The snow did not ease, and while Maglor was no stranger to harsh cold he found himself much more partial to a temperate climate. His own Gap, while heâd held it, was a swath of moderate plains such as these of and around Rohan. He remembered still, though, that when winters would turn harsh, they were nigh as miserable as those of Himring, with no shelter from the high winds and freezing rain that carried across the grass. Now with snow creeping into his boots and between the folds of his cloak, there was a touch of longing for the coasts of Beleriand where at least the rain would soak him in earnest and not slowly dribble ice into his underclothes where he'd thought he'd maintain some warmth. Snow and ice were cruel and teasing. The rain was honest.
As Maglor maintained his approach, he found himself losing sight of the trees. This was strange, as when one approaches something one would expect it to become clearer. Especially something so large and permanent as, say, a forest.
âFor FĂ«anor beheld the hair of Galadriel with wonder and delight. He begged three times for a tress, but Galadriel would not give him even one hair. These two kinsfolk, the greatest of the Eldar of Valinor, were unfriends for ever.â â The Peoples of Middle-earth
Do you truly think Fëanåro cares if you flee or fly? Beloved, sweet, hopeful husband, the perpetual youngest of sons: I tell you now the stolen ships will go to Beleriand whether you step foot on the deck or not. Flowers will bloom in the gardens of Tirion whether you sail oversea or not. Fëanåro and Nolofinwë will cross their swords nigh unto death even if you run your heart clear through with the blade. The eagle does not know that the fishermouse lines his nest with eagle-feathers each night, hoping beyond hope that its children will fly.
attempting to deal with âman what the fuckâ events in my life by semi-realistically sketching out a woman who just watched her kindred become the victims of the first large scale slaying only to watch her hubby and kiddos packing their bags to trot along after the guy who did it, and it looked pretty nice so here u must have it too â ïž words from my ficlet.
~ 700 words of russingon angst originally written for SWG's 7/4/2026 instadrabble session for the prompt 'your heart of gold has long since tarnished,' except that it accidentally grew slightly beyond a drabble. Alas! ÂŻ\_(ă)_/ÂŻ Also on AO3.
âDo you think you would have wanted children?â
For all that the question catches Maedhros off guard, he manages to remain perfectly still as Fingonâs practiced fingers slide through his hair, gathering small sections, folding them into a plait. After a beat, Maedhros says, âWe could never have had children, Finno.â
âI donât need an anatomy lesson.â Fingonâs voice takes on an uncharacteristic edge. âIf fate had willed it that either of our bodies could bear children, would you have wanted them?â
If either of them had been granted a body that could bear children, they would not be where they are now. They would have been married off centuries ago for political advantage, or made to languish in the halls of a father or brother, or perhaps the Noldor would never have left the western lands at all. Nothing would be the same. Their lives today are inextricable from their places as eldest sons, as heirs of mighty fathers. But Fingon will call him pedantic for saying so, so Maedhros decides to be as honest as he can be and answers, âI donât know.â
Fingon tightens the braid with a little more force than is necessary. âHow can you not know? The question is simple.â
âHow is that simple? I donât know, Fingon. Maybe, yes, if things were different.â
âIf what was different?â
Maedhros twists around to look at him incredulously. Fingon pushes him back to face the front before he can ruin the plait.
âEverything,â Maedhros tries not to sound exasperated. âMaybe if we were not fighting an endless war we have little hope of winning. Maybe if I was not bound to my Oath before life and love. Maybe if I was not who I am, and you were not who you are.â
âIf I was not who I am?â Fingon asks, carefully neutral.
Maedhros closes his eyes briefly in irritation. âWe would not make good parents, Fingon.â He tries to deliver it gently. âNot me, and not you. We might have, once, in our youth, when my heart had yet to be hardened to the world and yours still shone as brightly golden as it once did. But we have changed, Finno. The Enemy changed me, and the Ice changed you. The war has changed us both."
Fingon hums. He gathers the final locks of hair at Maedhrosâ nape deftly into the plait.
âWhy does this weigh on you now?â Maedhros asks when Fingon gives no answer. âThings are as they are. They will not change. I see no purpose in dwelling on it.â
Fingon finishes the plait in silence. He twists it into a low knot, pins it carefully into place. Finally, he rests his warm hands on Maedhros' shoulders and kisses the top of his head.
âThey want me to sire an heir.â
This time Maedhros is powerless to stop his body from tensing. His blood, suddenly chilled, seems to run sluggish; language fails him entirely. Eventually he grapples clumsily for something to say.
âWho does?â
âMy father.â Fingonâs thumb strokes his nape. âHis counsellors, his legal advisors. Everybody.â
Something wretched and venomous is writhing in the pit of Maedhrosâ stomach. It slithers up his chest, winds around his ribcage, clamps down on his heart and squeezes.
He had half-expected this, once. After Turgon disappeared. For years he dreaded receiving messengers from Dor-LĂłmin, certain that every letter stamped with the crown prince's seal would be the one to break his heart. But then decades passed, and centuries, and Maedhros had thoughtâŠ
It doesnât matter. It was naĂŻve. The high kingship is precarious as it is; Fingolfinâs only heir cannot remain childless.
Maedhros wills his heart into submission, but he cannot find the strength to turn and see the hurt on Fingonâs face when at last he says, âThat is wise of them.â
A terrible beat of silence stretches out between them.
The warmth of Fingon's hands withdraws.
Maedhros closes his eyes. He focuses on the motions of drawing air into his lungs, feeling them expand, deflate, expand again in careful measure.
Ambush of a New Past, raccoon (i don't know how to copy the emoticon)
Thank you so much for asking!
đŠ = a part of the fic you would trash
So Iâve only actually posted the prologue to Ambush so far and am waiting till I finish writing the whole thing to start posting the rest, so there isnât anything much published that I want to âtrashâ necessarily⊠so Iâll go on a slight tangent and talk about a major characterisation choice I made, which was a hard swerve from my original concept for the character. Essentially, I decided to not woobify Faramir as some kind of âinherently goodâ figure somehow being against the conquest, and instead showcase what in my mind would be the most realistic characterisation for this guy in this particular situation.
And as the fic is essentially a parallel thematic narrative (both ecocritical and postcolonial) where the First Age Noldor conquest project in Beleriand is read against/alongside the Fourth Age Gondorian conquest project of the Harad, I decided that the most appropriate âfirst age parallel/counterpartâ for me to give him would actually be Fingon, who is of course just as prone to whitewashed blorbofication. Essentially, the parallel between them would be interrogating the feudal/imperial definitions of âgoodnessâ and âmoral characterâ, and the often unquestioned acceptance of such terms as static, defining character traits by a modern/contemporary audience.
And I absolutely do understand why Faramir is woobified/comfort characterified to the extent he is (and I definitely understand it more than with Fingon blorbofication), because he is certainly shown to be âgood heartedâ and chivalrous in the books, and the films went one step further by making him do the whole âthis poor young Haradrim soldier, so far from homeâ bit when in the book those were Samâs words.
So I initially thought of giving him that sort of kind-hearted benevolent soldier role just because that was how heâs generally received and I didnât want to run the whole âomg heâs so OOCâ gauntlet⊠however, I later decided to go with my gut feeling and instead make him into what is pretty much a retired border control guard, who is genuinely kind and good and sees the best in the people around him⊠but might not necessarily extend the same courtesy to those he has learned, across the decades of his militaristic life, to consider subhumanâŠ
(and because I am me, I also have a whole ass meta post justifying this view of him đ)
My hottest fanfiction take is I think people should stop posting multi-fandom oneshots as a single fic with like 50+ chapters and instead post them as individual fics
you may have noticed that my story is disorganized and thematically incoherent and my plot structure is weaker by the verse. this is commentary on the chaos of mortal existence under the yoke of the immortal gods
hey sorry but we came behind your boyfriend and cast a thong of fire about him. yeah and then hewed him with a black axe, and a white flame sprang up from his helm as it was cloven. and this is awkward but we kind of beat him into dust with our maces?? yeah, idk. his banner was really nice though! blue and silver. yeah no i don't think you can get it back. we kind of trod it into the mire of his blood. yeah and the field was lost. sorry man. tears unnumbered and all that.
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