Anyone else read super angsty with a happy ending fanfics centered around a character that they project on when they're in a depressive phase because they need that reassurance that things can turn out okay even through everything sucks right now?
Like I've been in a depressive slump lately and I've noticed I've been reading the angstiest fics with all my projection blorbos as the main characters but every one of them has a happy ending because I just need the assurance I can be loved.
So my parents have this bathroom that everyone refers to as the murder bathroom.
It is a tiny bathroom in the basement with a bunch 80s floral wallpaper, the sink has a gold marble pattern. But the kicker is, the light switch is outside of the bathroom.
That's right. Outside.
So is the lock to the door.
The toilet paper holder is shaped like a gargoyle. Just adds to the ambiance, you know?
And finally, the real reason why this bathroom earned the monicker "murder bathroom" is because where the mirror should be (and is now that they finally put one in) is just a gaping hole in the wall. You can see the pipes and shit.
It's just large enough for someone to poke their head through the wall and say "It's Johnny!" before they try to kill you.
Well, I purposely avoid using the murder bathroom (for obvious reasons) and today I had to use it for the first time ever.
Well, there was a spider in the bathroom and I screamed bloody murder (I am and forever will be terrified of them) and my poor father thought I was actually being murdered in the murder bathroom.
Just a reminder to anyone who will listen! There’s a huge cold front coming up in America right now and I want to remind everyone to NEVER use or rely on a gas stove to heat up your home. You will die. If your power goes out, the best thing you can do is cover your windows, or get to an area in your house with no windows, and bundle up to the best of your ability to conserve heat. I know generating heat with whatever you have sounds good in theory, but we lost a LOT of people to carbon monoxide poisoning in last years Texas Freeze because many relied on gas stoves and other propane heat sources. A lot of people went to bed and never woke up. Please be aware of the things you can’t see, like fumes from your generator, built up gas when starting a car in an enclosed space, and of course, the excess carbon monoxide that can be generated by leaving a gas stove on for too long.
If you're still taking drabble prompts, silvergifting and 27?
“I feel your absence in everything that I do alone, in every place I go without you.” ♥
Ao3 link
It will not be much longer, now, before Sauron’s forces completely overrun Eriador. Everything seems to be going according to plan— the corpses, ashes, ruined structures left in the wake of his armies are evidence enough.
But this plan should not have been necessary in the first place, and of that Sauron is painfully aware, his heart still enflamed with the sting of betrayal. To think, if the stupid Elf had just told him where the Three were, so many lives could have been spared, none of this would have needed to happen! And he could even find it in his heart to forgive the Elf for making the rings without him, for even Sauron is not without mercy.
The stupid Elf had a name, didn’t he? Ah. Now I remember, Sauron hums to himself, but how could I ever forget? He returns to his delusions, feelings he tried and failed to bury with each fatal swing of the death-hammer, now clinging to life like roaches.
“Celebrimbor,” Sauron recalls, laments, his voice dripping with affection, “my sweet Tyelpë.”
He lifts a limp hand from a faceless corpse— he recognizes it, from the burnt-away clothing, as one of the survivors from the fall of Eregion— and he holds the hand against his cheek, kissing the cold flesh, taking in every callus and every scar. How inconvenient these feelings were, as he found himself caressing a smithing-hand that did not even belong to Tyelpë, and wasting time when he should be preparing for battle. If only he had turned Tyelpë to his side, so that his beloved could rule alongside him, and make all others bend to their will.
Only Tyelpë had the hands and mind to match Sauron’s own, to bring forth in the world objects of great power and beauty that would transform the shape of Arda itself. For Tyelpë’s fëa could sing with Sauron in such perfect harmony, and no other Incarnate could ever lay claim to his heart.
Together, they would have conquered all.
Sauron lets the limp hand fall into the dirt, gazing at the gold band around his finger with tainted pride. Though he will soon have all of the power he desires, once the Three are in his grasp, the new world he will create is one he must rule alone. That was his plan, the day he first arrived in Eregion, though Tyelpë had changed all of that; it was not long before Sauron dreamed of Tyelpë, sitting beside him on the throne of the world.
But that dream, Sauron reminds himself again, is now forever lost; in fact, he was never meant to have it, for in spite of all of Tyelpë’s precious qualities, he never would have understood Sauron’s truest visions and desires. They were always meant to be on opposite sides of this war.
And Tyelpë had won.
Everyone Sauron loves is always destined to leave, and he will always be left with an endless void in his heart.
No more will Sauron attempt fruitlessly to rekindle these useless feelings, he vows. For now, he has nothing left to lose but the power he has amassed for himself.
There can only be one Dark Lord on the throne, and it must be Sauron alone.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
| SAURON
Annatar, or Mairon as he was once called and Sauron as he is called now, hadn’t been loved in a very long time.
Not since he scorned the love once given to him and turned his back on his master. He had found a new master, Melkor, who had loved him in his own cruel way.
Or maybe that was what he liked to tell himself.
He had been beloved once, a master smith, beautiful with love and life.
He was still beautiful now. But he had abandoned the teachings of his former master, no, mentor. He was loved by no one.
That was a lie. He was beloved by one. Tyelpë. Celebrimbor.
Of course, Tyelpë didn’t know his true identity. He didn’t know who Annatar really was.
He was oblivious to all of the atrocities and crimes he committed. All of the wounds he personally inflicted into Tyelpë’s own uncle.
No, Tyelpë’s love was to an illusion, a carefully crafted lie that he had maintained. His love wasn’t to him, it was to someone who didn’t exist.
But why did it feel so good? Why did it feel so good to be curled up in Tyelpë’s arms, to work with him in the forge. Why did he crave it more than he craved anything else before?
Everyday he could feel himself falling deeper and deeper into Tyelpë’s love. He could feel himself falling further and further in love.
But he couldn’t. He had a plan.
So why did it feel so bad to hurt Tyelpë? To inflict pain on that beloved body that he had once worshiped. Why did every blow, every insult, every lie that he inflict hurt him just as much as it hurt Tyelpë. And why, oh Eru why, did it hurt him so much when Tyelpë refused to even look at him with anything but vitriol, disdain, and hatred? Why did every insult that Tyelpë hurl at him hurt more than a million stab wounds?
He had once been among the strongest of the maiar. He had once been the most beloved student of Aulë. He had once been a prodigy, admired and loved. And yet, he was the one to throw it all away to serve Melkor, so why was he the one craving what he once had? Why was he craving all of Tyelpë’s love and affection, his admiration, his teachings, his strength?
He didn’t know.
| TYELPË
Tyelpë’s family had committed a great many atrocities, that he knew. Tyelpë’s upbringing was not the ideal, that he also knew. But he had never wanted as a child. Anything that he could ever want or need was provided to him by his doting father and uncles and grandparents.
But when Annatar came, full of life and creation, he wanted. He wanted more than he wanted anything ever before.
He came to crave the maiar’s touch, his love, his affection, his everything. And Annatar gave it to him.
Up until the end that is.
His cousin Galadriel had warned him, as had his cousin(?) Gil-Galad. They had all warned him of the truth. That Annatar was not what he seemed and he would be the downfall of both him and Eregion.
He hadn’t listened. And now he paid for it. Every kiss, every intimate moment, thrown back in his face.
With his dying breath, he stared back at that once beloved face in hatred and wished death upon him and spat curses at him. He refused to let himself fall to the same evil his grandfather and all his uncles afterwards did.
And then, he was dead.
Death, he had decided, wasn’t so bad. He was in the Halls of Mandos. And while it was fuzzy at first, he can recall his father, pulling his broken, shattered spirit close and holding him together until he healed enough to be given to his other cousins.
He wanted to call out to his father but his weary, tattered spirit wasn’t strong enough.
He wanted to apologize for his harsh words at their last parting, to tell him that he still loved him and had loved him always. He wanted to apologize for failing him. For using his teachings for evil, for their second greatest enemy after Morgoth himself.
By the time he recovered enough to speak, his father had all but disappeared from the halls.
He spent his time healing, recovering from the wounds Anna-no, Sauron inflicted upon him. In the tapestries of the Halls, he saw his own brutal death depicted but also all that came after.
And he began to wonder.
| ANNATAR
Sauron had lost everything. His plans had failed and he had fallen.
He was nothing more now than a houseless spirit. He was not doomed to the void like his master, but instead to an eternity wandering alone without a house nor home. He would wander in his regret forever.
But his thoughts were always drawn to the one he could not have, the one he could not taint. He was drawn to the land that had once been his but was now no longer.
Valinor. Tyelpë.
His spirit, without his knowing, wandered the shore where he found a mad and half-dead Maglor Feanorian.
He regarded the fellow wanderer and the state he was in. His hair tangled and matted, his clothes tatters upon his skin, his voice cracked and broken. His once bright silver eyes glowed with an eerie light. He was rakishly thin and his hands gnarled.
He followed Maglor Feanorian for a great many days until he was found by Elrond Peredhel.
Sauron had once hated the half-elf with a vicious passion. Now, Annatar regarded the half-elf with interest as he bundled up Maglor Feanorian in a heavy cloak, fed him, and promptly led him in the direction of the Grey Havens.
He hastened to follow. He followed them across the Sundering Sea to Valinor itself where Elrond and Galadriel were welcomed gladly and those accursed hobbits who foiled him were welcomed as heroes.
And for a great many centuries he watched. Watched as Maglor healed and became Makalaurë once more.
And he began to wonder if he couldn’t become Mairon once more.
| TYELPË
Tyelpë was reembodied without fanfare, just as he wanted. He supposed he could have gone home to his grandmother’s but he chose not to. He was not yet ready to face her.
Instead, he was met by an anxious half-elf.
Elrond embraced him gladly, fed him, clothed him, and brought him to his home by the sea where he resided with his wife among a great many others.
Elrond also gave him his last remaining uncle.
Maglor, no Makalaurë, healed from all the hurts of Middle Earth and all the tainting of Morgoth. He was alive and well and whole.
Somewhere, deep in his heart, hope began to bloom. Even as he squashed it down with the same viciousness that he had cheered with in the Halls at Sauron’s final defeat.
There was no use in loving a monster that could never love him back. Especially when he had fallen in love with a lie.
Life continued on and he continued on too. He reunited with his grandmother and found himself a home in the Mansions of Aulë once more.
Aulë had taken one long look at him upon his return and led him to workbench. Old but lovingly kept ready for use despite ages of disuse. Old projects have finished and ideas were scattered along the surface.
He recognized the handwriting immediately. How could he not? How could he not when it belonged to the men who taught him how to write, how to work a forge? Two sets of handwriting littered the great many pages. Fëanor and Curufin.
One half of the workspace was clearly Fëanor’s while the other was clearly his father’s but this space had belonged to his family and it could once more.
He refused Aulë’s offer of the area in favor for a new one. His family would return someday and they would want their space back.
And then, he drowned himself in his work once more.
| MAIRON
Tyelpë was reembodied and he couldn’t stop himself from following him around. He knew that Aulë could likely sense his presence around Tyelpë but he had yet to say anything.
Instead, he continued to let Annatar follow him around like a lost puppy, eager for Tyelpë’s mere presence.
In the Mansions of Aulë once more, his hands ached for the feel of a smithing hammer in his hands once more, his body sought out the heat of the forge, for the sound of metal upon metal.
Then, one day, Aulë took Tyelpë deep in the mansion to show him something.
It made Annatar’s non-existent heart stop.
Aulë, the mentor he had once scorned, had kept Mairon’s workbench exactly as he had left it.
No, that wasn’t true. He kept it better than he had left it. The papers with scraps of ideas written on them were lovingly placed into piles the way Aulë had done for him when the world was young. The projects he had left half-finished were kept pristine as the day they were made, ready to be finished. The forge was stocked just the way he liked and his hammer and gloves and apron were hanging, ready for him to use once more.
It was like the world was still young and his younger self would walk in at any moment, ready to work and learn.
For the first time since he had left the safety of the Mansions of Aulë, he allowed himself the luxury of crying.
He wept and wept. He continued to weep even after Tyelpë and Aulë left, running ghostly fingers over his pristine workbench and crying once more.
Maybe, just maybe, there was still room for Mairon in this world of Eru’s.
And for the first time in a very long time, Mairon prayed to the One.
| TYELPË
Aulë was the one who broke the news to him.
Sauron was to be reformed after a long period away with Eru Iluvatar himself.
He would come back, not as Sauron, but as he once was, as Mairon.
A part of Tyelpë, that traitorous part of him that still loved the maiar, rejoiced at news of his return. The other part of him spat in disdain and wanted nothing to do with the other after his great many affronts to Tyelpë during the Second Age.
Aulë was kind enough to grant him leave which he used to seek out the one person he knew would not lie to him.
Unfortunately for him, Elrond was not alone, but instead with his law-mother.
Galadriel, thankfully, held no grudge over what had happened in Eregion and instead welcomed him with open arms.
The two of them assured him that Sauron would not have been allowed back if he had not truly changed for the better.
He continued to stay with Elrond anyways.
| MAIRON
If Mairon had expected to meet with Tyelpë immediately after returning to Valinor, he was greatly mistaken. For it seemed that the other was avoiding him with everything in his power.
He couldn’t even blame the other. Not after what he did to him.
No, this was what he deserved.
Their inevitable reunion came with much less fanfare than he had imagined.
He had moved back to the Mansions of Aulë and took up his spot at his workbench once more. It was there that he met the other for the second first time.
He had expected a slap, he had expected hot anger.
He had not expected cold disdain and apathy.
“Tyelpë-“ he had tried to greet the other only to be met with a snarl of “Do not call me that!”
He had lost any right to that name a long time ago.
That didn’t stop him from trying though. From trying to earn back Tyelpë’s love and affection, the very thing that saved him from perdition in the first place. The very thing that made him good again, that made him Mairon again.
Because for Tyelpë, he’d do anything.
| TYELPË
It wasn’t long before the gifts started to appear. They appeared everywhere. His workbench at the Mansions of Aulë, the forge Elrond had had built for him when he kept coming for long visits to avoid Sauron, his grandmother’s home, his own meager rooms.
Jewelry, bouquets of metal flowers scented to smell like the real thing, small mechanical animals. He knew who they were from but he didn’t say a word about them, simply collecting them with a small sigh.
Even Sauron should know that his love was not so easily bought.
Then came the notes.
They were filled with a variety of things. The first were filled with apologies and explanations. The next were filled with little messages for him asking if he’s well based off of something he noticed. Asking if he needs help on a project and some advice or a person he should ask for advice from. Just little observations that made his heart flutter.
Then came the confessions. The “I miss you”s and the “I still love you”s and the “I never stopped loving you”s. Even if he kept the first ones, he always ripped up and threw out the latter. They didn’t come often, interspaced with the ones with observations, but they came all the same.
He didn’t know what to do. He loved Annatar still and he knew it. But how does one love a monster? One that tortured and killed him no less?
Then, one day, another confession came.
“I will always love you, even if you hate me forever”
He kept the note with all the rest.
Shortly after he began to notice Suaron’s presence around him more and more often.
Then he approached him with an offer of collaboration on a project. When Tyelpë didn’t turn him away, he lit up brighter than the sun.
Working with the reborn Sauron was the same and different in so many ways that he didn’t even notice when the other fell back into the habit of calling him Tyelpë. He didn’t even notice when they fell back into the habit of casual touches and lingering glances.
He didn’t even notice when he began calling the maiar Annatar once more, then Mairon.
Then he began fallowing Tyelpë around like a lost puppy, anxious for the scraps of Tyelpë’s affection.
And if Tyelpë sometimes gave it to him, no one had to know.
Then came the note.
“I love you. I always have and always will. Even if you hate me forever. Even if I have to spend an eternity making up for all my wrongs just to be with you for a single day.”
Tyelpë broke.
Was it his wisest decision to pull the once most hated maiar in all Middle Earth into a kiss? Probably not. Was it his wisest decision to ask him for a relationship, a proper one this time? Who knows.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
|TA 1049
She was floating in space. No, she wasn’t. She was laying in a bed. A large comfortable bed.
Who was she? She couldn’t remember.
She loved someone. That much she knew. A man, no, an elf, with brilliant, golden hair.
Memories. Broken and fragmented, floated around her brain, haunting her.
|YT 1399
She was just an elfling at age 35 when they first met. She first noticed him for his brilliant golden hair. He was the most handsome ellon she had ever seen. The two made eye contact with each other and he gave her a brilliant smile before turning to continue his conversation with the other adult eldar.
Even though she was still just a child and he was already nearing his 1000th begetting day, she knew that there was no other for her. For eldar only experience love once.
|FA 24
It was summer and the market was filled with voices and laughter. With a basket in one hand, she walked alongside two other ellith, one with long black hair kept in a simple braid and another with golden hair kept in a more elaborate hairstyle.
“Look,” the elleth with black hair paused, pointing to a figure with brilliant golden hair, “He grows more handsome with every day that passes.”
The figure she had been pointing to was tall and strong, clad in the armour of a warrior with a sword strapped to his hip. His golden hair was braided in the way of warriors and his blue eyes shone bright with the light of the Two Trees. The single glance at him caused her heart to ache.
“He may be handsome, but he is far above any of us,” the other elleth remarked, “He has decades on us, at the very least for he shines with the light of the Two Trees.”
“But Laurelotë has seen the two trees, she shines with their light,” the first elleth responded with a sigh, “If only I had been able to see them.”
Laurelotë. Yes, that was her name.
“Hush,” she scolded her two companions, “It matters not. None of us would be able to court him anyways for he is courting another.”
The elleth with black hair scowled, “He’s too good for her. I don’t know what he sees in that we-”
“Do not speak ill of her. She is above all of our stations,” she cut off her friend before she could continue, “So long as he is courting the one he wants to be with.”
A stab of sadness and longing as she spoke but she knew that she could not control him.
Her companions, chastened, hastened to continue on with their shopping.
|FA 83
It was winter. The liveliness of the market had died down as the cold had settled in. But there she was, strolling the market with her two friends once more, this time clad in a heavy cloak.
“Look, there he is again,” her black haired friend pointed to the same figure as before. Now, his armour was replaced with a much simpler tunic and trousers with a heavy cloak overtop. But, as he turned, she could see his sword was still strapped to his side. The pain was still there when looking at him, but it had lessened with the flow of time.
“I wonder where he has been, he disappears for months at a time along with most of the men around here,” her friend wondered aloud.
“Hush, Elanor. It is none of our concern. We should continue to work hard as we have in the past,” her other friend scolded, “What he does with his time is his own business.”
They continued on.
|FA 116
The golden-haired ellon was in front of her, his hands gently holding one of hers.
“Laurelotë, if I told you that there is a place that we could live in peace, would you follow me there?” he asked her, his blue eyes shining with emotion. Up close, he was even more handsome. His jaw was strong, but not overly so, his face made for smiling.
“What of Meril?” she asked him, “You two have been courting for nearly a century now, that is a long time, even by our standards.”
His face turned pained, “My father wished for me to give her a chance, to let her court me. But I have no intention of accepting the courtship. You know that, Laurelotë. How could I when my heart belongs to you?”
“Things can change in the course of a century,” she responded.
“Things can change. But not the heart of an eldar. You know that as well as I do,” he moved a hand to cup her face, “Or you would have found someone to court you.”
The two of them shared a chaste kiss, stolen in the darkness of an alley. For all their love, he was still courting another and she was still a maiden.
“For you, I would go anywhere.”
|FA 117
“My Lord,” she bowed in front of the golden haired ellon.
“Please,” he held a hand up to stop her from continuing her bow, “Do not bow to me ever again.”
She straightened back up, suppressing a smile.
“Have you chosen a name for your house, My Lord?” she asked, strolling beside him in a white city.
“Yes,” he turned to her, “But for you, it is a surprise.”
She gaped at him.
It wasn’t until three days later when the banners arrived with a crest of a golden flower that he told her.
He was the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.
|FA 218
“So this is the Laurelotë that Laurefindele speaks so fondly of,” a dark-haired ellon smirked, glancing at her.
Laurefindele. That was the golden-haired ellon’s name. Laurefindele, her beloved Laurfindele.
She had been walking with him when they had run into the dark-haired ellon.
“Well met Lord Ecthelion,” she greeted with a polite bow.
“Please, you are a friend of Laurefindele. There is no need for you to bow to me,” he waved off the formalities.
She gave him a smile.
“I have heard much about you, and might I just say that the stories Laurefindele tells about you do you no justice,” he smiled at her.
“Oh really?” she raised an eyebrow, glancing teasingly up at her golden-haired companion.
“We thought he had been exaggerating in his tales of your beauty,” he told her, a spark of mischief in his eyes, “But it seems that he’d been understating it.”
“Hey! Keep your sticky paws off of her!” her golden haired companion moved to hit his friend while she laughed and laughed and laughed at their antics.
|FA 224
“If I didn’t know better, I’d start to suspect that you like getting hurt,” the golden-haired ellon teased from beside her bed in the House of Healing.
“I am injured,” she looked at him indigently,” If you are here to tease or scold, save that for when I am no longer injured.”
“You say that every time you are here, my love,” he grinned at her, “I think that you may not be the best suited for the life of a warrior.’
“That’s why I have you to protect me,” she smiled back.
“That’s why you have me,” his grin softened with the weight of his fondness.
|FA 510
Her beautiful white city was under siege. Smoke and fire rose and ashes fell.
She was screaming her lover’s name. Searching for her, running through the streets. Bodies slammed into her, keeping her from him.
One word coming from the mouths of those fleeing, balrog.
She continued to run towards him anyway.
The King’s Square was ruined. The gardens were burning with dragon fire. Statues were fallen and broken beyond repair. And the King’s Fountain was cracked. In the dirtied, bloodied water, she could see the corpse of a balrog and, sinking to the bottom, the body of Ecthelion.
Disregarding the danger, she dove into the king’s fountain, grabbing her dagger from her robes. She dove deeper and deeper until she reached him, cutting off his beloved armour, grabbing his body and dragging him up.
“Ecthelion, my friend, please,” she panted, dragging him out of the fountain.
He coughed, ridding his lungs from water.
“Thank the Valar you breathe,” she cried out as he regained consciousness.
“Laurelotë,” he breathed out, upon recognizing her face.
“Ecthelion,” she smiled, grabbing his arm and slinging it over her shoulder, helping him to his feet, “Quickly, we must go.”
“No,” he gripped her arm, “Laurefindele, he’s battling another balrog by himself. You must help him.”
Alone, she made her way to Cirith Thoronath, finding him battling a balrog alone at the edge of a cliff.
“LEAVE HIM ALONE,” she cried out, picking up the bow of one of her fallen kin, notching an arrow and shooting at the creature.
“Laurelotë! RUN!,” he yelled, using the momentary distraction to stab the balrog, piercing its stomach.
The balrog let out a mighty roar, falling off the cliff, it’s whip still flowing in the air. Her golden haired lover turned to come to her.
“LOOK OUT!” she called out, but it was too late. The whip caught her lover by his hair, and he too fell.
“NO!” she screamed, running, sprinting, to the cliff’s edge where he fell but he was gone.
The rest was a blur. She could remember screaming, she could remember crying. Fire burning around her, dragons in the sky raining hell from above, orcs in her beautiful city, and her, crying and alone at the edge of a cliff.
But she knew one thing. She had died. She had never left Gondolin that day.
As her city fell, so did she.
|TA 1050
She awoke to the sun shining on her face. She struggled to remember but everything came to her in bits and pieces. But she did remember some things. Manwe, placing her fea into a body. Not her old body, no, that one was too broken. A new body, the same as her old but new. And her golden-haired lover. The Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.
She took stock of her body first, wriggling her fingers and toes, slightly moving her legs and arms. No pain and everything was working. Good.
She opened her eyes, blinking at the wooden ceiling above her. So different from the white stone that she had awoken to each morning at Gondolin.
Sitting up, she found herself in a completely unfamiliar room dressed in a simple gown of pale silk.
She stood from the bed, finding a pair of shoes laid out on the floor, presumably for her.
She slipped her feet into them, making her way to the door. Once out in a long, open hallway, she paused. In the distance she could hear the sounds of sparring from one direction, in the other she could hear a vaguely familiar voice arguing with another.
She decided to take her chances with the arguing voices. At the very least, there wouldn’t be any accidents with weapons that way. She smiled fondly to herself, remembering how much time the two of them spent in the House of Healing together from different accidents. Most of which came from her love trying to teach her how to wield a weapon other than a bow.
She followed the sound of voices until they formed words instead of simple voices.
“I simply ask that you see her,” the unfamiliar voice said, “She comes from your city and she bears a resemblance to the one you miss most. Perhaps it is her, perhaps it is another. But only you can verify her identity.”
“I loved her,” another voice responded. A beloved voice. A beloved voice that sounded broken beyond repair. “I loved her with everything I had. Without her, I am a husk. I am a mere vessel. I am here for the purpose the Valar sent me for, but once that purpose is fulfilled, I will sail. I can’t stand to get my hopes up when everyday I hear the whisper of her voice in my ear, the ghost of her touch on my skin. I dream of her, Elrond! She haunts my every breath, every beat of my heart. I may be the only one here who can verify her identity but the Lady Galadriel can just as well. I cannot stand to see her if she isn’t my love, my golden flower.”
She waited from around the corner, not wanting to interrupt the conversation just yet.
“My friend,” the first voice lowered and softened, “I understand your pain. And I would not tell you if I thought that it was a lie. But the Valar work in mysterious ways and we need you to verify her. These are dangerous times we live in my friend.”
“Laurefindele, visit her just once and then you never have to visit her again if you wish it,” the first voice said, then there was the sound of a chair being pushed in.
She couldn’t wait any longer. She rounded the corner.
There he was. Her golden-haired ellon. Her Laurefindele. Looking out a window.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
They traveled down the Esgalduin for four straight days. The first day was spent in a terrified silence. Everyone was too afraid to make a sound lest their enemies hear them and discover their presence.
The second day Lúthien sang a lament for her fallen father. She was joined first by Daeron but then by the rest of their people. It was a long song, full of pain and sadness, singing of the deeds Thingol did for his people.
That broke the spell of silence among their people who spoke to one another in hushed tones. Among himself, Turgon, and Galadriel, there wasn’t much said.
They fished for food in the water, seeking to ration the rest of their supplies for as long as possible. They would eventually reach the Falls of Sirion and have to cross over the Gates of Sirion once they reached there.
Eventually the Esgalduin ran into the Mindeb. The spell of silence struck once more as they weren’t sure if Morgoth would send orcs from Dorthonion to pursue them.
They sailed that way for another three days. It was deathly quiet, the silence only broken as they fished for food in the water. Then, they reached the Fens of Sirion.
It was once they reached the Fens, that they began to row. The days were long and tiring as they progressed through the Fens but they eventually reached the Falls of Sirion.
Galadriel took charge once they arrived and for ten days they marched across the Gates of Sirion, carrying their boats and supplies with them.
They lost a man on the first day of their march.
On the third, two went to sleep and didn’t wake up.
On the fourth, one fell to their death.
They lost twenty men in their crossing.
Then they made it to the River Sirion.
Galadriel and Turgon quite promptly kicked him from their boat, sending him onto a boat with his brothers instead where they wouldn’t have to deal with any of them.
It took another week of sailing before they reached the Mouths of Sirion.
It was there that he was able to reunite with his King.
“Maitimo!” Fingon cried gladly, embracing him when they reunited a little ways away from the Mouths of Sirion. He looked much better than he had since the battle. He looked healthier, happier.
“Findo,” Maedhros smiled, some of the weight on his shoulders dropping.
“Your plan worked!” Fingon’s happiness was exuberant, “Turgon and even Galadriel made it! So did Orodreth! Everyone made it!”
“Findo,” Maedhros repeated, his smile fading some, “Findo, you might want to sit down.”
“Why?” Fingon asked, doing as he suggested.
Maedhros took in a deep breath, “Thingol did not make it.”
Fingon’s face fell. “He didn’t?”
Maedhros shook his head, “He died giving us all the chance to escape.”
“Oh.”
Maedhros frowned seeing the smile fall off Fingon’s face.
“Why don’t you give us a tour of the settlement you’ve created thus far?” Maedhros suggested.
His distraction worked as planned as Fingon began to chatter, repositioning his crutches so that he could gesture as they went.
Cirdan and the survivors of the Falas had been there for weeks by the time that Fingon had arrived and they began expanding the small settlement to make room for more people.
“He calls it the Havens of Sirion,” Fingon explained to him, “But we’re planning on moving the entire thing to the Isle of Balar in the future. It’ll be easier to hide us there.”
Maedhros nodded along, happy to see Fingon doing better.
“Cirdan also has a person who calls himself a mind healer! He helps heal your mental hurts!” Fingon told him excitedly, “I’ve been seeing him and he really helps.”
The days after that blurred as they stayed within the Havens of Sirion. At first they mostly worried about the construction of temporary shelters for everyone and the healing of the injured.
Once they had enough temporary shelters, Cirdan began the process of moving everyone over to the Isle of Balar.
The process was a slow one as they had to get supplies from where they could to construct permanent structures on the Isle.
At first those on the Isle lived in temporary shelters as they constructed the first permanent ones for themselves to live in.
Then, as the months went on, they were able to construct more. They had schools for children, a building for healers. They had homes for their people and they had farms to feed them.
Then, a little more than a year after their battle with Morgoth and after they had all settled on the Isle, Cirdan began the construction of ships.
The ships he built were vessels of the sea, meant for the long journey to Valinor.
A number of the elves of Doriath boarded those ships in the hopes of sailing to Valinor where they would be safe. A number of the Ñoldor and the Vanyar also sought a place on those ships, hoping to return home.
They never heard from those ships again.
The fate of those ships was unknown. Some hoped that they actually made it to Valinor, that they were able to plead their case with the Valar. Others thought the ships were lost at sea, never to be seen again.
Life continued on.
Maedhros found himself the caretaker of Túrin, the son of Húrin, and Tuor, the son of Huor.
Tuor, being a baby, wasn’t much trouble. He just had to carry him around and feed him and burb him and change him as needed. When he wanted to play, he would play. When he wanted to sleep, he would sleep.
Túrin, on the other hand, proved to be a menace and a troublemaker. He only obeyed one person and that was only when he wanted to. Beleg, the singular person Túrin would sometimes listen to, was also the boy’s favorite person in the entire world. The young boy looked at Beleg like he hung the stars in the sky and declared him the ‘prettiest elf’ (Mablung, on the other hand, terrified Túrin which made for a great many hilarious occasions where Túrin would be caught between elation at seeing his elf and fear because Mablung and Beleg were glued at the hip).
They were soon joined by Ereinion and then Fingon.
If he tried hard enough, he could almost imagine that things were alright. The oath wasn’t a terrible band on his heart and he and Fingon were still in Valinor, caring for the children of their many siblings.
It wasn’t true but Maedhros found himself wishing it was.
The days were peaceful enough and Morgoth had not yet found their presence on the small island.
As time went on, though, they were joined by refugees from other settlements, seeking shelter from Morgoth’s wrath. Their own settlement grew and shrank as more people came and more people left for Valinor.
Then Celegorm boarded a ship. He didn’t say anything but Maedhros knew him well enough that he didn’t need to. He was sailing, not to return home, but in yet another attempt to regain Oromë’s favor. In yet another attempt to prove himself once more. He was going to ensure the ship reached Valinor.
It would be a very long time before he’d see his brother again.
Then, three years after their battle with Morgoth, three years after the Fall of Doriath, the ships arrived.
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A cheer rose up among his people as the dragon fell and the orcs faltered but they had not won yet.
The orcs rallied quickly enough, coming back with a vengeance.
Then the battle song began.
Three voices rose in harmony, powerful and chilling to the bone. The earth began to shake underneath their feet, the orcs falling to their knees at the sound of the song. Some of the orcs turned and fled at the sound of the song and the balrogs cried out in rage and challenge.
The song rose in power and volume, its range extending even further. It continued to rise in power until even the balrogs could not withstand its power.
“Now!” he commanded as his own troops rallied, taking advantage of the temporary state their enemies found themselves in.
Arrows launched, findinging their marks within the skulls of orcs. Spears and lances pierced balrogs until there were no more.
More orcs flooded the battlefield, taking the places of their fallen comrades. They were an endless wave, advancing towards them with the goal of their death.
His troops were beginning to tire but they had taken out the largest threats. The balrogs were no more on the field and they had slain the dragon. If they could just hold for a while longer.
The song began to die down and the cavalry broke through. Celegorm led them with a wild look of elation on his face, his lance streaked with the blood of his enemies. He looked fey and dangerous upon his horse as he attacked with a special kind of viciousness.
They were holding. They would hold, they had too.
‘The majority have been evacuated,’ Galadriel’s voice rang inside his mind alongside the minds of the other commanders on the field.
‘Good,’ he thought to himself. Even if they were holding now, they wouldn’t be able to hold it much longer if they still hoped to escape.
That was when the second dragon arrived.
Larger than the first with scales dark as night, this dragon must have been the destroyer of Gondolin. Ancalagon Idril had called it, Ancalagon the Black. The dragon was monstrous, spikes adorning his tail and spine, his teeth as sharp as their sharpest spears. Ancalagon made the first dragon look like a mouse compared to a horse.
Ancalagon landed among the orcs and breathed out an arc of fire into the sky, daring anyone to challenge him.
“Retreat!” he called out to his troops.
He could distantly hear Turgon, Thingol, and Celegorm echoing the cry as their troops turned and fled the field.
He continued to fight, even as he was pushed back until he fell in at the rear of the retreat alongside Turgon and Thingol.
“We can’t take that thing on,” Turgon breathed out, gasping for breath, “It’s too big.”
“No, we can’t,” Thingol agreed, “It’s time to bring this fight home.”
They nodded in agreement, joining the retreat.
Turgon used his spear for medium range while Thingol used his bow for longer range targets. Any orcs that came too close tasted the metal of his sword.
They continued to retreat, fighting the orcs as they went, attempting to slow the orcs until they were backed into the entrance of Menegroth and fighting to keep the orcs at bay.
“We need to buy a couple more minutes,” Turgon said, “Give the majority the chance to live.”
Thingol nodded in agreement, exchanging his bow for his sword. They fell upon the orcs in a fury, taking out as many as possible before they entered Menegroth, barring the doors behind them.
The doors wouldn’t hold long, but they would hold long enough.
They turned and ran, disappearing into one of the many halls of Menegroth.
Not all of the warriors were familiar with Menegroth’s immense cave system but they were more familiar with it than the orcs seeing it for the first time. And not everyone took the same path to their destination.
They followed Thingol through the immense cave system. The sound of the doors falling echoed from behind them. As they ran, they could hear the sounds of orcs in pursuit.
‘Now,’ he thought to Galadriel.
Immediately several of the traps they had rigged began to detonate in the entrance hall.
He could hear the sounds of orcs in pain as the traps sprung, even as they made their way through the cave system.
Maedhros smirked to himself mentally.
They quickly made their way to the rendezvous point where their people were quickly boarding boats and setting sail.
“The majority have made it,” Melian informed them, “We did it.”
They allowed themself one small moment to bask in their success as their people quickly evacuated.
Within minutes only himself, Turgon, Thingol, Melian, and Galadriel remained.
“Quickly, get into the boat,” Melian said, “I can hold them off for but a moment to allow you to escape.”
“Lúthien?” Thingol asked.
“Already gone,” Melian answered, “Now go.”
“Not without you.”
Melian turned and nodded to Galadriel who brought Turgon and himself into one of the remaining boats and expertly undocked them.
“I’ll see you in Valinor,” she said to Melian. A promise.
Melian nodded as orcs finally reached them, bursting through the doors and rushing into the grotto.
“Go!” Melian commanded. A small wave of power pushing them out of Menegroth and allowing them to join the boats floating along the Esgalduin.
Once they were safely away, the city began to collapse.
He could hear the cries of the thousands of orcs trapped inside as the entire structure caved in on them.
One final wave of power rushed over them, pushing them further downstream.
He knew then what happened.
Elu Thingol was dead.
He died a hero, allowing thousands to escape to safety. He died an honorable death in battle.
And Melian was leaving these shores. She was going to Valinor, where she might even plead for aid on their behalf to the Valar.
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Four more days passed in peace before they received a messenger from Cirdan of the Falas.
“The Falas have been destroyed. Morgoth has attacked, Doriath is the last elven stronghold in Beleriand. Ereinion is safe and with me. We have escaped to the Bay of Balar,” Thingol read aloud.
Orodreth cursed while Fingon bowed his head in respect for the fallen.
Maedhros stood, placing his hand on Fingon’s shoulder as he did so, “Morgoth will strike her next.”
“Indeed,” Thingol agreed, “With all other elven strongholds destroyed, the only one remaining is here. We will be Morgoth’s final target. It is only a matter of time.”
“Morgoth would not dare,” Lúthien spoke, “That would mean starting a war with the Valar themselves.”
“Morgoth is stronger than the Valar and has new corruptions on his side this time,” Melian spoke, “And now that he has the Eldar out of his way, he feels that he is now capable of winning against the Valar.”
Maedhros was, in part, grateful that Melian had chosen to explain to Lúthien rather than him having to be the one to explain it to her. There was a high probability that she would have simply chosen to murder him instead.
“And so Morgoth plans to use an attack on Doriath as a means of wiping out the elves of Beleriand while declaring war on the Valar?” Lúthien asked.
“Indeed,” Melian nodded gravely.
“Then we should strike against Morgoth first,” Lúthien spoke.
“It is not that easy,” Thingol told his daughter, “It is true that you and your mother are powerful, but even the two of you cannot hope to defeat Morgoth. Even still, Morgoth has an army of orcs on his side along with balrogs and two dragons that we know of.”
Lúthien frowned to herself but kept quiet afterwards.
As much as he hated to admit it, both Lúthien and Melian’s power was immense. There was a reason why Morgoth chose not to confront them until now. And both Melian and Lúthien could deal a devastating blow to Morgoth, especially with a full elven army on their side. Morgoth had been smart to bide his time, picking them off slowly.
“We must be prepared,” Maedhros finally spoke, “We need an evacuation route for the civilians. Supplies should be prepared and we need a plan to hold Morgoth and his army at bay until we have evacuated the majority of our people.”
“Aye. There is also good news from the smiths,” Dulgin spoke, “We have finished a set of arrows made of the black metal Cirdan sent us. It should be enough to kill a dragon.”
“Then we can still deal a blow to Morgoth while we retreat,” Fingon contemplated.
After that, they began to prepare for the inevitable battle against Morgoth. And then they waited. They sent as many of their non warriors as possible ahead as possible. The less casualties on their side, the better. They sent the wounded and the children first, Fingon and Caranthir among them, with a handful of able-bodied people.
Their goodbye was a tearful one, one of dread and hope.
“Be careful cousin,” Fingon whispered to him before he left, “Know that my thoughts will be of you until we meet again.”
“And mine of you,” Maedhros whispered in return.
To Caranthir he said, “Take care of yourself and take care of Fingon.” What he did not say was how much he would miss his brother and how much he worried over their safety. What he did not say was to be aware that Fingon had not been the same since his fight with Gothmog, since he lost a hand and a leg. He did not say that Fingon had trouble sleeping and could no longer be left alone with any weapons.
He sent them off anyway.
Then, on the fifty-sixth day since their first battle, they came. They were waiting for him outside of Menegroth, hoping to delay the inevitable long enough to allow their people a chance of escape.
“Archers, at my command!” Thingol’s voice rose above all others as the army approached.
Their combined archers notched their arrows as others began to set them aflame.
The army drew closer.
“Lease!”
The arrows flew with deadly accuracy, taking down hundreds of orcs.
After that, arrows flew across the sky without pause.
“Formation!” he called out to his own warriors on the front lines, their shields rising above the ground.
The army drew ever closer.
“Now!” he commanded, their shields pounding in unison upon the ground, releasing a shockwave against the first wave of orcs.
“Ready shields!” he ordered, their shields forming a barrier between them and the second wave of orcs approaching.
“Spears!”
Thousands of spears appeared above the shields, ready to kill any that got in range.
He could hear Celegorm in the distance, readying their combined cavalries. Maglor was even more distant, preparing his battle song with Lúthien and Daeron. The Ambarussa had joined the archers and Curufin was preparing to take down the dragon.
Then the orcs descended upon them. It was a bloodbath from the very start. The orcs fell onto shields and spears, his troops doing their best to hold strong.
They wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever, but they could keep it up long enough.
He could hear the roar of balrogs in the distance, could hear the flap of the wings of a dragon.
They broke through the second wave of orcs but the third brought a balrog with them. He fought against the balrog, ignoring his own trauma at their hands from his time in Thangorodrim. Its fiery whip threatened to take him but he dodged at last second, the heat only millimeters away from his skin.
He rolled away, finding a spear on the ground. He grabbed it and charged.
He stabbed the spear through the balrog’s stomach and up until it broke free through its mouth, the weapon beginning to melt from the heat.
Then the dragon arrived, breathing fire down upon them. His men screamed as they burned alive, as their armor melted with them inside.
The dragon laughed as it landed in front of him, its head lifted as he gloated. And there, on the underside of his neck, a scale was missing.
“Little elf,” it spoke to him, “I am Nostir, second of the winged fire-drakes.”
With one fell swoop of its tail, nearly a dozen men were swept aside.
“And I will be your doom, child of fire. You who were born of fire shall die that way too.”
Then it was flapping its wings once more, ready to take flight.
A single arrow flew through the air towards the dragon.
It was black and shone strangely in the light.
Its aim was true.
It landed right where there was a chink in the dragon’s armor. It fell upon hundreds of orcs, breathing fire upon them as it choked on its own blood.
The dragon was dead at the hands of Húrin Thalion.
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Menegroth was a maze. After his sixth time getting lost within the vast cave system, he had mostly given up on navigating it, instead choosing to find one of the Doriathrim to guide him where he needed to be.
The tall ceilings made the cave system seem larger and more airy than it truly was and easing the feeling of claustrophobia that was creeping up on some of the men. It was a truly beautiful series but the layout left much to be desired. Though, from a tactical standpoint, it did give the residents an advantage.
His brothers had all, miraculously, made it to Menegroth. Caranthir, who was still healing, had even more miraculously made it the entire journey despite his leg injury. Maglor was relatively unharmed, just tired and in need of rest after managing their brothers and their people. The Ambarussa were unharmed as well as Celegorm and Curufin. It cannot be said that they all stayed that way though.
They had entered Menegroth with very little fanfare, mostly concerned with getting everyone inside the safety of the kingdom and within the Girdle of Melian.
Once inside, the leaders were greeted by Melian herself accompanied by Beren and Lúthien as well as the loremaster Daeron and both Galadriel and Celeborn.
Once the formal introductions had finished, Galadriel had greeted Turgon and Orodreth gladly. She took happiness from being able to introduce at least part of the family to her husband and took charge of their people’s stay in Menegroth. Daeron had enthusiastically greeted Maglor and had almost immediately dragged him off to work on a composition that he had been having trouble with.
Beren and Lúthien were a different story. They had greeted Thingol gladly enough, albeit a little awkwardly. It seemed that some old hurts between father and daughter from the Silmaril Quest had not been healed. They then regarded Celegorm and Curufin with ire and distrust.
Maedhros felt a migraine coming.
“What are they doing here?” Lúthien demanded of her father, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his miscreant brothers.
“We needed refuge from the forces of Morgoth, we came here to recover and regroup,” Thingol replied, “They are part of the army.”
Lúthien looked positively murderous. Her aura growing darker.
“They have already been stripped of titles and they have agreed to a punishment of banishment once the war is over should they survive,” Thingol attempted to pacify his daughter.
Lúthien did not look pacified. Instead, she looked even more murderous if that was even possible. Somehow her appearance grew almost eerie, appearing more Ainur than elven.
“That is not punishment enough for what they did to me,” Lúthien all but snarled.
“Lighter punishment was among the terms I settled with your father in exchange for a lack of retaliation against Doriath by the Ñoldor for the crimes of your kinsman Eöl against Princess Aredhel of the Ñoldor,” Maedhros interjected.
Lúthien’s aura grew even darker as she turned to him with a snarl on her face, “And what did my kinsman do to yours that lessens my own treatment at the hands of those orcs.”
“For the sake of peace, I will pretend that you did not insult my brothers to my face,” Maedhros graciously allowed.
Lúthien’s ears twitched in annoyance but she took a moment to collect herself, “What did my kinsman do to Aredhel that warrants such a retribution?”
“Eöl kidnapped her, married her against her will, impregnated her, and then murdered her,” Thingol recited monotonously.
Lúthien looked taken aback, then murderous.
“Fine,” she spat out, “I accept that punishment.”
She then began marching over to where Celegorm and Curufin stood, watching their exchange.
She brought her hand back and struck Celegorm across the face. The slap rang out, echoing the caverns of Menegroth.
Conversation stopped, people turning to look at them. Celegorm lifted a hand to his cheek where a bright red handprint was forming.
She turned around and did the same to Curufin.
“Be grateful I don’t do more to kinslayer,” she spat out, marching away, Beren at her heels.
“Well, that could have been worse,” Maglor mused, Daeron next to him, muffling a laugh.
After seven days of rest and healing, they were all, finally, for the most part, healed.
Healed enough to call for meetings at least.
The meetings were long and they rarely made any progress. Turgon and Thingol urged them to call upon the Valar for aid. Orodreth continued to insist on traveling to Nargothrond. The men simply wanted more time to recover, as their people heal much slower than elves. He rationally pointed out that even if they called upon the Valar for aid, there was no guarantee that they’d offer it. Especially as he and Fingon had earned their ire before.
Then, on the forty-second day since that first fateful battle, refugees from Nargothrond came, led by Gildor Inglorion. Out of the vast population of Nargothrond, only three thousand of those who stayed survived.
“The dragon came and we fled,” Gildor told them, “The orcs we could handle, the balrogs we could slay. But then the dragon came, blocking us from the gates forcing us to flee elsewhere. We were but fish in a barrel.”
His once long, golden hair had been singed and burnt off for the most part, curling about his shoulders. Evidence of his fight against the dragon Maedhros presumed.
“Finduilas was leading us, but then she took on the dragon as a distraction for our escape. I managed to rescue her but I’m not sure if she’ll make it. We couldn’t do much for her on the journey here.”
He looked up after a moment, his eyes slightly haunted, “It spoke to me.”
“Who spoke to you?” Thingol asked, leaning forward.
“The dragon.”
They all exchanged alarmed looks with one another, “The dragon spoke to you?”
“Nostir it called itself, the second of the winged dragons. It told me it saw into my future and it saw fire and death.”
That did not bode well.
“Its eyes, too,” Gildor added after a moment, “They were almost hypnotizing. It was like I couldn’t look away from them.”
That really did not bode well.
“But I did manage to get one good hit in,” Gildor spoke after a moment.
“Finduilas loosened a scale on the dragon’s underbelly. I managed to remove it. It has a weak spot,” Gildor looked up at them, “It has a weak spot.”
“You did good work,” Orodreth patted Gildor’s shoulder, “And you did everything that you could. If my daughter dies, it isn’t your fault. You did your best.”
“We could have stopped longer in Bar Erib,” Gildor said miserably, “But I didn’t know if we were being pursued so I didn’t risk it.”
“That’s okay,” Orodreth consoled, “I think that’s enough for today.”
“I agree,” Thingol said, “We should take care of our newcomers and continue our conversations tomorrow.”
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They never got the chance to put the plan into action.
On the sixteenth day, they sent a scouting party to Angband to observe and report.
The party didn’t even make it to Angband before they returned.
“Morgoth, he has a dragon and an army of orcs, marching on us at this very moment!” one of the scouts reported, breathless.
“Raise the alarm!” he called out, others taking up the call.
“How many?” he asked the scout.
“How many?” he gasped out.
“How many dragons?”
“One,” the scout answered, “Just one.”
“Good,” Maedhros said, mostly to himself, “Good. Now go!”
They were not ready. Their men were prepared for battle physically but not mentally or emotionally.
But that didn’t matter. They’d have to fight.
“We’re going to have to retreat,” Maglor spoke to him in hushed tones, “We aren’t prepared to fight against a dragon.”
“We’re not,” Maedhros agreed, “But we’re going to have to be.”
Morgoth’s troops came quickly and without their scouts’ warning, they would have been overrun. Nonetheless, they stood and fought. Their blades were soon stained black with the blood of orcs.
The wave of orcs was seemingly unending. Stab, slash, dodge, stab, dodge, slash, slash, dodge. An endless loop of violence.
The dragon had not yet appeared but it was only a matter of time before it arrived.
He continued to fight, a stream of black blood growing on the ground, the bodies of orcs and men and elves and dwarves appearing as obstacles as time went on.
Maglor and his cavalry rode on, taking out hundreds of orcs. Doriath’s archers shot with a terrible accuracy, taking out the back of the army. The dwarves of Belegost fought with a fierceness left unparalleled, their axes sharp and eyes sharper. The men fought with a fire he had only seen once before in Fëanor himself.
It wouldn’t be enough.
The dragon came, raining fire from above, uncaring of friend or foe with its deadly fire.
‘Please. Just a little rain,’ he all but prayed.
It was no use.
“Retreat!” he called, his remaining men and women taking up the call.
There weren’t many places they could go. They chose Dorthonion because it would bottleneck Morgoth’s forces. Now they were the ones bottlenecked.
In the heat of the retreat, he found Thingol and Turgon, fighting side by side.
“We need to retreat!” Turgon called to him, “We cannot hold the line!”
“I have already started the cry,” he responded, “Where are we retreating to? We’re bottlenecked here.”
“Make for the Pass,” Thingol called out in turn, “We can take the rivers to Doriath! Melian can protect us!”
Melian wouldn’t be able to protect them forever. Even she was not strong enough for that. But she could delay Morgoth long enough for them to regroup.
“Retreat!” Turgon began the cry among his own people, Thingol following suit.
“Go to the front,” Maedhros ordered them, “I’ll take the rear.”
The two began to lead the retreat. He stood strong, holding the line and giving the others an opportunity to leave before he himself began to move back.
It was a long retreat, making their way to the Pass of Anach. The dragon flew above them, raining fire down on them, but the majority survived. For two days they fought their way back, taking rounds on the rear. Unable to bury their dead. Unable to burn them.
He saw men and women fall, unable to walk any longer. He saw men and women fall from wounds that could be healed, but they were unable to recover them in time.
Then, once they reached the pass, the orcs just stopped. They just stopped their pursuit with a loud cry of victory. They paused for a moment, staring unbelieving at the sight. Their cry was deafening and frightening.
“Go, we must go,” he urged the men surrounding him.
The journey through the pass took another two days, slower without the hot pursuit of the forces of Morgoth on their heels. They tended to the injured that survived, took stock of all their remaining supplies, and began the process of building boats.
Then they reached the River Mindeb.
“We need to build even more boats,” Thingol urged, “We can travel by water, making the journey faster until we reach where the Esgalduin drains into the Mindeb.”
“And what, go to Doriath?” Orodreth scorned, “Nay, I refuse. We should travel West, to Nargothrond or the Falas.”
“No,” an injured Huor interjected, “Doriath would be safer. We would be under the protection of Melian. We could rest, recover, and regroup before making our next move.”
“I agree,” Fingon stated after much debate, “We know Doriath to be safe for now. Melian can protect us while we regroup. We need to recover and rest as well. We have too many injured. For all we know, Nargothrond is no longer safe.”
“How do we know that Doriath is?” Orodreth asked.
“Doriath’s safety is derived from Melian, a maia, one aligned with the Valar no less. Morgoth is not yet provoking war with the Valar. Nargothrond’s safety is derived from secrecy, one that is not confirmed,” Maedhros interjected, “Gondolin’s safety was also derived from secrecy. Morgoth still found them.”
Orodreth’s eyebrows furrowed, “Then we must at least send word to our remaining people, tell them where they can find refuge should they also be attacked.”
“Aye,” Dulgin nodded, “We should also send word to our allies. That Cirdan fellow should be informed among our other allies.”
After that, they were in for a long journey to Doriath. The first day was spent building rafts, not the strongest but enough to get them where they needed to be.
It took them four whole days to get enough rafts for their people. All four days were spent caring for the wounded and letting them rest while every bodied person either hunted for food or helped build the rafts.
Then they set sail.
They sailed for three straight days, taking turns sleeping and catching fish from the river itself to eat.
Then they arrived at the mouth of the Esgalduin. They reused the boats to act as sleds, using them to carry the wounded to make better time. Then they followed Esgalduin.
For five days they traveled. Thingol and his people surrounding them like a wall, keeping them on the path.
The protections of Doriath made them confused and disoriented. Dizzy and unable to remember where they were going.
Then, on the sixth day, they saw the lights of Menegroth.
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Two days after that fateful conversation with Thingol and eight days after their battle with Morgoth, Caranthir awoke. According to Maglor, upon Caranthir’s awakening, the first thing he did was curse Ulfang and his sons before falling right back asleep.
At the very least, his brother was no longer on the brink of death and Maedhros’ headache lessened slightly.
The two days since they drove back the orcs from their camp were quiet. A little too quiet but they had no way of knowing what Morgoth was planning.
The arrival of the troops of Nargothrond and Doriath boosted morale though, and many were eager to send Morgoth to the Void.
They planned another assault upon Angband. With the addition of Doriath and Nargothrond’s troops, they had plenty of physical power to use against Morgoth. But if he had learned anything from the Dagor Bragollach, it was that Morgoth couldn’t be overpowered by numbers alone. They had to be clever and have a plan.
The dwarves were working with the man Húrin and his brother Huor to create a weapon capable of killing as many dragons as possible, not knowing the number within Morgoth’s forces. They were joined by Curufin and Celebrimbor along with Rog and Maeglin. They hoped to combine dwarvish, Ñoldorin, Avarin, and Doriathrin smithing techniques to create the ultimate weapon. Their successes varied and most kept away from the portion of the camp they claimed as their own.
Two more days passed without note, planning and negotiating and searching for a way to remove the biggest threats to their victory: dragons and balrogs.
There were no further attacks from Morgoth. Maedhros grew more wary.
Fingon regained enough strength to walk once more with the use of a crutch. Curufin and Celebrimbor had a number of ideas for a prosthetic leg for him once he healed enough and regained his strength.
Caranthir woke up, for good this time, and was recovering well enough. He became an invaluable resource in tracking their supplies and resources.
Cirdan sent more supplies from the Falas. He sent food and clean drinking water, clothing, medical supplies, weapons, and most importantly a kind of lightweight but strong and durable black metal from the dwarves of the Falas.
The large group working on weapons quickly claimed the metal in the hopes that it was what they were seeking.
Then, on the dawn of the fifteenth day after their fateful battle with Morgoth, their scouts alerted them to the sight of a large number of elves approaching from the south.
They were led by Idril Celebrindal.
Turgon and the other warriors of Gondolin rushed to their aid, to help them make the rest of the journey to their camp. They were only a scant two thousand left of their number which had once been much larger. Turgon has once estimated the population of his hidden city to be more than one hundred thousand and he had brought ten thousand of those people with him to fight. Now there were but twelve thousand left.
Idril herself was dressed in armor, a sword forged by Fëanor in her grip.
“We have walked for the past ten days to reach here. We used the rivers when possible but some did not survive the journey,” Idril said after she and her people reached the camp. They sat them down with what food and water they could spare and found tents and clothes for them to rest.
“I do not know how he found us,” she said, “But he did.”
“What happened?” Turgon gently asked his daughter, holding her to his chest.
“Morgoth’s army came, led by a dragon named Ancalagon. He was large and winged, mighty and terrible, his scales as black as the darkness of Ungoliant,” Idril told them, her ears betraying her fear, “He rained fire from above while the balrogs, led not by Gothmog, but another of their number, brought fire from below. The orcs came with them.”
“They slew the guards and broke down our walls one by one. We were able to escape through the secret passage but a great number died to allow this to happen. Duilin fell, slaying a balrog to protect us. Salgant fell at the gates but was able to ring the warning bell and light the beacons. Penlod died destroying the way to the secret passage. He died so that the rest of us could make it to safety without pursuit.”
“Then there are but few of us left. Ecthelion and Glorfindel live still as do Rog and Maeglin,” Turgon said, “Do Egalmoth and Galdor still remain?”
Idril nodded, “Egalmoth is injured but alive and Galdor has been fighting tirelessly to defend us.”
“Then hope remained. Our people still live so Gondolin does too,” Turgon said.
“For now, we must adjust our plans and send warning to Nargothrond, assuming they haven’t yet fallen,” Orodreth said.
“We must also send word to Doriath and the Falas,” Thingol insterjected, “They should also be prepared should Morgoth strike against them next.”
“We should strike now,” Maedhros argued, “He has been quiet for days. His attacks were meant to distract us from our allies while he attacked. It was clear that he was planning something and now we know. We should attack now while his troops are divided.”
“We should also protect our allies,” Orodreth stated, “Or should we allow them to be attacked without warning?”
“We can still send warning but we should not send our people to protect them. Doriath is protected by Melian and both the Falas and Nargothrond still have a large number of warriors,” Maedhros retorted, “But we would be leaving ourselves vulnerable by dividing our own armies. Now is the time to strike, when Morgoth’s own armies are divided.”
“We have no idea what we’re up against,” Thingol mused, “We should do some reconnaissance before we attack. Ensure that there are no more balrogs and dragons among his number. If we can take out the majority of the orcs and also remove Morgoth from his seat of power then taking down the rest of his army should be easier.”
Orodreth looked thoughtful, only his ears betraying his discontent.
“I agree with King Thingol,” Idril announced, surprising most of the room, “If we have the opportunity to cripple both the army and Morgoth, we should take it. But we must know if the opportunity is true or not before we attempt it.”
Turgon looked down at his only daughter, the only remnant he still had of his beloved wife, “Then I am also in agreement with Thingol. If my daughter believes it to be a good plan, then I trust her judgment.”
Maedhros was unsure if Turgon was seeing his daughter or his wife in that moment. For Idril inherited her mother’s coloring and her mother’s determined look. She inherited her mother’s personality and headstrongness and her father’s intelligence. His own plan was one that Elenwë may have thought up but Thingol’s plan is one that Elenwë would have once agreed with to compromise with her husband’s more careful approach.
In that very moment, if one looked at Idril from the corner of their eye, they would have seen Elenwë beside Turgon, determinedly facing down a room of seasoned leaders to get her way.
Orodreth looked around the room at the other leaders in the tent. They had Fingon and himself representing the majority of the Ñoldor, Turgon and Idril from Gondolin, Orodreth from Nargothrond, Thingol representing Doriath, Bór for the Easterlings, Húrin and Huor representing their people and Haldir representing his, as well as the dwarf Dulgin who was the newly elected leader of the dwarves of Belegost.
“I have sworn my fealty to Lord Maedhros, I will follow his lead,” Bór stated.
“We would also like to take down Morgoth while we have a chance,” Húrin and Huor spoke after a long moment of whispering to one another, “He has killed a number of our people, we would like recompense.”
“I see I am outnumbered here,” he finally sighed, “I suppose we will follow Thingol’s plan.”
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Thingol was less than pleased to see the state Fingon was left in after his battle with Gothmog. Although he did not outright say anything, it was written on his face and Fingon recoiled at the contempt and judgment he saw there.
“Your highness. I’d get up but,” Fingon gestured to his overall state of being.
“Please, do not aggravate your injuries on my account,” Thingol allowed.
Maedhros resisted the urge to fight the High King of Beleriand.
“I do believe we have much to discuss,” Fingon began, “But first, you must know, Maedhros is to be my regent upon the battlefield for the foreseeable future. I am currently unable to be anything but a liability upon the field right now.”
“I understand,” Thingol nodded, but his face told a different story. Maedhros could hear him wondering to himself why Fingon would trust a kinslayer of all people to lead his people, no matter the circumstances. He seemed to forget that Fingon himself was a kinslayer who slew at Alqualondë.
“I’m sure you want to know who we count among our allies,” Fingon continued, “Among my people are the Ñoldor of Hithlum, Turgon and his people from Gondolin, Gwindor and his people from Nargothrond, some of the Falathrim, the men of Dor-lómin, the men of Brethil, and your two marchwardens and their men. Maedhros commands the Ñoldor of East Beleriand, the Easterlings of the tribe of Bór the Faithful, and a number of the dwarves of Belegost.”
“A great number then,” Thingol said, his face carefully neutral, “With the addition of my people, our numbers should be bolstered. Does Orodreth intend to join with the forces of Nargothrond?”
There it was. Thingol was intending to search for some form of disunity among the Ñoldor, an excuse not to join and to leave the Ñoldor to their folly. He did not understand the true danger of Morgoth and likely would not until it was too late, hiding behind his maia wife.
“Orodreth does intend to join us and is making his way here as we speak,” Maedhros answered neutrally.
“Of course,” Thingol smoothly accepted the new information, “Then we do have other things to discuss. I will not commit my troops to this fight until punishment has been laid upon Celegorm Fëanorian and Curufin Fëanorian for their unjust capture and attempting taking of my daughter.”
“The two have already been stripped of their titles and any benefit they may have. However, they bring a much needed physical presence to the battlefield. I’m afraid any punishment that may be added must wait until after the war is over,” Fingon attempted to appease the king.
Naturally that was when Orodreth entered the tent as well. Maedhros’ headache grew.
They exchanged greetings once more before they returned to the topic of Celegorm and Curufin.
“I will not deny that my brothers deserve further punishment, however, I cannot give you any more than what you want until Thingol answers for the crimes of one of his own,” Maedhros put on his most diplomatic voice.
“What crimes have any of mine done to yours?” Thingol asked, his tone bland but his eyes betrayed his incredulity.
“Your kinsman, Eöl, had captured Aredhel, princess of the Ñoldor, and held her against her will. He married her against her will and forced her to bear a child,” Maedhros stated, “Then he attempted to kill his own child, but killed her instead.”
A dark look crossed Thingol’s face, “Eöl has not been heard from in years, his home and workshop abandoned.”
“Because he is dead, executed at Turgon’s hand,” Maedhros said, “But one of yours has done much worse to one of ours than ours have done to yours.”
Orodreth, who was hearing all of this for the first time, looked upset at hearing the news of a family member’s death but rallied quite well.
“While I do believe that Celegorm and Curufin require punishment, I cannot say that they require harsher punishment for the treatment of Lúthien after hearing what my late cousin has endured by the hands of your kinsman,” Orodreth stated, “The physical punishment proposed for after the war sates me.”
“But not I,” Thingol looked calm but his eyes were murderous, “The two need harsher punishment.”
Just as Maglor had predicted. His friendship with the Lore Master and musician of Doriath, Daeron, had proved very useful throughout the years.
“Then I propose this,” Maedhros began, keeping a watchful eye on Thingol, “I will allow for the banishment of Celegorm and Curufin to the hunt for Morgoth after we take Angband under two conditions. One is that they will be allowed aid from those who wish to give it and two being that I will temporarily be given the silmaril in your possession. I will return the silmaril to you, but the completion of even part of the oath will drive us all towards Morgoth entirely.”
Thingol looked thoughtful, not completely disliking the idea, but not completely open to it either.
“What exactly would this banishment entail?” Thingol asked after a moment of deliberation.
He had already discussed the details with Turgon, Fingon, Maglor, and the two elves in question and they were all in agreement that it was a just punishment but one that the two wrongdoers actually wanted.
“They, and any others who may wish to join them, will hunt Morgoth to the ends of Middle Earth, never giving him a break and never letting him rest. They will hunt evil until either they are released from their duty or they are no longer able to hunt him or they have managed to oust him from this world. Any who join them or choose to give them supplies do so of their own free will and those who join the hunt may leave at any time,” Maedhros stated, “They will never know peace or rest and will be unable to enjoy the material pleasures of life as long as they carry this burden.”
Thingol looked contemplative for another moment.
“I agree to your terms, Fëanorian. I will give you the silmaril and you will return it or this deal is off. My troops will join yours in this march against Morgoth.”
Thingol reached into an inside pocket of his tunic and pulled out a large bundle of cloth and metal. He unwrapped the bundle to reveal a large stone, glowing a bright, brilliant white. A light that hasn’t been seen since the Two Trees were destroyed.
Thingol handed him the stone and he held it for but a second before returning it. It was uncomfortable to hold now, for he had slain, though unmeaning to, at Alqualondë to defend his brother. The silmaril knew that, for it was hallowed by Varda herself. But holding it for one second was enough.
“I, Maedhros Fëanorian, bequeath to you, this silmaril to have and to keep. It is yours and me and my own will not be beholden to our oath to take it from you,” Maedhros spoke as he returned it, the words somehow coming to him, “With Manwë and Varda as my witnesses, hear this Eru, a part of our oath is done.”
The effect was instantaneous. The oath was like a terrible band around him, holding him against his will and turning him into a puppet. It spoke to him, haunted him, corrupted him. It was a dark and evil thing, growing in the back of his mind.
By reclaiming one of the silmarils, a part of it shattered and broke. Its power lessened, part of him broke free of its hold. The voice it spoke to him with quieted and some of the corruption faded. He felt more like himself than he had since Morgoth was released from Mandos.
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The sixth day after their first battle with Morgoth, Fingon woke up.
His right arm was rendered useless, his left leg had to be amputated from just above the knee.
“I suppose this is my punishment for cutting off your right hand cousin,” Fingon had attempted to joke when Maedhros visited him.
“By cutting off my hand you saved us both. This is no punishment for that,” Maedhros had refuted, placing a chaste kiss on Fingon’s left hand, “I am glad that you have wakened. We feared for you.”
“I know,” Fingon looked away, “And I am sorry to have worried you so, but I am afraid I have another burden to place on your shoulders.”
“No task that you give to me is a burden, but a task I take on gladly,” Maedhros said.
“I must abdicate the throne and give the crown to Turgon,” Fingon announced, “But for now, I must continue to lead and you will be my regent.”
“I cannot. I have refused the crown, removing myself and the entire House of Fëanor from the succession. It is yours now,” Maedhros shook his head.
“Aye, but you must lead for now. Turgon cannot lead us through this war and you know it. You must rule until the war is won, only then can I give the crown to Turgon.”
“And what of Ereinion?” Maedhros asked, thinking of the little boy, safe in Nargothrond.
“He will have his chance when he is older. But I can no longer rule in this state and Ereinion is not yet old enough,” Fingon pleaded, “Rhoso, I no longer can lead my people in battle. I don’t have a left leg, my right arm is useless. I cannot lead like this. You must.”
As he spoke, Fingon tensed and attempted to prop himself up.
“I will, but only for you,” Maedhros agreed for his cousin’s sake.
“Good,” Fingon relaxed into his bed, “Good. Then you must do one other thing for me now, Rhoso.”
“What can I do for you?” he pressed another chaste kiss to Fingon’s fingers.
“Please, my hair, I need you to cut it,” Fingon said, clawing at his hair and tugging at it.
Maedhros had a small flashback to himself, several years ago when he was first rescued from Thangorodrim. Morgoth had stroked his hair, praised it, defiled it. Once Fingon had rescued him, the first thing he had done while awake was take a blade and cut at his hair until it was choppy and short in a state of delirium.
“What beautiful hair you have,” Morgoth had crooned, petting his long, luxurious hair, “Just like your mother’s. Such a shame you left her behind. Maybe I’ll return to Aman where you can no longer tread and find her. Maybe I’ll even bring her here to keep you company.”
He had tried to move away, but couldn’t, caught by his hair in Morgoth’s grip.
“Please Rhoso,” Fingon pleaded, snapping him out of his memories, “Please.”
“Okay,” Maedhros agreed. He took a small knife out of his belt and carefully moved Fingon’s hair up to where he could easily cut it.
Any other elf would have asked Fingon if he was sure about cutting his hair like this. Hair was sacred to elves who only cut it in rare circumstances. But Maedhros who had suffered in Angband at the hands of Sauron and Morgoth understood.
He gathered the hair together with a tie and began to cut it.
“Thank you cousin,” Fingon said once he finished, looking a little more grounded.
He left Fingon shortly after to join a patrol. After the previous day’s attack, he’d been on edge. Prepared for another attack at any moment,
Luckily, his vigilance paid off.
“Send for reinforcements and tell the others to prepare to move the camp back,” he instructed a nearby soldier, “Orcs.”
He stood at the ready, sword in hand as the orcs approached.
He had sent the man from the day before to speak to the dwarves in the hopes that they would be able to create a weapon capable of killing the dragon. He doubted it would be ready for them to kill the dragon today.
“At first sign of the dragon, retreat!” he ordered his troops, “At my ready!”
This time, they were prepared.
“Archers! Lease!” he ordered once the orcs were within an accurate shooting range.
He hoped that would take the majority of them out before they ever reached them.
At his order, his archers began to shoot their arrows, coating them in a flammable substance and leasing them alight in flame.
A wall of dead bodies, alight in flame, began to form, helping to stay their attackers.
It wouldn’t be enough.
He stood strong, cutting down as many orcs as possible. They would lose people, he knew, but less than if they just turned and ran.
A hunting horn sounded, several new arrows coming from the east, finding their mark in the bodies of orcs.
The new arrows were white in wood with green feathers.
“Doriathrim! Show no mercy!” Elu Thingol’s voice boomed over the battlefield.
Maedhros never thought he’d see the day where he was grateful for Elu Thingol’s presence.
Together, their two combined forces were enough to push the Morgoth’s forces back. However, there was no sign of the dragon and there were once again no balrogs.
“Lord Maedhros,” Thingol greeted him once the orcs had fully retreated.
“Your highness,” Maedhros greeted in return. Thingol would never be his king. The only king he would ever refer to as his was laying in a tent, injured.
“Where is King Fingon?” Thingol asked, “Should he not be on the front?”
“King Fingon was injured while slaying Gothmog, Lord of all Balrogs. He is currently resting and healing.”
Thingol’s face darkened, “Take me to him.”
Maedhros did so, glad for the excuse to see his favorite cousin, but only after giving orders to the remaining patrol.
The two walked together in a tense silence to the tent that Fingon had taken up residence in. It was a long walk made even longer by the stony silence and tense atmosphere.
The only thing that could have made the walk worse was if Thingol had worn the silmaril. A part of him wished that he had just so he could fulfill at least one portion of the oath and no longer be inclined to any form of evil but the slaying of evil itself. Then the oath would bend him and his brothers toward Morgoth alone and maybe they could have some semblance of peace with Thingol and his people.
It was a selfish thought but one that led towards peace rather than violence, love rather than hate, good rather than evil.
The stony silence was at last broken when Thingol asked him, “Tell me, Lord Maedhros, where art thou brothers?”
“I believe that you are not asking for all of my brothers, but the two that have wronged your daughter,” Maedhros said.
“Indeed, I have much desire to speak with them before I decide if I am indeed satisfied with their punishment thus far.”
Somehow, even on a hunt and several kilometers away, Celegorm and Curufin were able to give him a migraine.
