Word Count: 1569
Also on AO3

When he saw the familiar shape of his son, standing outside the stables where the Feanorians kept their horses, Curufin allowed himself to hope for a few more seconds. Of all their people, Celebrimbor would remain faithful. Of couse he would. He would follow his father even as Curufin had followed Fëanor.

And thus the cycle of death shall never be broken, something in him whispered. He shook that off.

But what was that light in Celebrimbor's eyes colder and harder than the ice of the Helcaraxë? What was that look, so familiar in other faces but so out of place on his son's?

(betrayal)

"So, you will come with us?" Celegorm's voice was loud as he spoke from beside Curufin, words still full of the heat it had held in Finrod's hall when he had failed to convince the others to follow him. Celebrimbor barely spared his uncle a glance before turning to his father.

"I'm sorry, Father. This journey I will not accompany you on."

But you can't leave now, after so long... A childish thought, but insistent. The words were so unexpected, so wrong, that all Curufin could do for a few seconds was stand there and stare at his son, the Elf that was suddenly a stranger.

"Why?" Curufin finally asked. Distantly, he noted that Celegorm had moved away into the stables, giving the father and son some privacy in an uncharacteristically thoughtful gesture.

"I cannot continue to follow you in your madness. This Oath is not mine. I will not throw my life away for something that belongs solely to you and your brothers."

"It is yours." He drew himself up, a confident smile curving his lips. "The blood of Fëanor flows in your veins as it does mine. The Silmarils-"

"The Silmarils!" Celebrimbor spat the word out as though it were a curse, and that hatred shocked Curufin to silence. "The Silmarils and that thrice-damned Oath you spoke! You and your brothers use your Oath as a justification for all the evils you have done, yet you shrink from fulfilling it!"

"Morgoth is-"

"Morgoth is too strong," his son mocked, taking the words spoken by Curufin time and again and warping them. "Too strong, you say, but if all the might of the Noldor was gathered - if you and your brothers did not allow your stiff necks to get in the way of real good - then Thangorodrim would almost certainly fall. But you delay and slaughter your own kin, ignoring the possibility that there might be something more important than your thricedamned Oath."

"There is nothing more important than that. Nothing. You know not what you speak of."

"Don't I?"

The father narrowed his eyes. "You deny that the call of the Silmarils is in your blood. If you saw them but once-"

If you saw the fire, you wouldn't be able to resist. I know this.

"I do not feel the same drive as you and your brothers do, Father. And I am bound by no Oath."

Something flickered in Curufin's eyes as his son's words called back the memory of that oath - sworn by the name of Ilúvatar, calling upon the Everlasting Darkness should they break it. This was the Oath he dreamed of, these were the words that haunted his dreams and shadowed his waking life.

"An oath which none shall break, and none should take, they said. And they were right."

"Tyelpe-" Curufin began, but the words died in his throat. He didn't know what to say to his son (had never known).

"You are a blind fool, bound by your Oath. It drags you down the path to hell and you follow, insisting that every step into the darkness is your own and no other's. You cannot even see the hold the Oath has on you." And was that pleading in the son's voice, as though he wanted his father to see reason?

The hold the Oath has on me... say rather the hold my father has on me. Were it not for him...

"Faithless son, to speak so." Curufin narrowed his eyes, a coldness there like cracking ice, like betrayal. "We swore that Oath for the love of our father and the works of his hands. We came to Middle-earth, exiles of Valinor, to wage war on Morgoth to fulfill that Oath. And now you would renounce this heritage?"

"What heritage? The killing of kin by kin, perhaps? The betrayal of family? I will have no part in my father's blood-stained legacy." Celebrimbor's voice was hot, angry. "The Curse of Mandos may never be lifted. Evil follows you and your brothers, father. I wish to have no part in evil."

"Then you have none of the filial love that led us to accompany our father."

"I do love you, father." Celebrimbor looked away, biting his lip. "But I will not follow you to my doom and the doom of my people."

"Does anyone deserve this? To be renounced even by your own son, your own flesh and blood?" Curufin's face, so like his father's, was twisted with anger colder than ice. His hands were knotted behind his back, tendons standing out on his strong, forge-scarred arms as he clenched his fists, struggling to contain his fury. Maedhros watched his brother's torment with an unreadable expression.

"Ones such as us, perhaps," the eldest brother whispered as though to himself. "Ones such as the sons of Fëanor, with our blood-stained hands. Is it really any surprise to you that Tyelperinquar would want to renounce that?"

"I did not come here to hear you speak thus, Nelyo," Curufin growled, face transfigured into the mask of a snarling beast in a heartbeat. "I heard enough of that from the crawling worm who calls himself my son. We were right to swear that oath. And we will fulfill it. Even if it costs all of our lives, we will fulfill it."

And it will be worth it, to die for family and sworn word and the Silmarils.

This he believed with every iota of his being. This he had to believe, or it would have all be for nothing all along. And that was something he could not allow himself to even consider.

"Curvo?" Maedhros reached for his younger brother, a conciliatory expression on his face, but Curufin stepped back, eyes blazing.

"That Oath is our lives. It is all we have. And that is a good thing." He spun and swept from the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Nelyo told me you left Nargothrond. Did you forget to bring Tyelpe along?"

Curufin ignored his brother, preferring to continue to stare out the window at the forest below. Caranthir watched him, a mirthless smile spreading across his face.

"What went wrong? Why couldn't my little brother, the one so good at manipulation... why couldn't he get his own son to follow him?" Caranthir was grinning now, wolf like. "Looks like Celebrimbor isn't that bad of a kid after all, if he finally decided you weren't worth it."

"Don't call him that," Curufin muttered, even though he knew that his brother had been fishing for that exact reaction.

"What, Celebrimbor? It's the name he prefers, as far as I can tell."

"I named him what I named him. Don't replace that with some Sindarin bastardization." He said the word as though it were a curse - Sindarin. The language of this new world, the one where the father was dead and the sons were outcasts, forsaken, oath-driven.

"Doesn't matter now, I suppose," Caranthir replied harshly. "He's gone, like the rest of them. Betrayed us. That seems to be happening a lot, lately." He snorted. "You know, I'm starting to think that Nelyo likes getting betrayed. He seems to think he deserves it, for some reason. I wonder why that would be?"

Curufin frowned and didn't reply. Maybe it has something to do with that little kinslaying incident. Or perhaps those ships that got burned - not that he played a part in that, how noble of him. Maitimo always did have that unfortunate habit of developing a conscience right at the last minute.

"What will you do now? You hardly seem the type to sit around and weep for what was lost. Maybe I could get our dear brother to compose a song for you?"

"That won't be necessary." Curufin pushed away from the railing, turned to face his brother. "Moryo..." He trailed off, not even sure what he had been about to say. That seemed to be happening more and more, recently.

"What?"

"Nothing." Do you remember how the ships burned, Moryo? And Tyelpe - my son, my only son - helped us light them though our own brother did not? I thought he would be like me, just like his father.

"If you say so." Caranthir shrugged. "I'll let you be, now. It's not as though you ever really enjoyed my company."

Curufin watched his brother leave. He wondered where his son was now - what Tyelpe was doing. Did he even care that his father had been chased from Nargothrond, humiliated by a mere Man? Or was he happy now, free from the shadow that the House of Fëanor lived under?

If ever I see you again, Tyelpe...

He left that thought unfinished, like so much else in his life. For some reason, he doubted that he would meet his son again in Middle-earth.

fic: Brightest Flame

2013-04-09T22:19:42Z

Title: Brightest Flame
Rating: G
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Nerdanel, Fëanor
Paring(s): Nerdanel/Fëanor
Summery: A oneshot from Nerdanel's point of view.
Warnings: no warnings apply
Word Count: 1012
Also on AO3

Written for Back to Middle-earth Month 2013.

Prompt from Day Nineteen: "Fëanor and his sons abode seldom in one place for long, but travelled far and wide upon the confines of Valinor, going even to the borders of the Dark and the cold shores of the Outer Sea, seeking the unknown."

From The Silmarillion, Chapter Five, 'Of Eldamar and the Princes of the Eldalië'

~*~*~

He was so still, lying beside her, only the slightest rise and fall of his chest indicating that he was still alive, and not a corpse cooling under the sheets beside her. But she could feel the warmth of his skin - he had always burned like fire whenever he touched her, and sometimes when they were pressed against each other she was afraid that the flame within him would scorch her, leave her fingers and shoulders and breasts a blistered ruin. And sometimes there was a dark spark in his storm-grey eyes that made her cringe, made her want to flee - and made her want to melt into him.

But when that spark wasn't there that he really scared her. When he was cold and distant and somehow not there, even if he was standing right beside her.

Are you still awake? she wanted to ask, and the words were a leaden weight in her throat, choking her, fighting to free themselves and fighting to stay right where they were.

There was no answer to the question she would never ask.

Somewhere down the hall their eldest son cried out in his sleep, then subsided into silence. She did not move, barely even considered rising to investigate. Her son had inherited nothing but her flame-red hair, the hair her husband used to stroke and name fair, bury his face in and whisper to her as it caught the forge's light, heat beating both of them back. And he had always been the one more comfortable in that inferno, while she had been drawn into it - into him - almost against her will (but mostly not - or so she told herself).

It was so quiet. She almost wished he would make a sound, anything - because she didn't dare break that silence herself (never had).

She dreamed - or did not, and perhaps it did not matter either way - that he burned, his body falling to ash, the ash flowing away on a cold, dark wind. She reached out, cried out, tried to hold on to him, and was left with a double handful of grey heat that smudged her arms, staining them dark. It almost looked like blood in the starlight.

There had been blood on his hands, too, in another dream - and hers, and her sons'.

She dreamed that the starlight faded, erased by a new fire rising in the east. The sky - dark like his hair, scattered with light - turned steel grey, then bloody crimson, rippling like the waters she knew (or thought she knew, though they were stained with his sins now, and hers, for not being strong enough to stop him). And when the sun rose, she tried to hold it, because surely this was him, reborn as a true spirit of fire, for what else could shine as brightly as he did?

Her hands were burning.

(spirit of fire)

She fell from the fire into the darkness (unless that was reality, and this the dream) and almost reached for him. Her fingers twitched, maybe (and if they did, it was an accident). He was mere inches away, and if she crossed that void, that safe-space of cooling sheet - she was not afraid he would not wake, she was afraid he would.

Will you leave me, or will I leave you? she wondered, and not for the first time.

And this: If you really wanted to escape, wouldn't you have been gone by now? She wasn't sure - had never been sure, to tell the truth - whether that was a question for her or for him. Perhaps it was only that: a question. Just words, and words were wind, meaningless as the three he had whispered, cried, sworn to her so many times before, long ago (though never now, she realized, probably because they didn't matter anymore).

He had been pulling away for a while now. Still shining just as brightly, only... farther away. As though that flame were no longer for her. Yet there were times when he was just as close as he'd always been, and those were the times he scared her - maybe a little, maybe a lot.

She'd always known that she was dancing beside an open flame every time she spoke to him - and so she wasn't surprised, truly, when it finally burned her.

What do you want from me? he had asked once, not so long ago, his voice rough and furious, and she had pulled a thick curtain of silence about her and watched his lips move, his eyes darken with rage, that dangerous spark flashing in them - and yes, she had responded to that with something that wasn't entirely fear. She had been alone - lonely, really - for so long, she thought maybe it was right, the way he could tear her apart with nothing more than his sword-sharp eyes.

And she knew the answer to his question now - it was easier to answer him when she was alone, without his eyes on her, without his questions hammering at her. It was always easier when he was gone, but so cold.

What she wanted was the fire, and what she feared was being burned.

He had frightened her - just a little, then a bit more - since the very first day. But his questions had been soft, gentle - at least in the beginning (does this hurt?) - and she had had answers back then, but no longer.

What do you want me to say? And would it be worth even trying?

(Would it make you stay?)

She almost moved again, nearly brushed her arm against his - she could almost feel it, the heat from his skin, the soft hairs of his arm tickling hers - but she didn't dare, never had.

Do you wish it had turned out differently? she pretended she wanted to ask, and his almost-reply echoed in the silence that pressed down on her chest, made it harder to breath but easier to lie to herself.

I have never believed in such childish things as wishes.

The fire kept burning. She turned away, and slept.

let's do what normal people do

Fandom Snowflake Challenge Day 3

Fandom Snowflake Challenge Day One

astris_eldalie @ 2013-11-03T15:31:00

fic: To Love What Is Mortal

astris_eldalie @ 2013-08-21T20:31:00

fic: let the rain wash the blood away

fic: Reforging

fic: For My Only Love

fic: keep you in light

I should read non-fiction more often

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fic: Everything In Its Own Time

fic: Hold You Tonight

fic: Ends Life, Kills Laughter

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fic: By Doom Mastered

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fic: The Holy and the Broken

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fic: Nothing More To Say

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fic: Don't Let Go

fic: When Darkness Falls

fic: Pain and Regret

That thing where I post things

fic: It Ends In Flame

fic: See You Again

fic: Faithful Son

fic: Brightest Flame