AN: Do not ask why. Should I do a Maiar or Valar version? (not a russingon shipper but this was funny)
Context: While reading ancient scrolls about Finrod's time among the Secondborn, he discovered an interesting tale: a host club. Fired by this new knowledge, he set out to create Valinor's version of it.
Maedhros and Fingon: The Taboo Incestuous CouSINS
How Finrod convinced them remains a mystery. While elves marrying distant family is not unheard of, it is, ahem, not brought up much. *cough*cough* Maeglin*cough*
Maedhros did not truly see the charm. And Fingon could not hold his laughter in, but loved the drama of it.
"Oh Russo, do not leave me alone," Fingon swooned, as their first guest sat drinking their tea.
Maedhros, perfectly in custody of his silver tongue, cupped his cousin's cheek, leaning in with passion that was entirely uncalled for. "I would never. You are my king, Finno."
Finrod didn't even need a script for them.
Turgon: The Vice President/Mommy
As a former king of Gondolin, Turgon naturally assumed the role of main governing body. Be it planning special events, reigning in Finrod's extravagant plans, or contracting Caranthir for merchandise plushies, Turgon has it all handled.
Especially since he cannot and will not tolerate a flop ball or feast in Tirion.
It also helps that he has the most sworn lords and unimaginable amounts of blueprints from his time in Middle Earth. What did not happen ages ago can be enacted now.
Glorfindel: The Main Character/ Daddy
He says yes even before he learns the role. Valinor is boring, and Glorfindel knows better than to voice that complaint without inviting kinslayer allegations.
So he prances into the first host club rehearsal, his glorious hair unbraided and voluminous, everyone's problem.
As the local asexual elf, he relishes unlimited flirting without any implications of binding or betrothals. He is here for a good time, and making one for others.
Finwe: The Lolita
As the oldest and most immature youthful of the Noldor, Finwe provides the innocent charm of the host club.
How the Valar let him out to be there is beyond anyone. But Finrod was more than happy to let his grandfather grab a nepotism spot.
Not that anyone could have denied Finwe with a permission slip from Manwe.
Finwe's charm is that of the oblivious grandfather who laughs at everything. But be not fooled.
The gramps can charm anyone and everyone. He is, after all, the only elf who married twice.
Fingolfin: The Mysterious Hunk
As soon as Finwe joins the club, Fingolfin simply materializes.
He is the shadow to the most ancient member of the club, following after his father because he cannot fathom walking in on whatever Maedhros and Fingon are up to. And they do tend to behave around Finwe.
Fingolfin's got his huge fanclub. Most of them are elves coming to see the hero who fought Melkor and injured the most powerful Vala.
His table is always brimming with tributes and tokens of appreciation.
Elrond: The Normal One
They just sort of drag him in. As the rare Peredhel in Valinor, Elrond is the most unique of the host club members.
He can be found most days hovering by Turgon, planning events, or talking to elflings who want to know about the Secondborn, or about his father, Earendil, who is the brightest star in their skies.
He comes to enjoy the club more than he wanted to admit. Days spent there help him not miss Arwen so much.
And so Finrod's latest venture in Valinor came be another gleaming success.
Maedhros had left you on the eve of your wedding to him. The one where you had promised to wait for him and Maedhros had fled.
He had never sworn to you, nothing beyond courting. Never consummated binding by his kin's ways. There could be no binding.
But it had come to be nonetheless.
He returns too soon. Everyone remarks that. Just three ages after his time in the Halls of Mandos, Maedhros is allowed to step out into the blessed realm.
Some of his kin who have sinned much less than him still stay in the Halls. But Maedhros is let go. After approval of several Maiar and Mandos himself. His soul healed. Too fast for one whose hroa had taken an age to form.
No one knows. Not even Maedhros.
Not until he is months into his rehabilitation in Tirion. Helping rebuild houses for those returning.
He realizes the fullness of his soul. The slight flutter of his heart at the sight of his own reflection. Or how often he sleeps, almost with his eyes closed. Like the second born.
That cannot be, Maedhros reasons with himself.
It is simply his mind making up its own conclusions.
Those excuses work most days. They work on all but himself.
He never wed you. Never would, actually.
Maedhros had left you on the eve of your wedding to him. The one where you had promised to wait for him and Maedhros had fled.
He had never sworn to you, nothing beyond courting. Never consummated binding by his kin's ways. There could be no binding.
But it had come to be nonetheless.
Your soul lingered. A part of his own. Maedhros was certain of it. Although he could never distinguish his own from yours.
That was the reason for his quick recovery. That was why, once damned, he still walked the lands of his birth.
Yet, he could not fathom how you had given it to him. Without oaths, without passion of wedding night, how a mortal soul had clung to him, even with his retreating back to you. Across death and rebirth.
The small part of his own soul now. The one that pulses anxiously whenever his mother brought up another betrothal to establish the House of Feanor back. The faint echo of wonder at the sights of Valinor. Part of him that now adores roses.
Maedhros's kin grow weary with the passing of time. They tire of the world, as they are bound to. But the small mortal part of his soul burns bright as is the way of men.
Never allowing a bout of weariness on Maedhros.
You keep him restless. Traveling, writing, reading with intensity of a mortal out of time. Maedhros brims with hunger. Yearning for the excess of his soul.
Part that should have been yours.
Beran kneels by your side, hands gently taking yours. Hands that once delivered you to the world. "The elven prince and his party left hours ago," comes the quiet voice. "They are not returning."
Beran shakes you as if to wake you from a dream. As if you aren't already awake. You have not slept a wink since you have beheld your prince.
The wedding regalia is snug, heavy as most traditional robes are. Your hair is pulled tight, scalp aching, but you don't ask for it to be loosened. Maedhros will do that. Scarred yet, patient fingers will undo it strand by strand, the way Maedhros promised.
"Go rest, Beran," you murmur. "Tonight is not for you."
You sit alone in the grand tent after Beran withdraws, reluctant and worried. The lamps burn bright. Too bright. Servants did well with the roses from the nearest village. They smell sweet. That was the last of your coin, spent on flowers. They had known you couldn't pay them after tonight. A disgraced noble eloping with an elven prince. They followed anyway, into this uncertain future, and you gave them everything you had left.
You do not rise. You do not pace. You settle onto the cushioned seat and you wait.
Maedhros will return. Maedhros promised.
He will return before the vows are spoken. Before the sun rises. At the brink of dawn. Before your brother's riders catch the scent of this camp and drag your back, away from him.
Your eyes are fixed on the tent's entrance. The stars wheel overhead, indifferent. He has told you of the Vala queen who put them there with such care.
You open your mouth. Barely whisper the words in his language. Ancient words that seal elven unions.
You practice them again, softer still. "My fea to your fea." The binding of spirits. The old magic. The way the firstborn swear, words that can bind worlds.
Hours pass like a held breath. You do not move from the seat. Your hands rest in your lap. The roses beside you begin to wilt from the heat of the lamps, and you do not extinguish them.
How else will you see his approach. You do not have his sight.
You recite the wedding song of your people under your breath. You have sung it since childhood, at every wedding, every binding ceremony.
You will sing it for real when Maedhros arrives. Maedhros will sing the Noldor response. Even now your lips pull in a smile when you imagine that. Soon it will be real.
Maedhros promised.
You touch the hem of your regalia. You check your reflection in the polished silver mirror he gifted you.
The night stretches. You sit unmoving on the cushioned seat. You recite the vows again, and again, and again. You just have to remember, you just have to say it loud enough for the stars to hear.
You sing the song. You whisper the vows. You sit with unshakeable certainty that when the sun rises, you will no longer be alone.
The night wears on. You do not sleep. You cannot. Your eyes remain open. Sleep has been a stranger for a week.
And then Maedhros is there. In front of you. You almost rise. You speak your words, even when Maedhros does not. If Maedhros will not swear, then you swear for both of you.
"My fea to your fea." You kneel, your voice but a rasp. Maedhros was there. And the stars heard. You knew they did.
For when you looked at your prince's fair face, Maedhros smiled. Smiling free of oaths, of pain, of the weight of scars.
He has repeated those words back. Countless times. In nightmares. In daydreams. In letters he will never send. In echoes across the valleys of Tirion. He has screamed them in the dark, desperate for them to be accepted.
For the stars to be merciful. For them to reach back to you, as they had reached for him.
"I accept. My fea is yours in return."
He has carved it into stone. Painted it over his own madness, only to write it again decades later. The words of a man who should despise oaths, who should be weary unto death of vows and binding words. Yet here he is, tormented by the need to speak them. To complete something long gone.
Every shrine of Varda receives his prayers. Every dawn finds him whispering the same desperate petition: If time runs backward, let some part of my love reach back. Let that night be reciprocated. I accept my love. I was a fool my love. I am yours.
If this is penance for making you wait, Maedhros will pay it gladly. Endlessly. For as long as the stars of your vows grace the skies he walks under.
There is a pull. A restlessness that will not be named. A fragment of his own soul that thrums with alien heartbeat. It is not his own anymore, he holds onto it, to give it to you. To complete the bargain, you cheated.
He tries to reciprocate across the distance. He screams the words into Valinor's blessed air. I accept. I accept. I accept.
As if repetition could reach backward through time. As if desperation could bind what was bound one-sidedly.
AN: This gif has nothing to do with the fic, I just really like this scene. Also pickleball is my newest obsession. I am half dead with sleep, please ignore the errors.
Glorfindel: It's basically a commercial for local sports. He looks glorious dramatically running around the court, laughing as he hits a perfect shot. His luscious locks fan around him as he moves. Passersby are glued to the spot as he prances around with the paddle. Word of wisdom: wear shades near him.
Maedhros: You're both equally bad at doubles. Fingon and his wife have tried teaching you both more than once, but those games are spent with you and Maedhros crashing into each other constantly. As a favor for putting up with you both, Maedhros foots the bill for the brunch you four grab after matches.
Caranthir: You have to drag him to the court every time. Get him some vitamin D and fresh air. He whines and bemoans the loss of his comfortable nooks, but once he's outside? He actually enjoys it. Will he complain the entire time? Absolutely. Annoyingly, he gets good at it way faster than you do. That doesn't stop the resistance he puts up every single time.
Celegorm: He genuinely enjoys pickleball. He loves being outside, so when you find a sport you like, he's in. He's cocky about it too. Rules? Points? Who needs those? In his books, whoever hits the ball to the other side is winning. He's smashing shots, skidding across the court, booing every time he loses. He's in his element. But here's the secret, he'll let you win (mostly) because he actually likes playing with you. He's not about to risk you rage quitting.
Thranduil: He judges you for going to play without him. Then he announces a whole ass tournament for Greenwood the Great. Makes it doubles so you have to beg him to join. He agrees after displaying immense smugness about being your partner. He'll glare the opponents away and win that tournament. Fair and square can go drown.
Nerdanel (xoxoxo❤️❤️😘😘💋💋🫦🫦🥺🥺 🧎♀️🧎♀️): She joins you. With her glorious arms. Ones that might have inspired Michelangelo's ladies in the Sistine Chapel. You've not hit a single shot. You almost forget to swing, lost instead in her laughter, her curls fighting against their braids, her hands gripping the paddle. You gulp. And if you bend down to pick up the ball more than necessary, well, that's no one's business.
Feanor: He is, as always, INTENSE. You both don't even talk while playing. He has epic battle music playing in his earphones. He's already challenged half of Valinor and placed wagers, sworn oaths. He will train you. Drill you into proper stretches, warming up with laps. This is way more than just a game.
Thingol: Elu Thingol does not dabble in pickleball. He and his court are basketball only. He's got a sick dribble and is the star player of Doriath, much to everyone's dismay. Anyone below 5'8" is banned from court after that pretty graphic squashing incident.
AN: don't 🫵🏻 even ask what song prompted this fic 🙂↔️
Genre: fluff
Pairing: Finrod x Fem Reader
Summary: Amarie would have known. Andreth would have endured. Finrod deserves. Finrod sacrificed. Finrod chose you, so be better, be grateful, be perfect for him. Be a perfect match to him.
“I would like a divorce.” The silence is immediate. Goblets still. Forks pause midair. Somewhere down the table, someone laughs, assuming it a jest, until they realize no one else is laughing.
Your husband, Finrod Felagund, turns his head slowly toward you.
You remain standing. The parchment in your hands trembles only slightly.
You had rehearsed this. You had not rehearsed the way every immortal in the room would look at you as though you had just proposed burning the Trees again.
Yours had been a fairy tale. A mortal girl, scarcely more than a whisper of Eldarin blood from a distant grandmother, beloved of a mountain elf. A story sung across Tirion. A symbol of reconciliation between fates.
You had defied death. He had defied decorum.
And now…Now you were the ungrateful one.
You feel it before anyone speaks. It sits in the air.
You chose eternity. How dare you tire of it? Finrod had stood before the Valar for you. He had awakened the dormant elven fire in your veins. He had endured council after council, question after question:
Is she strong enough? Will she endure? Does she understand what she relinquishes?
You had answered yes. You had meant it.
You loved Valinor. Valinor did not love you gently.
It remembered everything. It remembered Amarie. It remembered Andreth. It remembered Finrod’s oaths, his griefs, his former joys, all of them preserved from a life before you.
You were not competing with a living woman or elleth. You were competing with memory.
Aegnor does not mean to wound you. But wine loosens his tongue. “Andreth would have adored the Silver Lake.”
Finrod’s aunt leans toward you and murmurs, not unkindly: “There are remedies in Lorien for mortal frailty.”
Across the table, a Feanorian cousin is arguing theology with a servant about inheritance law. “Finrod ought to have heirs.”
“He is owed a lineage.”
“You are still young. Surely it is a matter of… adjustment.”
Amarie would have known. Andreth would have endured. Finrod deserves. Finrod sacrificed. Finrod chose you, so be better, be grateful, be perfect for him. Be a perfect match to him.
You do not resent him. That is the worst part.
He defends you. Always without tiring. He looks at you as though you are still the only star he sees.
But love, you discover, can suffocate when it is surrounded by struggle, by having to fight and prove for decades. You are not allowed to fail. You are not allowed to tire. You are not allowed to miss the Gift of Men, because you gave it up willingly.
So when you say, “I would like a divorce,” It is not anger. It is exhaustion. It is the quiet terror that one day you will look at him; your golden prince, and feel resentment coil where only love once lived.
Better to leave before love rots. Better to step away while you still adore him.
Finrod rises slowly. He does not argue. He does not plead.
He studies your face as though committing it to memory. And then he signs, without a complaint.
It ought to have broken your heart, but it does not.
When you first see the cottage, your rational self almost laments. The roof tilts ever so slightly to the left. The garden is more weeds and rocks than plants and soil.
So much work to do. Had you truly abandoned royal luxury for this?
But no. You refused to return. Lest love turn to hate, you refused to return to the palace. Its marble corridors, its echoing courtyards, its servants who materialized the moment you so much as sighed too loudly.
And Finrod had signed the papers… so surely you were fine.
Freedom grows on you slowly. There is no soreness at your scalp now that intricate Noldorin braids are no longer etiquette. You brush your hair yourself or not if you wish to not bother. There is seething spice in your meals, in a way that you had once loved.
You dance in the kitchen without rhythm or shame. You wander through the rooms nude simply because you can, and because there is no steward to faint and no embroidered robe waiting to be draped over your shoulders in scandalized haste.
A week later, you step into the packed market of Tirion. You expect heralds. Guards. The hush before a bow. Perhaps even someone dramatically shouting your name.
But you are spared.
No one kneels. No one stares overlong. One vendor nearly elbows you aside in pursuit of a better display table.
It is deeply refreshing.
Your hair hangs loose, slightly wind-tangled, entirely your own. Your gown is bright and cinched, nothing like the subdued elegance of elven court dress that suggested wearing only family colors and gowns that could be used as tents.
You carry your own basket. It feels absurdly triumphant.
The common folk of Tirion are kinder in their ignorance. They overlook your still-awkward Quenya. When you attempt to barter, they indulge in your fantasy of getting a steal.
You abandon the attempt and pay in full.
Coins change hands. Apples thud into your basket. Spices are wrapped in paper. A child runs past you, nearly colliding with your skirts, and does not apologize to a former princess of the Noldor.
You buy honey you do not need and bread you will probably burn again, and for the first time since signing your name beneath his, you feel something settle in your chest
That is how he finds you again. Haggling the baker for a discount. You know it is him because the baker drops in a curtsey.
Behind you stands Finrod. In a ‘disguise’ which means lack of circlet, different robes, and no rings.
He fools no one.
He follows you around, like a kitten. Paying in your steed. Interfering with your haggling. Once you almost glare at him.
Until it is noon and you find yourself in a quiet teahouse. Fanning your face, you pay the staff extra for discretion, as you sip your milkshake.
“Why are you here?” You ask him. “Don’t you remember, Mandos specifically mentioned a clause that you can take another lover.”
Your husband ex husband, deflates, his lucious blonde curls, fall into your palms as he slams his head on the table. “I miss you. So I came. Did I do good with the disguise?”
That is how you end up with Finrod in your cottage for the first time. It was the start of a vicious cycle truly.
It starts with a lunch, to spice tolerance challenge, to him lugging his harps so he can serenade you while you cook, to his disguise trunks, and of course, some rings and trinkets when he wishes to redress after those disguised ventures.
You do not stop him. Or you cannot rather. Not that you wish to.
It is better. Whatever this is. This undefined love. Not quite spouses, not exs, not even lovers.
Do you kiss? Yes.
Is there a talk of any rings, vows, or courting? Absolutely not.
Does Finrod insist on dressing in wedding regalia at 2 am in the morning? Also yes.
So you keep it safely tucked for when he does.
And if, in a year or two, you find yourself with a child out of wedlock with a literal prince of the Noldor…Well.
You have already scandalized Valinor once. What is one more legend?
AN: This idea came to me on a walk and I have never been better.
Genre: Comfort
Platonic piece no pairings. GN reader
Summary: This is no grand tale of adventure, nor of wars and victories. It is not even quite a love story. It is simply the epilogue to a tragedy. A small comfort offered to those who have turned too many pages of grief.
Part 1 | Part 2 |
They arrive together.
Prince Findekano and your prince Nelyafinwe step through the doors mid-argument, voices layered, animated, familiar as spring after a long winter.
You are seated by the hearth, mending a collar worn thin with age. The needle stills between your fingers.
You know those voices. You would know them in any age of the world.
They look as they once did. Tall and unbroken, cheeks still bearing the careless glow of youth. Prince Findekano’s eyes flash as he goads your prince with deliberate delight.
Prince Nelyafinwe answers him with a roll of his eyes, the corner of his mouth threatening a smile he pretends not to allow.
The Ambarussar streak between them, laughing, tangling in cloaks and nearly sending both elder princes stumbling.
You are on your feet before you remember standing.
“My lords,” you say softly. But it comes out the way one might greet boys returning from a hunt too long in the woods.
Your heart swells painfully in your chest. For a breath, the house feels full again.
Then you see it. No shadows trail at their heels. Their outlines tremble faintly, as though the air has not decided whether to keep them.
Your throat tightens, but you do not let your face change.
Instead, you move. You brush imaginary dust from Findekano’s sleeve as he passes, a reflex born of years. Your hand lingers only a fraction longer than necessary.
“You have grown thin,” you murmur, though he looks as he always did.
You fetch tea without asking. Of course you do. You remember how they took it. Less honey for Nelyo, more for Findekano, though he always denied the preference.
You set the cups before them, adjusting them precisely where their hands would fall. They do not reach. You pretend not to notice.
Maitimo looks up at you then.
And you see it. The burn that mars one side of his face. Worse than rumor ever told. His right hand, ruined and darkened, rests upon the arm of the chair, fragile as smoke.
You have seen him scraped from trees, mud-splattered from riding, flushed with boyish fury.
You have never seen this.
Your fingers twitch with the old instinct to fetch salve.
The twins dart past and you reach automatically, catching one by the collar though your hand closes on nothing.
Still, you scold gently. “No running in the halls.” Your voice trembles.
You smooth Nelyos’ cloak where it bunches at his shoulder. Adjust it. Straighten it.
An old habit.
They may be warriors. They may be kings. They may be ghosts.
But they are still your princes. The elflings you raised as you would have your daughters.
The tea cools untouched. You leave it there anyway.
Ages have left you bent and thinned, bones aching in the cold, hands not as steady as they once were. Time has weathered you. But it has never broken you.
Not through exile. Not through whispers in the market. Not through empty halls and unkempt hearths.
You endured. Until you see him.
You know him at once, and the knowing is absurd.
He had been no more than an infant when your lords departed. A bundle of quilts and restless limbs, fussy in the cradle set too close to the forge. You remember pacing the corridor with him when his cries would not quiet. Remember the stubborn set of his tiny brow.
That was the last you saw of Prince Tyelpe. Or Celebrimbor as the Middle Earth knew him.
And now, he stands in the doorway. Tall and broad-shouldered. His bearing unmistakably of his line. There are scars upon him, not the fading marks of childhood mischief, but the cruel etchings of a world that did not treat him gently.
And yet, He is whole. Not shimmering. Not fragile. Not flickering like stars in a pond.
Warm color in his cheeks. Breath stirring the air. Weight in the floorboards beneath his boots. As though he has stepped straight from the halls of healing and chosen this place first.
The sight of him nearly undoes you. Your knees weaken. For the first time in long years, you forget yourself.
You forget decorum. Forget distance. Forget that you are but a servant. You cross the space between you before you are aware of moving.
He looks startled, only briefly, before you reach him. You cup his face in your hands. Your thumbs brush over the sharp line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that reminds you so painfully of his father. You raised that father.
You watched his grandfather pace with brilliance and fury. You scolded his uncles for muddy boots and torn cloaks.
And now here stands the child who never knew this house. Home without knowing it.
Your voice trembles despite yourself. “Welcome home.” The words break on your breath. “Come in, my prince.” You say it softly.
You sleep little these days.
The cold of the house seeps into your bones. The kitchens stand empty; shelves once heavy with bread and fruit now gather dust. Most of the staff are long gone.
They left with your lords. The rest found service among the remaining royalty of Tirion. You remained. Alone in the house.
There is always something to do. Halls to scrub, silver to polish, curtains to mend. Yet no matter how fiercely you work, the corridors do not shine as they once did.
It is not grime that dims them. It is absence. So much of what made the house alive has gone. And you linger within it like a stubborn spirit, unwilling to fade.
There has been no sign of Lady Nerdanel. You know you should seek her. Ask after her among the sculptors. But you cannot.
You cannot leave. Not when they might return.
It is on one such day that you doze upon your narrow cot.
The room warms. Your eyes pry open. Heat gathers beside you, bright and blistering, and there stands your prince.
Prince Curufinwe.
He is as you remember him in those early days. Radiant, terrible in beauty, a form unbound by flesh. His presence fills the small chamber.
“My prince,” you say at once, rising without hesitation.
Back then, time had not yet touched you as it would in ages to come. Your eyes were clearer. Your hands steadier. You could still see, if you looked closely, the elfling you once carried through dim corridors when King Finwe grieved the loss of his queen.
You see that child now, beneath the blaze. He looks at you as he once looked at his father. Proud, wounded, certain the world has wronged him. Like the elfling who lost his mother in the Blessed Realm and never understood why.
“I…” His voice falters. The great silvertongue of Tirion falters. “I have ruined my sons.” The words fall heavy. “They will suffer. The world will despise them.”
“Nelyo… he—”
“If I had not spoken that Oath… they might have grieved and endured. They might have rebuilt. They might have wed, fathered children, grown old in wisdom.”
Even in unbound spirit, he sinks to his knees before you. The fire does not diminish, but it bows.
“I shall never see them again. I have forfeited that right.” His hands seize yours. They burn. Not in anger but in anguish.
“But they… my sons… they will need a home.” His voice breaks on the last word. “I beg of you. Be to them what you were to me. Let them have a home. I beg of—”
You do not let him finish. You step forward and pull the burning pillar into your arms. The flames lick at your sleeves. The heat sears your skin. You do not recoil.
Once, you carried him when nightmares woke him. Once, you steadied his small hands when grief made them shake. This is no different.
You hold him. “Be at peace,” you whisper, your voice soft against the blaze. “They will have a home.”
When the heat fades and the room grows cold once more, your hands are blistered.
AN: This idea came to me on a walk and I have never been better
Genre: Comfort
Platonic piece no pairings. GN reader
Summary: This is no grand tale of adventure, nor of wars and victories. It is not even quite a love story. It is simply the epilogue to a tragedy. A small comfort offered to those who have turned too many pages of grief.
Part 1 | Part 2 |
You walk through the quiet halls, dusting the windows as pale rays of sunlight stream through. So paltry, compared to the glow of Laurelin.
Your hair, once vibrant, is now streaked with silver. You are a rare sight in Valinor. Rare, to see someone so aged. An elf older than the very monarchs who first made the journey to the Blessed Lands.
You had arrived trembling, numb to the world, unwilling to look away from the shore that claimed your family. Your daughters taken by spawn of evil. Your beloved following soon after.
But Valinor settled into your bones. Shortly after those tumultuous years, you began working for the Finwean household, looking after the young crown prince.
Your daughters had been older. Nearly of age. But you remember them as they were.
That is how you came to be the butler of the House of Feanor.
Eons have passed. Valar and Maiar have fallen and risen, yet you continue to serve the house.
You have never met a Man, but many reborn have told you of them, and how your silvered hair resembles that of their elderly.
It is just another day of tending to the house. You wipe the doorway that was once so often filthy with the muddy prints of young princes. Now, it barely gathers dust.
A sharp giggle rings to your left. A flurry of red flashes past.
You drop the mop and chase after the little phantom.
Prince Ambarato, who refuses the Halls of Mandos, came here not long after the March of the Noldor. Not as the grown Elda he had been when he departed, but as the elfling you once chased through feast-laden corridors.
He flits through rooms, plays with the fish in the pods, wanders the orchards, and sits with you at dinner. He waits for his twin.
Even in death, he brings life to the silent house.
You do not ask him to seek rest, nor do you summon a Maia of Námo. No...your prince has returned home, and you have no intention of stealing that comfort from him.
After his arrival, you spent days cleaning and washing old toys. Soft dolls long forgotten. You made the chamber as it had been in Prince Amrod’s childhood.
You sent a single note to Lady Nerdanel.
She came barging through the doors, her hair still aflame, and took the elfling into her arms before her luggage had even struck the floor.
Without delay, you cleaned her workshop. Sent word for fresh clay. Visited the smiths for sharper carving tools.
It is no great surprise when you walk in on a fading image of Prince Moryo, tugging absently at the loose strings of a tapestry. The sons of Feanor return of their own will. First Prince Ambarato. Then others.
You bow at once. “Forgive the neglect, my prince. I shall have it mended immediately.”
Prince Morifinwe, or as the Sindar call him, Caranthir looks at you.
Unlike his brother, who returned as an elfling, Moryo appears clad in armor, his wraith softly flickering.
He nods solemnly, as is the way of the fourth son of Fëanor.
He does not stay long. Only a few hours. You see him linger in the halls, stand by the windows, watching as Prince Amrod dances with the wind. His hands trace the soft wool of blankets you changed in his room the day before.
His fingers close weakly around the brittle leaves Prince Tyelkormo and Huan once sent flying through the corridors months ago.
Where he has wandered for so long, you do not know. And you do not ask. You serve him luncheon as he once favored: fruit and cheese, honey, soft bread.
But Prince Moryo does not touch it. He cannot.
He stands frozen, staring at his mother.
One glance at Lady Nerdanel, and he fades. In fear. In shame. Or perhaps in guilt.
Why does the house call to such damned souls? Why does it reach for the doomed sons of Feanor with such fervor?
You do not know.
Perhaps it is the polished windows, the warm hearth, the textbooks of their childhood tucked carefully into every corner. Perhaps it is the lullaby Lady Nerdanel sings to young Ambarato, whose form is little more than air.
Or perhaps it is the old butler who leaves small trinkets by the mantel, as though offering tribute to some silent god for an impossible return.
This is no grand tale of adventure, nor of wars and victories. It is not even quite a love story.
It is simply the epilogue to a tragedy.
A small comfort offered to those who have turned too many pages of grief.
At nightfall, you light every lamp in the main hall.
You light them so that if, should...no, when any of them walk the long road home.
If some shattered, weary remnant of a son of Feanor stands at the crest of the hill and looks toward Tirion in shame.
Eldest Daughter-in-Law of the Feanorian Household - ✨Wedding Edition ✨
AN: I think of this. A lot.
Genre: Fluff
Pairing: Maedhros x Wife reader
Voiceover: What goes into the making of the marriage ceremony of the ages? The grand wedding of the Elves of the West. Held in the Lands of the Blessed. Within the infamous House of Feanor. A household responsible for approximately 93.42534% of all major problems in Iluvatar’s creation.
So naturally, we decided to film it.
Welcome to the Feanorian Wedding™. The ceremony of the century, the event of the Age, and, according to several Valar, “a terrible idea.”
And behind all this madness…is one person.
The eldest daughter of the House of Feanor
Crew squeezing into Nerdanel’s workshop. Lights are being set up between half-finished statues. A producer immediately starts coughing as clay dust fills the air.
You sit on a couch. A very large, half-awake Maedhros looms behind you, cropped awkwardly at the shoulders.
You: So…are we ready to begin?
Shuffling. A camera clatters. Someone whispers, “rolling wait no…now rolling.”
Interviewer: How would you describe a House Feanor wedding? And…how did you end up in charge of this?
You: (deep breath; practiced smile) Well. I married Nelyo back in the Years of the Trees.
Which, yes, was an eternity ago, thank you for reminding me.
Back then, Indis handled most of the planning. It was the first House Feanor wedding.
And it was…memorable.
Let’s just say Indis required an extended visit to the Gardens of Lórien afterward. For… reasons that for months had Finwe having PTSD flashbacks.
House Feanor weddings, of which there have only been two, not counting my in-laws, are…intense.
They last fourteen days. Fourteen.
(beat)
This is considered “reasonable.”
It begins with an exchange of courting gifts. These must be handmade, emotionally significant, politically acceptable, and impressive enough that no one’s grandfather insults them out loud.
Then:
Three days of feasting and dancing
Five days of inter-house competitions
Four days of worship and sacred ritual
Two days of dueling challenges against the union. And finally, the wedding itself. Followed immediately by another feast cooked by newlyweds.
I’ve done this once before for Curufin. In Formenos. Which was… a logistical nightmare. Never host a Feanorian wedding somewhere cold and remote. People get mean.
So we’re hoping that by letting you all see behind the scenes of this magical affair…you’ll understand the effort, the love, and the sheer emotional damage involved.
And let us pray to Eru that this ends in tears of joy. Not despair.
(glances off-camera at shouting in Quenya)
…It could go either way.
You stand amid scaffolding, gesturing wildly.
You: I am telling you, the chairs cannot be hexagonal!
Ivor, Maia of Aule (exasperated): Hexagons are the most structurally stable geometric form.
You: Not when seating Feanorians. They will turn them into weapons.
Ivor (pinching the bridge of their nose): They are ceremonial chairs, surely-
You: We have 3,746 smithies and nearly double that number of smiths trained in enchanted weaponry. Let us not tempt this crowd, shall we?
Ivor (sighing): …Rectangular, then.
You nod once.
Hard cut.
Celegorm crouches beside Huan, who wears a ceremonial wreath and looks deeply offended by existence.
Celegorm: All I’m saying is...if the bride’s house brings a canary,
Huan should be allowed to challenge it.
You: Celegorm. It is a singing bird.
Celegorm: Then it should sing for its honor.
Huan looks at you beseechingly, as if to say he did not die in Middle-earth for this.
You: No combat animals. We talked about this.
Celegorm: You’re stifling tradition.
You: You invented that tradition ten minutes ago.
Interviewer: Will there be any traditional family vows?
You stare at them. Then at the camera. Then slightly past the camera, where a portrait of Feanor looms.
You: No. They’re signing a wedding contract.
(Uncomfortable silence)
You: It is binding. Clear and minimal poetry. Next question.
Caranthir is visibly furious.
Carathir: I am not sitting there. Seat me anywhere but with Ambarussa
You: You are, Moryo.
Caranthir: I refuse.
You step closer and whisper, sound barely caught by the mic.
You: Maedhros will be disappointed.
Caranthir sits immediately. The camera pans to Maedhros in the distance, unaware.
Caranthir: You play dirty, nesa.
Voices rise. A glove hits the floor. You step forward too fast. Followed by Maedhros and Turgon, the designated muscle for the feast.
You: Nope. Absolutely not. I am not filling out dueling paperwork again.
A sword stops halfway out of its sheath.
You: Put it away. I swear to Eru I will seat you next to Curufin and make you discuss metallurgy.
The glove is retrieved.
Chairs scrape.
Music resumes, off-key but alive.
Maedhros stands stiffly in front of the camera, holding a script in his unharmed hand. He clears his throat with great seriousness.
Maedhros (reading): Thank you for watching this event with us. And thank you to so many of you who sent the teas and the weighted blankets.
(pause; he squints at the parchment)
If my husband, Maedhros, is reading this to you, then the wedding was a success, and I am hopefully slumbering peacefully in my room.
We will see you at a different wedding. As many of you have already noticed, High Prince Caranthir will soon be wed to his partner.
And yes, Maglor and my sister-in-law did consent to their proposal to Moryo during the third feast. Please do not form opinions.
(He pauses, nods solemnly, as if agreeing with this on principle.)
Maedhros lowers the script and looks directly into the camera.
Maedhros: That was from my wife, who is indeed sleeping as we speak. She has not moved in several hours. This is normal. Now, if you will excuse me, I should join her.
He stands. The camera immediately lurches sideways as he uproots a cable, a light stand collapses, and someone off-camera yelps.
Next to your brothers, you grin as you see the Feanorians walk in. And there he is: Uncle Feanor.
Beside you, your twin sighs. Of course, Finrod never understood the fun in your ragebaiting. He was too much of a saint to.
There was a reason, after all. You were the only Arafinwean to spend that long in the Halls of Mandos.
You're weaving through the crowd toward your beloved uncle when your aunt, Nerdanel, catches your eye. To your horror, she promptly steers Feanor away. Dodging you. Effectively pushing Maedhros into your path. And just like that, you lose sight of your prime entertainment behind a mountain of elf.
"Not now, Nelyo. Step away," you say, leaning to the side to catch your uncle’s eye.
You had just the phrase, the one guaranteed to ignite him like dry kindling.
To your ire, Nelyo calmly retrieves a chalice of wine and manages to lure you into a detour. Somehow, he convinces you to give him a full tour of the traps you had laid across your wing of the palace.
By the time you're back, the feast is in full swing. You are stuck in a debate with Celegorm when the moment strikes.
Your uncle Feanor is seated just three places away.
You spot the exact moment your aunt notices the gleam in your eyes. Nelyo is far off, deep in conversation with the Peredhel, and your path is clear.
Feanor is passionately arguing history with Findis when you lock in.
"No, it was not that year, Findis," he says, hands slicing the air. "That line of Men ends well into the sixty-seventh Age of—"
He makes the mistake of looking your way, and your hands are already up.
"Six, seven," you grin, moving your hands like elfings do. The silly trick had many ancient beings scratching their heads.
Feanor combusts.
He throws his napkin on the table and nearly launches himself across it to throttle you.
But you're already laughing, breathless.
Oh, how dull Valinor had been in his absence.
You were there when your beloved uncle asked Galadriel for a strand of her hair.
Right in front of you. Without so much as a glance your way. As if your hair, longer, glossier, and objectively better curled than hers, didn’t exist.
You clutched your metaphorical pearls as Galadriel politely refused him, and then stayed long enough to witness the full dramatic arc of your uncle’s wounded pride. He stormed off like a tragic hero from an unfinished epic.
Tsk, tsk. This would not do.
So, at first light the next day, you paid him a visit.
In the quiet hours of Laurelin, you made your way to his forge.
Letting yourself in with your self-appointed entry pass, which was just a crumpled scrap of paper featuring a stick figure labeled "Feanor's favorite person", you left him a gift.
When he arrived later, he found the forge littered with shimmering strands of golden hair.
Tightly coiled curls. Ones he didn’t remember asking for.
And on the anvil, you left a drawing: the two of you, hand in hand, both grinning. He was unmistakably labeled "Uncle Curu", and you had given yourself a sparkly crown.
The streets of Tirion fell quiet as you walked away from the forge.
A bald head glinting in the morning light is an unusual sight among the Eldar.
You were twenty paces out when you heard your uncle’s war cries echo through the city.
"And the winner of this competition is... the Curufinwe Slammer Mechaninator," a confounded Maia announced, hesitating slightly over the syllables.
You jumped in your seat.
Proudly, you stood and bowed to the supportive, if equally confused, audience.
And of course, you made a point to smile at your dearest uncle as you made your way up the stage to accept your award.
The Curufinwe Slammer Mechaninator was your latest invention.
Elegant? No.
Functional? Debatable.
Devastating? Absolutely.
Your model sat proudly in the front row: Findekano, wearing the most extravagant braids seen in Tirion since the Days of Bliss. His updo blocked the view of at least ten people behind him. Tiny bells jingled every time he shifted.
He waved as you passed, beaming.
"Thank you, thank you," you said, dabbing away faux tears as you accepted the prize. You turned to the audience, voice trembling with staged sincerity.
“My inspiration for the Curufinwe Slammer Mechaninator is none other than my darling uncle.”
You smiled sweetly with a wicked gleam in your gaze.
Feanaro’s eyes narrowed. His fingers curled. Someone said later they saw his jaw click.
Findekano's bells jingled again.
Never again was Feanaro seen in braids.
The next morning, he sent a formal proclamation to the Tirion Herald, denouncing “ornamental hair vanity as a corrupting influence on craft.”
You had it framed.
It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon.
You had been sent. Politely exiled, really, to Feanaro’s study with a stack of grammar exercises and an ink-stained scroll titled “Linguistic Structures of Early Quenya.”
“Ask your uncle for help,” someone had said, clearly trying to remove you from the palace kitchens.
They hadn’t meant Feanaro. But he was the only one home.
And now here he was: sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, hovering beside you.
“This is simple,” he said, tapping the table. “You decline the noun according to case, number, and function.”
You squinted at the page.
“I just think accusative case is… aggressive,” you said thoughtfully. “Too accusatory.”
“It should be,” Fëanáro said through his teeth. “It is the case of direct action.”
“That sounds very judgmental of inaction.”
“It is grammar, not philosophy.”
You tapped your quill against your cheek. “Isn’t all grammar philosophy, though? Isn’t every sentence a declaration of belief?”
He stared at you.
Then walked to the other end of the room.
Then came back.
“You cannot keep dodging the assignment with riddles.”
“I’m not dodging,” you said. “I’m contextualizing.”
He inhaled sharply. “Translate the sentence.”
You looked down at the line. “The fire consumes the house.”
You raised your hand.
He did not look pleased. “Yes?”
“Is the fire a metaphor?”
He closed his eyes. “No.”
“But you are very famously metaphorical with fire, Uncle.”
“The fire is not me.”
“I never said it was, but now that you mention it…”
His hands flexed on the back of the chair.
You beamed.
Finally, he sat down, folded his arms, and said coldly, “If you can name the subject, object, and verb of the sentence correctly, I will ignore the last two minutes.”
You paused.
“Define ‘correctly.’”
He stood up again.
It was stifling.
He didn’t belong here.
Not after an eternity in the Halls of Mandos. Not after the weight of what he had been, and what had burned with him.
Who had asked for this return? Who had thought it wise?
He was Feanaro. The doom of the Noldor, the architect of their unmaking.
He shouldn’t have come.
He was already halfway to the door when it came. That voice.
“Leaving so soon, Uncle?” You're standing in his path.
Of course you are.
He feels the old instinct first. The desire to snap, to fling a curse and storm out.
But the edge falters.
Because yours is the first voice to greet him. The first not to whisper behind a hand or weigh him with silent judgment. The first to call him with such familiarity.
And for reasons that unsettle him, he does not move.
Surprise flickers in your eyes before you bury it under that same too-wide grin you’ve always worn when you’re about to say something irritating.
“Come on,” you say, casual as ever, “at least stay long enough to pretend you’ve missed wine.”
You reach for his arm without waiting for permission. Of course you do.
It's crazy how treating human life with dignity has now become a political view.
In such times I remember Haldir's quote-
“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”
Despite its cruelties, the world will get better someday. Someday, we will not fail our children as we do now.
If you don't mind me asking, are you ever going back to writing for the silmarillion fandom? I really miss your stuff i keep rereading everything multiple times a day it's so good<333
Thank you so much! I love writing, but this year has been one of reading as much as I can. I am planning to reread The Silmarillion soon, and maybe then I can get to writing something.
I did just post a fic for Finrod, an idea that made me log in, and I saw your beautiful message.
As always, there are great writers on this platform, who in my absence have continued posting the most amazing things.
AN: I have not written anything in such a long time, but this idea was too good to give up on. To all who read and enjoy my stories, thank you. I love looking at your comments in the scarce weeks that I log in.
Pairing: Finro x Reader
Genre: Pining and love
Finrod has always been fond of smiling.
Laughter and merriment came easily to him. In the halls of Nargothrond, his voice had often risen in song, bright with joy, light with love. He had smiled even in death.
The world, despite its sharp edges, was always worth savoring. Even in sorrow. Even in exile. Even in war.
He had seen it all: the crumbling of kingdoms, the passing of kings, the fading of old worlds. Yet his spirit, golden and unwavering, had not dimmed.
And though the long ages of Arda may dull the will of the Firstborn children of Eru, Finrod has yet to grow weary of its marvels.
There is always something beautiful. A sunrise cast through mist. The laughter of mortals. The first bloom after a bitter winter.
But today...today, he smiles brighter than usual. He finds himself standing before a mirror, drawn to it like flies to a fresh bloom. He looks once. Then again. And again.
Not out of vanity, no. That had long since left him.
He is searching. For something. For someone.
And then he sees it. A small line beside his lips. A smile line. A wrinkle. Faint, but there.
A mark on his perfect, ageless face.
He stares. Breath held. And slowly, his expression softens.
It is not a flaw. It is a memory. It is yours.
He had seen that line before. So many times. On you. As the years went by, as time gently sculpted your face. With each year, it had deepened, and each year, he had loved it more.
He had once traced that line with such reverence, fingers brushing the soft terrain of your skin. The laugh lines around your eyes. The quiet joy that shaped your aging face. A face he had missed for so long, more than words could ever carry.
And now, somehow, it has found its way onto his.
His hand lifts, almost trembling, to touch it. He feels the slight dip in his skin, the tender evidence of time finally catching up to him.
Not punishment. Not loss.
A gift.
In some gentle, unseen way, it brings him closer to you than he has felt in ages.
And so he smiles. Not just once. Not just today. But every day that follows.
He smiles more often, more deeply, hoping, willing, that more of these lines will come.
He thinks often of the Timeless Halls. Of what form you might wear when he meets you again. Will you still be weathered, still aged, as you once were in your final days?
He hopes so. He dreams of seeing your silver hair, the soft heaviness of your eyelids, the delicate wisdom in your gaze. And perhaps this time, he will meet you not as the bright prince of the Elves, but as one who has changed.
As one who has aged. As one who has waited.
Would you recognize him? Would you know him, in this new shape?
He smiles at the thought. Because he believes you would.
1. You frequently slip away from your guards without telling anyone, riding off alone on horseback across the fields in full royal garb, unarmoured and entirely unbothered. Every time he finds you again—usually muddy and smug—he looks like he might burst a blood vessel. “Do you try to get yourself killed, or are you just daft?”
2. You absolutely refuse to use the side saddle, no matter the occasion. During formal processions you ride astride like a soldier, skirts hiked to your thighs, scandalising half the court and making Fingon grind his teeth into powder behind you.
3. You mock the ceremonial bowing and curtsying rituals—especially when Fingon does them. The one time he bent knee before you at a ball, you tapped his helmet like a drum and asked, “Can you hear me knocking?” He refused to speak to you for two days.
4. You have a tendency to ‘borrow’ his weapons for reasons both frivolous and infuriating. Once you took his favourite sword to use as a makeshift paperweight. Another time, you repurposed his dagger to cut cheese. He was appalled. “That blade has tasted dragonfire and your Camembert has ruined it.”
5. You challenge him to duels in public spaces, loudly and without warning, just to see the expression on his face. Whether it’s a wooden spoon or an actual blade, you’ve no shame and he’s so tired. “We are in the middle of a diplomatic feast, Your Grace—put the ladle down.”
6. You flirt outrageously with other knights in front of him, particularly the youngest squires, just to rile him up. It always works. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear it, and later you’ll find him hacking at training dummies like they insulted his honour.
7. You give him pet names in front of the court that no knight should ever have. “My brave little buttercup” nearly made him choke on his wine. “Moon-thighs” had him storming from the hall. “Sword-boy” made his cousin laugh so hard he snorted.
8. You leave your embroidery or court duties half-finished to go climb roofs, trees, or anything high and ridiculous. He once found you dangling your feet off the ramparts and nearly dropped his helm when you cheerily waved.
9. You don’t cower during battles or danger. You face threats with a mad sort of calm, teeth bared and eyes blazing, and he hates that he both admires and despairs of your lack of self-preservation.
“Next time you run when I say run.” “What if I’m feeling brave?” “Then I’ll carry you and tie you to a bloody tree.”
10. You once kissed him mid-battle, just to throw him off his rhythm. He fumbled his sword and had to pretend it was a tactical flourish while you laughed into his armour. “You—you absolute menace, that was not a proper time for affection!” he shouted, red in the face and bleeding from the ear.
1. You always polish his armour by hand before every battle, even though he has squires for that. You sit cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled up, humming under your breath as you work. He never disturbs you. Just watches in silence, thinking, I would die for you a thousand times over.
2. When he’s injured, you fuss over him like an old nursemaid, scolding him in whispers and bandaging him with trembling hands. “Idiot,” you murmur, but your fingers linger just a second too long. He pretends not to notice the way you kiss the edge of a bruise when you think he’s asleep.
3. You sneak him pastries from the royal kitchens—his favourite honeyed tarts that are technically forbidden to knights during drills. You press them into his hand with a wink and vanish. He eats them behind the stables like a guilty schoolboy.
4. You braid his hair before tourneys, your fingers working deftly while you murmur quiet encouragements. “Win this one, and I might let you kiss me somewhere scandalous.” He always fights twice as hard those days.
5. You dance with him when no one’s looking, in hallways and gardens, barefoot on marble floors or in the mud. Once, you whispered, “No music needed. I can hear it in your heartbeat.” He nearly tripped over his own boots.
6. You defend him publicly when other nobles sneer at his lack of courtly manners. “He’s the best man you’ll ever meet, and twice the warrior,” you once said, before challenging the duke to a duel over it. Fingon had never looked prouder. Or more terrified.
7. You write him letters during long campaigns, but never sign them with your name—only a tiny sketch of a sword and a crown in the corner. He keeps every single one in a secret box, even the ones that just say, “Don’t get killed. I’ll be pissed.”
8. You once fought off a wild boar with nothing but a branch because you didn’t want Fingon to be late for a royal inspection. He arrived to find you bloodied, triumphant, and completely unconcerned by the carcass beside you.
“I don’t know whether to kiss you or drag you to the healer first.” “I vote kiss. Always kiss.”
9. You always know when he needs silence. You just sit beside him, no words, no questions, your presence a quiet balm against the storms in his head. He once told you, softly, “You’re the only calm I’ve ever known.”
10. And when he’s had a hard day—when blood coats his hands and the weight of duty presses heavy on his shoulders—you never speak of titles or thrones. You just take his hand, hold it tight, and whisper, “Come home, Fingon. Just come home.” And he does. Every time. For you.
I think of Maedhros everyday. All the time. With that one stupid scenario that won't let me be. There's a whole ass playlist for it and it is driving me crazy.
