Welcome to the Gates of Summer exchange 2022! Gates of Summer is a digital gift exchange for Tolkien fans, inspired by the Gondolin holiday of the same name. In addition to gifts made for specific participants, it also features weekly prompts that anyone (and more than one person!) can fill. Gates of Summer is being run by the mod team behind @officialtolkiensecretsanta.
To @diamondrust: This is my fic+art piece for this year's Gates of Summer exchange. Both the fic and the art can be read as either gen or slash, depending on your preferences! I tried to incorporate as many of your likes as I could, which incidentally overlapped *a lot* with mine and made creating these such a happy experience. I really hope you like this, and that this manages to bring a teeny bit of happiness to your day! Happy Tarnin Austa :)
Huge thanks also go out to the @gatesofsummerexchange mods, without whom this wouldn't have been possible. Thank you so much for all the hard work you've put into the event!
Recommended soundtrack: Deireadh an Tuath by Enya.
Hiraeth
Hiraeth . . . a nostalgic longing for a place which can never be revisited.
—“Hiraeth”, the Collins English Dictionary
“Will you sail?”
“Sail?”
“Once Elrond has passed,” Glorfindel clarified.
The Lord of Imaldris had not said as much, but most of the Imaldrim knew that he would sail before the year had passed. His daughter the Lady Arwen was to be bound to King Elessar: a great man, but one of the Edain, mortal. Soon she would pass too. Elrond did not have much left for him this side of the sea.
“That,” Erestor said, “is a very heavy question to ask out of the blue.”
Imaldris was quiet. It was late night, and many had left with Elrond to attend the wedding of Arwen Undómiel.
Undómiel—evening star.
Sometimes Erestor wondered why they had named her as such. Stars were sacred to their people, the lady Gilthoniel most revered amongst all of the Valar, but every star must fall sooner or later.
As would Arwen’s.
The darkness around them was soft as silk, Glorfindel’s faint glow all the more pronounced for it. “Beautiful,” Glorfindel sighed. Erestor suppressed a smile, his sense of mischief piqued.
“Yes,” Glorfindel hummed. “Very much contrary to appearances, but yes.” Erestor could hear the smile in his voice. “You know I like you the better for it.”
“Ought I be flattered?”
This time Glorfindel retaliated by thumping his head, which had been resting on Erestor’s lap, against his leg. “Yes.”
“I do not know if Imalrdris will be so beautiful once the Imaldrim have left,” Erestor commented. Even now the view outside of the window was breathtaking, but it was a dimmed version of its usual vibrancy, a quiet, melancholy vista.
“Not all plan to sail with Elrond.”
“But many do.”
Glorfindel hummed in assent. “The last homely home east of the sea,” he pronounced, rich voice and Gondolindrim accent caressing each syllable, crafting it into something new. When he spoke again there was a faint sigh in his voice. “It would not be much of a home if it were emptied, even if the pillars still stood.”
“Yes.” Then, as an afterthought, Erestor added: “Will you?”
“Will I?”
“Sail?”
Glorfindel sighed. “To speak truthfully,” he said. “To be honest—I don’t know.”
“Your friends will be waiting,” Erestor prompted. He had no idea why he persisted with this line of questioning—he knew he could not bear to leave Imaldris behind, not yet. Not when there was the slimmest possibility that someone might yet come looking for Imaldris, seeking shelter, knowledge, or even the faintest sliver of memories of ages past and lost.
The wait would be much better with Glorfindel next to him.
“Friends?” Glorfindel’s gaze grew faraway. “Ah, yes. Echthelion… and Rog, and Egalmoth.” He laughed, reminiscing and fond. “How those two bickered. They would be driving each other mad, even in the West.”
“Don’t you miss them?”
“Perhaps. A little, I suppose.” Erestor could feel Glorfindel shrug against his leg. “But…I have already lost a home. I do not think I could bear to lose another, not yet.”
“And Imaldris would not be much of a home if it were emptied?” Erestor quoted.
“Yes,” Glorfindel said. “And I have a feeling it won’t be completely empty, not for at least another yen. Perhaps I might stay to lend a hand.”
“Ah.” Such a roundabout way of saying he would stay, from an elda who was so brutishly honest the rest of the time. “I suppose I’ll have to endure your company for a while yet.”
“You wound me,” Glorfindel said, but there was laughter in both of their voices.
Together they fell quiet, and listened to the faint splashes of water beyond the window.
húrin is blessed with some melkor quality time <3 in this @gatesofsummerexchange gift for my dear partner @outofangband!
this month has been filled with secrecy and shenanigans trying to keep this hush-hush and I’m so excited to finally post the surprise!! love you darling
link to full image here on ao3
Hello @lyndeth-halfelven!! i was your @gatesofsummerexchange ^^ i made you a "moodboard" that i drew myself with a silmaril and sea theme- for elwing! i hope you enjoy!!
Heya! Sorry for the tardiness. (And for the poor shading). But I hope you like my present! I offer you, Glorfindel and Ecthelion, with their kids, Tyelcelure and Herectele. You can clearly see which one is the more level-headed dad, and which one is the not so level-headed dad. (Also let's appreciate Glorfindel's shouders for a moment). There was gonna be wayyyy more art than just this one, but I ran out of time so don't be surprised if I yeet sketches at you in the coming months sksks.
happy @gatesofsummerexchange to @loothientinooviel!! I hope you enjoy your gift!!!
id: a drawing of modern Luthien, Dior, and Beren having a day at the beach. Luthien is smiling and eating a slice of watermelon as she watches Dior (a small child) bury Beren in the sand.
This is my gift I made for @toasterpapa for @gatesofsummerexchange. This was my first time participating, and I really enjoyed it. 😁 Fi asked for some Fili and Kili shenanigan’s, and me being me, I had to add some feelings to it as well. 🤣 In all seriousness, I do hope you enjoy your gift!!
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Fili & Kili, Fili & Bilbo, Fili & Thorin, minor established Bagginshield
Summary: Fili and Kili have been a little much lately. Their latest escapade: damaging the newly rebuilt Upper Markets that were scheduled to be unveiled to the public that night. However, uncovering Mahal’s Anvil seems to be the answer to all their problems…until it turns their hobbit uncle to stone.
Words: 6930
Feel free to read this story on AO3 using this link.
hi @jhelenivarsimae!! and happy solstice!! here’s the fic I wrote for @gatesofsummerexchange, i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it ^^
Summary: There afre some moments in life you can't forget
Notes: This is my summer gift for the amazing @middleearthpixie I really hope you like the story and that you enioy it!
This story is part of the @gatesofsummerexchange!!!
Thanks for letting me participate, guys, hope you enjoy it!
The first time you two met it was at Thranduil's presentation.
He was supposed to be at the archery tournament, his equipment all ready and neatly organised back in his room while you waited for him and Legolas to show up.
You were bored, wearing baggy pants and a tank top. Your hair was put up in a ponytail just because your mother told you to wear something girly, and you felt like obeying her request was against your basic principles.
Making her life a living hell.
Oropher didn't mind, and your stepbrothers just encouraged you so you didn't see the harm in doing what you wanted.
"Thranduil!" There came a roar, the door of the room banged against the wall and there was a young man, not older than Thranduil, standing with his mouth hanging open and a flush crossing his cheeks.
Dark hair, broad shoulders, tall with deep blue eyes, the man was certainly quite handsome and you would have the opportunity to hit Thranduil for never introducing you to him.
The young man had face contorted in a rictus of anger and disbelief, his naked chest covered by black ink. You arched a brow, looking appreciatively at the man, just before you let out a chuckle at the non-permanent tattoo on the man's chest.
I'm a loser for you was written with hearts and smiley faces all around it.
"He is not here." You broke the silence, your lips curled in an amused smile.
The young man stood there, shook his head and soon you spotted a nice, flustered expression on him.
"Right, where… and you…" Then he cleared up his voice, straightened up and try to cover his chest with his hands. "Where is he? Who are you?"
"Out. I'm Y/N." You replied leaning back on the bed, your lips curling teasingly.
He blinked a couple of times, and you could see he was having a hard time keeping his eyes on you and not the rest of your body.
"Oakenshield!! What the fuck are you doing?? Are you flashing yourself to my sister?!"
In came the voice of Thranduil, the man squealed when a Thranduil threw cold glass of water to his back.
"Sister?!"
A fight broke out afterwards, and you realized that coming to the campus to see Thranduil was not such a bad idea after all.
The image of young Oakenshield quite engraved in your memory.
The second time the both of you met you were adults.
He was the head of the Oakenshield Company, he inherited it as soon as his grandfather died and his father was incapable of taking over the empire.
You learned of the hardships life brought to him, the tragedy surrounding his growing success. The passing of his grandfather, the craziness of his father and the death of his sister and brother.
It seemed as if life was making sure Thorin Oakenshield was either a fighter or a quitter.
He ended up being a fighter.
You admired him from afar, your mind always bringing the memory of that first meeting. It always brought a smile to your face, and made you wonder…
Now, almost ten years after that first encounter you saw him coming down the stairs after a passionate speech. The crowd was standing up, clapping at the young man that many congratulated with huge smiles and promises of support to his new projects.
"They said he wants to run for office." Thranduil whispered, his eyes following Thorin then settling on you.
"Good for him, that would be a nightmare, but he could win." You said taking another sip from your champagne. "He has the money, and the influence to do so."
Thranduil nodded, cocking his head, your eyes following the young man until he was in deep conversation with a group of older men. You could tell Thranduil was dying to say something, rolling your eyes as you looked up to see him smiling.
"Are you imagining him without a shirt?" His lips curled into a mischievous grin, you laughed shaking your head.
"You're impossible." You placed a hand on his forearm shaking your head, your eyes flickered towards the man and your breath caught in your throat when you saw him looking back at you.
"He wasn't that impressive back then; I don't think much have changed right now." You were trying to sound confident, uninterested but sometimes it was impossible to fool Thranduil.
The both of you had become real siblings, and while the older man could be a pain in your ass you loved him as much as he loved you.
"Thranduil Oropherion I know if I offer Dorwinion wine you will come." His voice had not changed much, perhaps it is deeper, commanding, and entrancing.
You couldn't help yourself, your eyes flickered up finding those blue ones looking directly into you.
"Of course, I wouldn't show up to these boring reunions if there wasn't something I'm interested in." Thranduil offered a hand that Thorin shook with real happiness.
"It's good to see you again, Thranduil and in the company of such a beautiful girlfriend."
It was subtle, a casual conversation amongst friends. A chance for Thranduil to first introduce you and second establish his real relationship with you.
Your lips curled into a half smirk, you stepped forth stretching out your hand. You felt a shiver run down your back when his hand, warm and big, wrapped tenderly around yours.
"Y/N, his step-sister, Mr. Oakenshield." You replied letting go of his hand slowly, almost teasingly. "And we met before, you were using less clothes than you're doing right now."
A flash of embarrassment went through those blue eyes, but it soon was replaced by an interesting glance he sent your way.
"Of course, the beautiful sister he hid from m… his friends." Thorin said lowly, almost invitingly.
Thranduil scoffed at this, your smile only grew.
"Let me guess: a genius, billionaire, playboy and philanthropist." You straightened up, your heart almost stopping at the sight of his laughter.
"Did you really quote to me Iron Man?"
"Oh, my… you are a genius, not many get the joke." Then you made a face, a know-it-all smirk on. “Though, that’s from Avengers.”
In an instant you and him started talking, Thranduil got bored and left the two of you discussing everything and anything. He was a DC lover, you were a fan of Marvel, he loved Harry Potter and you preferred Tolkien.
It was strange, the conversation soon changed and then you were talking business. His plans for the future. Your plans for yours.
You would try to act cool, as if you didn't care he was closer and closer, his eyes on you at all times. As if it didn't matter your heart was beating fast and hard against your chest, or that your eyes would drift to his lips every once in a while.
The night advanced and, as it did, you found yourself alone with him in a private balcony, his perfume overwhelming your senses, his body warm against yours.
"May I kiss you?" He asked, always the gentleman, nothing that had led to that moment was done without your permission.
And yet, you just wished he would throw his manners out of the window and just… pinned you and kissed you until you forgot how to breathe.
He was teasing, and you knew he was doing it by the twinkling in his eyes. The insufferable smirk he wore just as his warm breath played on your skin making you shivered.
Two could play that game, though.
You smiled innocently at him, biting your lower lip, you let your hands travel down his shoulders to his arms then moving up until you were rubbing his chest coming dangerously close to his crotch. You almost let the triumph show on your face when you heard his gasp.
"Tell you what, make your people call mine and we will see next time." Your lips brushed against his before you placed a kiss on the corner of his lips. Your card in his hand.
You left, the smirk on your face and the gleaming on your eyes told everyone who wanted to know that you won this round.
Thorin stayed behind, your card in his hand. His smirk softened into a smile.
It wasn't until your sixth meeting that something changed between the both of you.
He made sure his people called yours, and an appointment was made. He brought a single flower, your favourite: azalea. And, on top of that, a business proposal.
You thanked the flower with a kiss, and the business proposal with a headstrong personality. The discussion went far beyond lunch time, and he ended up inviting himself to your lunch until the deal had been settled.
In the end you conceded. He called it a win, you called it a weakness. He was rather hot when negotiating, and he was just as passionate as you were about your legacy, your people, your future.
On that sixth encounter he invited you over to his ranch right outside the city. His nephew was to turn sixteen and he wanted you to meet him.
You panicked.
So far the both of you had played a dangerous game, whenever the both of you met it was games and teasing, whenever you spoke over the phone things heated as much as they did when you two texted one another. You weren't sure what was happening, at least for a couple of weeks this man had occupied your mind as if he had always been a part of your thoughts.
Your heart shrank with emotion whenever he was closed, or whenever you knew he was writing to you. It was more than the sexual innuendo in your conversations, it was his questions about your day. Or what you thought about a book or a song. It was his interest in what you did or what you thought.
It was the fact he made you stay up until it was dawn talking about anything and everything.
"You look thoughtful," he offered you a beer, his fingers lingering on yours for a moment. "Did you like the celebration?"
You smiled knowing he was closer than was probably necessary. You lifted your face and realized just how utterly handsome he really was. His lips curled into a relaxed smile, his short hair unkempt after the afternoon games and dancing, the casual clothing he wore making him look handsome.
"I did, you are a great man, Thorin and a great uncle."
"I try my best, my sister would have done a better job." There was sadness there, and you couldn't take it whenever he tried to downplay his love and his passion and everything he was.
"You are the best at what you do, Thorin. You are an amazing uncle, an amazing friend, an amazing man." you declared knowing your cheeks were burning at how evident you were being at the moment.
Thorin smiled dipping his head, you placed a hand on his forearm clearing your throat until his eyes were on yours.
"You really are the kind of man I considered to be by my side without a hint of hesitation." That was as far as you go with this confession.
You were nervous not knowing how he would answer.
Your voice was trembling, his hand placing on your waist. Without any warning, he leaned in brushing his lips against yours, then with a tilt of your head and your hands on his shoulders and chest he deepened the kiss.
The fireworks he had planned for the afternoon ignited the sky around you.
Without a doubt your relationship with Thorin Oakenshield changed
"You taste so delicious, love." He growled in your ear, his hands were holding you up, your dress around your hips and his pants on his thighs. You gasped, throwing your head back, whimpering as his lips travelled down the length of your neck.
He knew what he was doing, his hips grinding against yours, his length filling you in ways you never thought possible. Your hands on his shoulders, nails digging on his clothes.
You dared to look at him trapping his lips in yours, his hips thrusting making you groan into the kiss.
The tenth time you two met, was to go out on a date. Something different. A club. Dancing and some teasing made him jealous, pressing his body to yours as the both of you danced into the night until your grinding was far too much and he dragged you to a more private setting.
It had been this way for quite some time.
The teasing, the games of dominance…
Until he finally had you where he wanted you. And you were right where you wanted to be.
He was everything you didn't know you were looking for. You moan his name into the night, he sucked on your skin speeding up the movement of his hips, your inner walls clenching around him.
"Gods, Thorin I love you…" The declaration left your lips at the same time as you finally gave in and came around him.
Instead of stopping or being shocked, Thorin speed up his movements reaching his climax while grunting in your ear.
"I love you too."
Many would say it wasn’t romantic, it was the heat of the moment. As the both of you are coming down from your climax, you knew it wasn’t like that. It had been a declaration that define your relationship with Thorin. Passionate. From the heart. From the very soul.
Time passed.
You were still the head of a great company; your name was in the mouth of everyone that was a someone. It wasn’t only because you were a shark for business, or that you singlehandedly were managing the fortune of two families and doing an amazing job at it. Everyone had something to say about the woman that, in less than two years, had captured and conquered the heart of no other than Thorin Oakenshield.
It had been a rumour at first. Many had seen the both of you together, some said Y/N was the new conquest of the night. Many envious girls (and boys) dismissed her, for Y/N was known to be a cold-hearted bitch that had no man around her, not now and not ever.
You didn’t mind the rumours, really. Never bothered to hear them or to actually felt affected by them. If anything, as of late, she enjoyed them
Thorin stood close to you, his hand on your lower back. He was talking with Dwalin and Balin, you were playing with the flute of champagne while looking around the room to try and locate the idiot of a brother you had. He and Legolas promised to be there, but of course they were late.
“So, you heard the latest gossip?” Dwalin turned to you, he was smirking winking at you while you just chuckled taking a long sip from your champagne.
Thorin blinked confusedly, though he turned to you amused.
“Latest gossip?” He asked and you shrugged.
“Yes, apparently you are cheating on me with Tauriel, a jailbait girl that spends an extremely inhuman amount of time in your ranch going around in underwear.” You replied as if you were talking about the weather, Balin almost choked on his drink, and Dwalin burst out laughing when he saw the pale expression on Thorin.
“That I what?” He exclaimed and many guests turned to your group shooting curious glances your way. Thorin sputtered indignantly, he took your hand making sure to look into your eyes. “I would never do something so…who the hell is spreading such hideous rumours?”
You couldn’t help it, you laughed alongside Dwalin and Thorin had to blinked away his confusion as the both of you hold onto one another waiting for the amusement to stop.
“What’s so funny? I don’t think you should be laughing!” Thorin grumbled out crossing his arms, “This is serious, what would happen if you didn’t know me or if…”
You silenced Thorin with a deep kiss, your body pressing against his humming pleasantly when his hands placed themselves on your hips putting you closer to him.
“Oh, get a room…” Thranduil drawled with disgust, Legolas scoffed at the scene lifting his chin glaring daggers at Thorin.
“Already have one, Thrandy, just waiting to get away from here.” You winked at the blond-haired man who merely rolled his eyes.
“And you, my dear lover,” You turned to Thorin who was slightly daze after the kiss. “as I said, those are rumours, partially.”
You waited until the words registered in Thorin’s mind, he turned sharply to you with a frown.
“What do you mean?”
“She is dating Kili.” Legolas explained enjoying the sudden transformation in Thorin’s face. “And they really spend a ridiculous amount of time in your ranch, Mr. Oakenshield. Doing god knows what.”
The rest of the night went with everyone teasing Thorin, the man later on would admit to you he never noticed this unexpected development. Though, he didn’t regret it. Kili was a good lad, and Tauriel was a nice young woman.
You had laughed, enjoying how he was trying to sound like a mature adult instead of the concern father figure he was.
By the time the both of you reached the room you had booked for the night, you thought it would be a complete surprised for Thorin but the one that ended up surprised was you.
The room had been decorated with candles and azaleas.
There was wine, and a nice melody filling out the romantic atmosphere. When you turned to him, he was on one knee, a ring on his hand. You almost fainted, your breath caught in your throat.
“Y/N, I never thought I would find someone like you,” he started and you could see the sheer emotions gleaming in those eyes of his. “I thought that love was meaningless, nothing important. And then, I met you and I realized, love was everything.”
You swallowed down your emotions, tears forming at the corner of your eyes. You almost jumped out of your skin when his hand reached to yours, his features softening in a look of pure and unadulterated love.
“I can’t imagine a future without you, and my heart is completely devoted to you.” Thorin continued, he took a deep breath before continuing. “I would be honoured if you were to spend your life with me, by my side. So, Y/N, would you marry me?”
You broke down, for the very first time you broke down kneeling right in front of him and wrapping your arms around him.
“Yes, Thorin, I will marry you.”
Every day was a new day, every meeting with Thorin was just another fabulous meeting.
The day you two married had been one of the happiest days of your life, the both of you had been happy amongst friends and family. Your life as a married couple was filled with sweet moments, as much as they were filled with hardships and fights and tears and love.
Thorin never changed, not even once.
He was always a great man, sweet and attentive. He took it upon himself to work hard to keep up with you; because, even after the marriage the both of you were still business partners with separate business.
He always respected you, as a person, as a woman, as her partner.
He kept the details and the flowers, everyday he made sure to make you fall in love with him all over again.
You leaned against the threshold watching as Thorin argued with Thranduil, your face breaking into a softened expression as your hand went directly to your abdomen.
Thorin was everything you wanted and more.
You never thought you would find love. You didn’t even believe in it.
Until he was there.
Until he loved you.
Until he gave you a family.
Rubbing your abdomen lovingly, you pushed yourself from the threshold to make your way to your husband. Thorin stopped all argument, his eyes gleaming at the sight of you, his hand outstretched to take your in his putting you closer to place a soft kiss on your cheek.
“Now, my love, tell me who is right.” You chuckled knowing you were being dragged in a childish argument, loving every minute of it.
The news about the growing family could wait, right now you just want to enjoy this moment with him.
In which Findekáno is a tease, and Maitimo takes him under the stars.
for @thatfeanorian, as part of the @gatesofsummerexchange 2022!!! love you Fey <3 <3 <3 here is some fluffy Russingon smut ft. pregnant trans Finno for you!!
Rating: E | No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Maedhros/Fingon
Characters: Maedhros, trans!Fingon
Word count: 2.1k
My @gatesofsummerexchange gift for @wonderwafles, I hope you enjoy, and sorry for posting a little late! Merry solstice everyone, try not to destroy any cities!
When is the sun not the sun? When is a child and sibling and lover and friend turned to a stranger? When is a change happening if you can't tell the difference?
Never and always, says the Sun. On a separate path, says the Ainu. I don't know, says Arien, and so she sails.
4198 Words | Read on AO3
Notes: I used a lot of Valarin (much credit to @valarinventures, and to @yellow-feathered-faerie for Thuringwethil's name), especially for character names at the beginning. Normally I'd leave translations in the AO3 notes, but I feel like this really needs them, so I'll have them at the bottom here. There's still a lot more in the notes though! I've been wanting to write a big character study for Arien for a while with all my headcanons on her, so when I saw your prompt I couldn't resist! This is probably the saddest thing I've written yet, but it isn't all bad, and the ending is at least bittersweet. Lots of complicated relationships, Emotions, and the highs and lows of Arda marred.
<☼━Ayan-um-ûz wâyôz-iyôz (Ainulindalë)━☼>
Tulukh-igas was created as all Ayan-um-ûz are created- perfect and entirely complete for the brief moment of eternity that they did not realize they could contemplate themself. Even the names came later, as how could any mere words fully encapsulate a Being? The moment ended swiftly, of course (in comparison to eternity), but nonetheless Tulukh-igas took better to the contemplation than some, and better than most the the realization that complete self-identity and fulfillment only comes with time and experience.
Few Ayan-um-ûz are created wholly alone and separate- some discover Tone-mates or Counterpoints, many discover those who hold Harmony with them, and Tulukh-igas was no different, despite a seeming inclination for solitude. They had Tone-mates: several, certainly more than the average for those as powerful as them. It seemed a strange choice on the part of Îl-Launaþrænšiwâz, given their Choir’s lonesome natures, but who is to question the will of the Conductor? The Tone-mates in question, apparently, much to Tulukh-igas’ chagrin- Barâdakesa, who styled themself the leader of their Choir, Raxôn-rušur, Pûruz-amâzêz, and the rest. A Counterpoint’s existence they were less certain of, but this is natural- Counterpoints develop together, and might not find each other right away, if they even exist. A Harmony- perhaps. It seemed likely, but Tulukh-igas quickly discovered that they were not particularly hasty, staying behind as their Tone-mates set to muttering and seeking answers from those unable to give them.
The Song began slowly, at first. Fits and starts, rippling out as the Ayan-um-ûz found their voices. Tulukh-igas did not join in the moment they heard- they waited, and listened, and while many of the Songs were incomprehensible to them, there were some that resonated and for those few shining moments they understood-
Singing itself was indescribable. Though they sang together with their Choir, Tulukh-igas was drawn to a particular refrain separate from the rest. It matched up at points with their Tone-mates, and they heard notes echoed or mirrored in other Songs also, but only pieces. Scraps of the same Music taken to Sing countless different Melodies. They knew at the very core of their being that that refrain was them, their place in this Song. They didn’t know if this was the experience of others, and they didn't ask. It seemed too personal.
This Tuning was for individuals. A shaping and discovering of natures, and those that would further that shaping. It is only through their Song that Tulukh-igas realized an inversion of notes they heard before- the beginnings of a Counterpoint, though who held the reverse they did not know. Sometimes Harmonies were revealed in the Choirs, and Tulukh-igas laughed along with many others as Ošošai and Uyu-ninêz found both Counterpoint and Harmony together and their increasing volume and joy slowly gained strength over their Choir, to much general amusement.The Tuning was ended by the hands Îl-Launaþrænšiwâz lifting and bringing the separate Songs to a stunning halt. The Theme that was explained to the Ayan-um-ûz was glorious, and at the declaration that each would help to shape it they all grew stunned once more before beginning the Song in truth, filled with the words of Îl-Launaþrænšiwâz and the Flame Imperishable.
<☼━Phelûn-manal (Almaren)━☼>
Tulukh-igas is not disappointed like many who choose to enter Aþâraphelûn at its unexpected barrenness compared to their brief vision of what it could be. She had a glimpse of heat and light and herself in the sky and knows that whatever potential she has will not be fulfilled for a while yet. She is content to figure out the laws of combustion and the wave-particle properties of light, and to tend to the growing things of Aya-banâz and Wânâz. She doesn’t fight in the War against Belekôrôz, she is just a gardener, no matter her power, but she welcomes Tulukhaštâz and his bringing of peace. For the moment, all is well.
Phelûn-manal is a lovely place, but it seems incomplete. Nothing is wrong, per say, but she thinks that this might be part of the problem. This is Aþâraphelûn Dušamanûðân, and Îl-Launaþrænšiwâz promised beauty to come from the marring as well as in spite of it. The light of the Lamps shines brilliantly over the world’s perfect symmetry, and Tulukh-igas is both drawn and put off by them- Tulukh-barâdal especially: golden and lovely and not quite what it feels like it should be.
But something else takes precedence in the face of a familiar Song reversed as she finds her Counterpoint. Her name is Aþûrdušithîrêz, and she is dark and fae and Tulukh-igas is pulled to her like a star in orbit. She serves most under Wânâz, taking forms like the concepts for bats Tulukh-igas has seen, but she has a sharpness to her that doesn’t seem to suit the Beautiful One. The contrasts between the two of them are apparent at once, and the stuttering song and dance they perform to understand each other reveals even more.
Tulukh-igas has few ambitions, if any, while Aþûrdušithîrêz is fiercely independent and wants, more than anything, to make her own path. Tulukh-igas is steady and consistent, Aþûrdušithîrêz harsh and flighty. Tulukh-igas is best suited to solitude in her tasks, but gets along well with most everyone. Aþûrdušithîrêz is drawn to company, and works best among it, but dislikes all except a scant few. Tulukh-igas grows to know those few slowly- there is Aþûrdušithîrêz’s Tone-mate Ibrî-ȝarôz who rides with Arômêz, and Amâz-âyaniyôz his friend in the service of Irimôz, and while he is often otherwise engaged, Iȝônowêz is also tolerated for Ibrî-ȝarôz’s sake.
She discovers a faintly growing Harmony in Amâz-âyaniyôz, unfulfilled, but with potential. She meets Gili-mâz, Tone-mate to Iȝônowêz and devoted to Barâdâz, they share no Measure but are drawn together nonetheless. Aþûrdušithîrêz darkens with what she denies is jealousy, but Tulukh-Igas laughs and grows her flowers to drink from and tells her that there is only one who holds her Counterpoint and it is not lessened by relationships with others.
Her relationship to her Tone-mates is, however. They become darker, more insular, more concerned with holding their power. All of their Choir are ill-suited to serve the Balaȝumâz with their power and independence, but Tulukh-igas is grateful that her Ladies are happy to leave her to her work or she thinks she might be as discontent as her kin. She has found a place to work and be as herself, and they can’t say the same. It creates a rift, especially as she discovers new parts to her Song and they grow more firmly entrenched into theirs.
When the Lamps are destroyed, she is angered and grieved, but unsurprised. This is the Marring of the Music, and she can work within it. When a new war is declared she sees those who will fight off, and begins preparing to pick up the pieces of Phelûn-manal’s ruins. She has no great foresight, but she is no fool and she knows about what to expect. She does not expect betrayal.
Barâdakesa calls himself Girimaph-ai with a snarling smirk on a terrible form, and she scorches him for it. She does not deny his chosen name- to do so would be blasphemy against the Song far higher than he and his fellows attempt- but she denies his authority. A leader he has styled himself, and their Tone-mates may follow him, but she has Sung her Part and Sung it well and she knows what her place will be. She will not find it in Belekôrôz and his rebellion, that much is certain. That they would even ask her to join them is an insult, and also a heartbreaking honor. She has been ignorant, but they have been blinded, to not understand the fundamental truth of who she is.
She does not fight them, nor they her, but when Raxôn-rušur tries to crack his whip and break the earth further she blazes golden and terrible and knows and hates that she is the strongest of them all. They leave for Delgûmûðân-axâzâz and Tulukh-igas is left to mourn in silence for what could have been, grief stoked in the places where her Tone-mates’ Notes should ring.
Rebuilding is harder than it should be. Decisions are made and changed and compromised on, trying to remake something gone for good. Tulukh-igas cannot deny her grief that their paradise was so easily ruined, although she chooses to take what joy she can in the making of something new. But not everyone takes well to it. The darkness and ruin doesn’t only beget good.
Aþûrdušithîrêz is not one to be direct when it comes to herself. She obfuscates, dances around the heart of the issue. Flies to strange places with messages she shouldn’t have. It is Tulukh-igas who confronts her, who Sings a Counterpoint melody that no longer runs in parallels but inverse, notes shaped to split and divide in a way it didn’t used to. Aþûrdušithîrêz doesn’t deny it. The melody swells even as both of them stand silent. It isn’t the empty discord of a Tone-mate no longer- it builds, wrapping around them and weaving them closer than ever, even as their Songs are warped beyond each other’s recognition. It is a twisted way that their Counterpoint is fulfilled, Aþûrdušithîrêz has turned to the shadows as Tulukh-igas turns to the light, nectar to blood and fire to fruit.
She turns away and spreads her wings. Tulukh-igas watches, and hopes that they are at least not opposites in mourning. She holds out faint hope that she might return as Ošošai did. That a Counterpoint without Harmony could be enough.
She doesn’t.
<☼━Phelûn-Bala3umâz (Valinórë)━☼>
Arien- for she is called Arien now- does not interact much with the First-Born in Valinórë, for all that she can admit to herself she finds them rather fascinating. She tends to Vána’s flowers and to the glorious boughs of Laurelin and watches as they bloom towards her even as the Eldar shy away. Her spirit is too brilliant for most incarnates, even when she cloaks herself in the most physical form she can bear. Not all incarnates, however.
She meets an elf-child, once. She was tending some of the gardens in Lórien for a change when she near-literally stumbles across him (the hazards of incarnation). He looks like he had been crying. He winces only when he sees her eyes, but in avoiding them still manages to watch the fiery licks of her hair and the golden glow pouring from the dark of her skin. Arien finds herself curious, and cannot help but start up a conversation.
The child introduces himself, and she refrains from laughing only because he seems sensitive. What a pair they make! She cannot help but see some tiny part of herself reflected in this child- fiery, half-adrift, trying to heal from unsolvable loss. They speak for a while, but Laurelin begins to wane and the child admits his father will worry, and they go their eventual separate ways after this chance meeting of strangers. Still, he does not leave without both their moods having lifted some from their individual griefs, and not without several suggestions for methods she could use to make her form less painful to incarnate eyes. They are good ideas, and she tells him so, but the child doesn’t go until she tells him that she will consider one- not insincerely, either, as a darkening eyepiece has potential- which is sweet of him.
It is only many years later that the reality of who that child was strikes her. She laughs lowly, and refuses to dwell on might-have-beens. She is just a gardener, and for better or worse, Fëanáro was always going to change the world.
<☼━Ezellôchâr (Ezellohar)━☼>
The release of Melkor brings discontent. For all he claims to have repented, Arien cannot trust him. Where then are her Tone-mates, her siblings? Where is Aþûrdušithîrêz, her Counterpoint and the one that she loved? But no one expects the true cost of his freedom.
She is not there. Very few are on a festival day, and none could’ve prevented this. But she feels it in her chest and throat and mouth, burning and throbbing like a bass drum igniting the air. She doesn’t know what it is, not at first, dissimilar as it is from the discordance of her Tone-mates spitting from their shared Notes, or the crashing swell of a Counterpoint fully realized, darkness to light and light to dark. She doesn’t know what it is, until she notices the slow-dimming light. She doesn’t always have wings, but now she flies.
She’s too late. Silmo is there, his form fading in the same pulses that she feels. There are streaks of Unlight through him, branching from deep wounds, corrupting his silver glow even as the Shadows of her kin flicker like smoke through her own gold. Their broken facsimile of what was is the only Light in the Darkness.
The Trees are dead, and with Laurelin goes a piece of Arien. The burn of drums in the deep is her own Song being Unsung, the withered Tree is her own corpse, and Arien cannot do anything but ignite.
Idly, she is aware of time passing. Ainur and Eldar come and go, mourning and screaming. She can pay them no mind, attuned only to Fire and Song. Her grief has always been a coal-seam fire, long burning and subtle, but it has awoken into a forest-fire bent on razing what was to the ground. But finally, new life rises from ashes.
She wakes to Song. She hears it, and knows her Ladies. There is another Song- not hers- and tears shed from the hope for beauty to come from Marring. It falters, but Arien has never wavered from her duty. Light, slow blooming. She is formless, yellow heat and blinding light, but Sings nonetheless, and Laurelin bears a final fruit.
Word of the Valar’s idea spreads slowly, hope hard to ignite in the darkness, but Ilmarë makes sure it reaches those who cared for the Trees first. They take a moment together, her and Arien, ëalar pressed close, but soon she must leave, devotion to Varda pulling her away. Arien understands, but it is no easy thing when one love is in the service of the one who destroyed a part of your Being, and the other is ever kept away by duty. Her Song may fit with many, but her character is well suited to being alone. Still, she is just a gardener- and with luck, soon a sailor too- and she has a case to plead.
Máhanaxar is lessened in the darkness. They are escorted together, she and Silmo, with pointless ceremony. He is drawn and pale and waning, entirely unlike a Maia, she is blindingly bright and scorching to a degree that would be very rude if she had any control over it. The decision is mostly a formality.
For all that Silmo loved Telperion, he is deeply injured in body and spirit, not fit for the burdens that this vocation would bring. She hears their Harmony fall softly out of tune as he accepts this with sorrowful grace and quickly leaves.
Arien is left standing amidst the great Powers of the world, unable to hold a form, burning anything that comes near, and one of the very few Maiar who can bear the full power of Laurelin. This Song was long sung- Arien will bear the last of Tulukhedelgorûs through Ilmen.
The Valar have barely pronounced their decision when another Maia bursts in. She recognizes him- Tilion, Aþûrdušithîrêz’s Tone-mate, a hunter of Oromë, friend of Silmo, and a lover of Telperion. She hears a Song begin to weave into her own for the first time in Ages of the world, and feels herself flicker into something closer to a shape.She knows herself like this. She’s seen herself like this, a glimpse out of time. Arien is herself and for the first time since the Trees died, she feels it.
<☼━Šebeth barâdal (Ilmen)━☼>
Tilion and Telperion’s flower are sent up first, out of tradition as much as the desire to give him more time to settle into his new role. Seven passes across the sky, and then Arien rises.
Several problems quickly become clear. Tilion… does his best. He’s apologetic, at least, but he doesn’t have the steady hand needed to keep his course, and always gets too enthusiastic when they pass each other, leaving his ship scorched. The timing of the days is, and the sway of his course slowly hides parts of Iþil from the view of Arda. He is lucky, Arien thinks, that she enjoys his company.
There are other problems too- the continual light hides the stars, and leaves little time for rest. Even before the Darkening, there were places of shadow and half-light in Valinórë, and now it is gone and the effects are being seen. Flowers wilt in Arien’s heat, rather than growing towards her, and that, more than anything, feels wrong.
The Powers seem to agree, because not long after she begins sailing Eonwë comes bearing new orders- they are to take turns sailing across the sky, East to West, and this will be the new reckoning of days.
She thinks that they hope this new rhythm will be able to steady Tillion. She doubts it and is proved right. His timing improves, but his light-phases continue, in no small part because of the monsters that Melkor begins sending after him. It is hard to steer when you are beset by shadow beasts, he says one day when he is in the sky with her, admitting half the reason he sails in the day at times is to get away from them, the Dark Lord too much of a coward to try and test Arien herself with his monsters. She chuckles and blazes a little brighter at that, and he laughs along at the implicit threat. She is just a gardener and a sailor, but has as much reason as any to hate the Marrer, and more power than most.
As the years wear on, she finds herself more grateful than she expected for Tilion’s occasional company. She doesn’t mind the silence or the loneliness, but she prefers his conversation.
He tells her early on that Aþûrdušithîrêz is now called Thuringwethil, and she doesn’t ask how he learned that. He sings over stories from his hunts and she returns with some of the more amusing gardening anecdotes she’s gathered over the years. They watch over Beleriand together like none besides Manwë and Varda can, and Tilion teases her about the Men that worship her for her light. She smiles and rolls her eyes and listens to their prayers, granting or passing on what few she can.Things settle, after a while. The first eclipse is certainly something to experience- when Tilion learns that Thuringwethil was still alive after the incident with Lúthien he stops everything to go and tell Arien, despite the fact that it’s midday. They spend several minutes shouting at each other and the situation and their shared love of an idiodic, evil vampire; what was she thinking-! The conflicting emotions from that are quickly swept away, however, when they learn of the accidental terror he had inflicted on the denizens of Arda. Apparently the general consensus was that it was either some foul work of Melkor or a second Darkening. That doesn’t stop it happening again the next time he has “urgent” news, or the next, or the next, but eventually even eclipses become somewhat predictable as Tilion works out a method to his madness. Even change becomes routine.
<☼━Aþarum wâ-lûnunal (Yéni únótimë)━☼>
She is tired. Tired and old, but duty is duty. Aþâraigas, she takes as her title as she takes up her ship, and Aþâraigas she quietly dubs herself in the silence of the Void she near-ceaselessly travels. Arien she still is, Ûrî makes her smile faintly even long after the fall of Numenor, and she lends her ear to any prayer to the Sun- to her or her Light the same. Either way the names don’t ring quite falsely, just as Tulukh-igas still holds their place within her. But it is no longer truly her, truly Aþâraigas, for as the ages drag on she is the appointed light and little else. Tillion- Phanaikelûth, he admits one time, nothing but a bright mirror for his burden to shine on- struggles with the same. Her heart aches for him more than for herself. She was made for this, the endless voyage that she glimpsed such a small part of long ago, that she Sang herself into, and though she is tired she is not uncontent. But Phanaikelûth is a hunter, ill suited for the role he begged his way into, moreso now that the monsters of the Void past are all but gone. His burden wears on him, even in his wandering, even through his attempts to be subtle as he passes his ship off to Thuringwethil on the blood moons when it is eclipsed out of the Sun’s sight.
Eärendil joins them before they grow weary, already weary himself. He heals, somewhat, over the course of an age. His eyes don’t grow any lighter, but they sparkle a little more with laughter when Tilion hollers over one of his truly terrible stories from Oromë’s hunt. He smiles when Arien gives him advice to cope with the prayers of Elves and Men that reach his ears- she has been dealing with it ever since Men first awoke to her light, after all. He tells stories of his own, eventually, of great cities and peoples they have only watched from afar.
It is not a terrible vocation they are bound to. Eärendil is a sailor almost more than anything else, Arien has always been content with her role, and though Tilion struggles he has grown to love the brilliance of the Void almost as much as the last light of Telperion. They have rest from their journeys on occasion, and all have frequent visits from Elwing and Ilmarë and Eonwë, and messages from those who cannot come. Silmo heals as much as he can, and writes them letters with terrible jokes. The strange web of siblings and friends and lovers and not-lovers that develops between the sailors and those they love is made more complex by Thuringwethil’s not-quite-contrite visits to her brother, and by Tilion’s ongoing love affair with Salmar and his tides, and by Eonwë’s devotion to them all, among other things.
It’s a source of amusement to pass the time, charting out increasingly detailed maps that enumerate the various relationships between the three of them (Eärendil wins for amount, able to include all of his and Elwing’s relations as well as the majority of Men in the west of Middle Earth). They figure out games to play when the ships come close enough, and then invent new ones when ettirnen grew repetitive with only so many things to have spied in the void. When Eärendil acknowledges his name no longer fits him quite as well it is a bitter realization, but Aþâraigas and Phanaikelûth shout Valarin lessons to him until he Sings back something that sounds better for voices of heavenly light, and the words of the Ainur travel farther in the Void.
Still. It wears.
The Valar offer more than once to find a way to automate the ships. It would be possible, Aulë insists. The three of them- Aþâraigas, Phanaikelûth, and Utiôrôi-al Azôz-iyôz all- smile as politely as they can at the messenger and decline. Through messages sung between ships, or passed briefly when two (or ever-so-rarely all three of them) happen have coinciding shore-leaves in the distortion of Valinor-time, or even once through a bemused Elwing (playing passenger-pigeon, she joked wryly, and her eyes were no younger than her husband’s. Aþâraigas wanted to ask her true name), they all agree. Any chance of that was closed at the Reshaping of Arda. Aþâraigas is the Sun, just as surely as she is not the Sun, not a flaming star orbited by planets, but the very essence of it. Their spirits are tied to those celestial bodies that they are and represent, and to remove themselves fully from that bond would be irreparable, even if the Sun still burned and the Moon still shone and the Star of High Hope still twinkled.
Phanaikelûth still admits that he has been tempted by the offer more than once.
Utiôrôi-al Azôz-iyôz smiles, grim and false, and doesn’t say anything. They understand.
Aþâraigas says that if she who Sang of herself and her duty before knowing they were one and the same is tempted by the release from it, then truly the end is nigh.
They all laugh, a little bitter, even knowing it’s not a joke.
She wonders, sometimes, if she dreads the end of the Song more than she looks forward to it. She doesn’t know. She tries not to think too deeply on it. She is just a gardener and a sailor and a light with work to do, she cannot read ahead in the Music. And so she sails.
Yes. YES. YEEEEEEEEES!!! It's here, and it's QUEER!!!
Dear @maglorslostsilmaril, as it's quite apparent, I was your @gatesofsummerexchange ✨Fairy✨, and these gorgeous sapphics, Arwen and Éowyn, are my gift to you! Ding ding ding!!! 🥳🥳🥳
I had great fun drawing these beauties, and I know you'll take great care of them.
Have a beautiful Solstice Day, and Happy Pride Month to you, too! 🏳️🌈❤️
Some Small Atonement: A Gates of Summer Exchange Fic
Happy @gatesofsummerexchange ,@the-seaworthy-muffin! I'm your gifter for this delightful event. You requested something involving Glorfindel, Maglor, and Elrond's sons, and while I'm not sure you meant this, I have written Maglor and Glorfindel dealing with some old grudges (with encouragement from the youngsters).
Glorfindel was, by nature, a forgiving person. When one had lived as long as he had, holding petty grudges was, at best, an utter bore.
That said, even he had trouble letting go of some things.
As beautiful and peaceful as his new home of Imladris was, and as much as he adored Elrond—the great-grandson of his former lord, and grandson of one of his dearest friends—he did not quite care for some of Elrond’s friends.
Well, one friend, really.
Or, according to Elrond, his father.
Glorfindel, in his previous life, had never spoken to any of the sons of Feanor. He’d glimpsed them from time to time at the camp around Lake Mithrim, but had always been guided firmly in the opposite direction by his mother. “Those ruffians who caused your father’s death,” she would mutter in disgust.
Glorfindel’s father had died on the Helcaraxë, not in the Kinslaying, but the boy took his mother’s point anyway. Had Fëanor and his sons not started a revolution, there would have been no ships to burn, and no ice to cross. And now one of Fëanor’s sons was here, in Imladris, being called father by Elrond.
The trouble was made worse by the fact that Glorfindel’s beloved honorary nephews, Elladan and Elrohir, adored their adoptive grandfather. As they grew older, they also grew more and more aware that Glorfindel did not adore him.
They finally got up the courage to raise the subject at the age of twenty-two, during one of Maglor’s unscheduled visits to the valley.
“Why don’t you like Grandfather Maglor?” Elladan demanded, climbing onto Glorfindel’s desk gracefully. “We think he’s excellent.”
“He gave us knives from Harad,” Elrohir chimed in. “Proper ones. Even though they aren’t sharp.”
“I do like him,” Glorfindel said unconvincingly. “He… makes your father very happy.” Though Varda alone knows why.
“But not you,” said Elladan. “You look at him as though he’s an… an orc.”
“And what do you know of orcs, young sir?” Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. “Let alone how I look at them.”
“I know enough,” said Elladan with a shrug. “Saw a picture in one of Father’s books once. They have horrible eyes and they’re covered with blood and filth, and…”
“That is quite enough,” Glorfindel interrupted. “You’ll put us all off our dinner. Your grandfather is not an orc, that much is very obvious. Still, I will admit we have some unfortunate history.”
“What’s that?” asked Elrohir.
“That is something you will need to ask your father about,” said Glorfindel. “It was all… a very long time ago. But some things are difficult to forget.”
Elladan frowned. “Have you ever talked to Grandfather about it? If you’re so cross with him, you shouldn’t keep it all inside. That’s what Mother always says.”
Glorfindel very briefly entertained an uncharitable thought about Celebrian, before pushing it away firmly. “Your mother is… very wise. However, she may not quite understand the complexities of this situation…”
Elrohir rolled his eyes and gave Glorfindel’s shoulder a push. “Go on,” he said. “Go see Grandfather and talk things over. It’s horrible, seeing you hate someone. It’s like seeing a fish walk on land.”
“I am not a fish,” Glorfindel said primly. “And I will not go and see Maglor.”
--
Glorfindel did, of course, go to see Maglor.
He still did not particularly want to, but it seemed like the honorable thing to do. If they could have an honest discussion with each other just once, perhaps any tension could be eased before it started to hurt Elrond.
Maglor sat quietly on a bench on a high balcony, looking up without surprise when Glorfindel entered. He had changed out of the rough traveling clothes he usually wore—probably at Elrond’s request—and now looked reasonably presentable in a burgundy tunic. Still, there was something about him that seemed distinctly wild.
“Good afternoon, Lord Glorfindel,” he said mildly. “How are you today?”
“Well enough,” said Glorfindel. “Are you…” He cast about for a suitable question. “Enjoying your time in Imladris?”
“Very much, as always. Elrond and Celebrian have worked wonders with this valley.” Maglor looked out across the balcony, golden in the sunset, smiling wistfully. “Reminds me of home.”
“Likewise,” Glorfindel said quietly, although he was fairly sure he and Maglor were thinking of different places when they said home.
What did home mean to Maglor these days, anyway? Glorfindel couldn’t help but wonder. Tirion, perhaps, or the old lands of Beleriand?
Not that Glorfindel cared.
“The uncharacteristically fierce look on your face,” Maglor commented, “makes me think you have something on your mind.”
“So I do,” said Glorfindel. “So I do.” He hesitated, before taking a seat on the bench. “I believe it is only fair for me to state the truth: it disturbs me, seeing you here.”
“If it helps, I doubt you are alone in that,” said Maglor, not noticeably offended. “Nearly everyone here who was alive in the First Age must want to throw me into a well every time I drop by.”
“So why do you keep coming back?” Glorfindel demanded, the words sounding harsher than he’d intended.
“Why don’t I sod off and leave this nice respectable valley alone, you mean?” Maglor grinned. “No need to look shocked, I could read your subtext. Your job is to protect Elrond, thanks to some promise you made to my densest and most boring cousin, and having me about the place is undoubtedly corrupting his soul. How close am I?”
“I’m unsure why you feel the need to mock me,” Glorfindel said stiffly. “I do wish to protect Elrond, and there is nothing unreasonable about that.”
“No, there certainly is not,” said Maglor. “Forgive me, mocking was not my intention. But I haven’t yet answered your question.” He sighed, and looked out over the valley again. “Elrond has lost so many people, Glorfindel. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that. And for whatever reason—I have tried to talk him out of it, believe me—Elrond does not want to lose me. Perhaps it would be better for me to disappear entirely, But I can’t bring myself to hurt my son like that.”
Glorfindel winced slightly at the words “my son” — Elrond was Earendil’s son, damn it all, Glorfindel had known Earendil! —but nodded. “I suppose I can understand that.”
“I hoped you would.”
“I must admit,” said Glorfindel, “that I had a vague idea of finding you today and asking you to leave Imladris. I had even considered a bribe.”
Maglor snorted. “And what, exactly, did you plan to bribe me with?”
“I never quite reached that part of the plan. Besides, the point is moot now. I find I have… changed my mind.”
“Have you?” asked Maglor. There was a faint smile on his face. “My charm won you over, then?”
“I’m afraid I must be impervious to your… brand of charm. However, I think I may slightly understand by now why Elrond cares for you.” Glorfindel stood and yawned. “I believe I’m in need of a drink before bed. Care to join me?”
Maglor’s eyebrows went up in surprise, but he nodded. “If you like,” he said. “Despite being a famous villain, I can promise that I will not poison you.
--
It was no surprise that Maglor and Glorfindel ran into Elladan and Elrohir on their way back through the house. The little imps seemed to be everywhere at once. At the sight of the two older elves not only walking together, but conversing, both boys’ eyes widened in delight.
“Uncle Glorfindel!” Elrohir exclaimed. “Are you and Grandfather friends now?”
Glorfindel and Maglor looked at one another hesitantly, before Glorfindel slowly nodded. “I suppose one could say we are becoming friends. We are at least getting to know each other now.”
Obviously relieved, Maglor nodded as well. “An excellent way to put it.”
“Oh, good,” said Elladan. “Can you play Find the Flag with us, then? It’s not nearly as fun with only three people. Especially because Elrohir always cheats.”
“I do not!”
Glorfindel turned to Maglor, a wry smile on his face. “Well, it appears we’ve been challenged. That drink will have to wait. Shall we choose our teams?”
Maglor grinned and half-bowed. “After you, my friend.”
