#silmfandom

[be11a2496-blog]

You might be cool but you will never be ‘Fëanor striding into the chamber mid-council in his full armour’ cool

[hello-from-valinor]

Feanor got out of Mandos, people. He works for Claire's now. Found this in their shop, almost got a heartattack.

[busymagpie]

What's your favourite part of the Silmarillion?

I don't mean your favourite part after reading it a couple of times. I mean the part that stuck with you your first time reading it when you didn't know what to expect.

I think it would be interesting to know

[be11a2496-blog]

Sympathy for the Devil

He didn’t just fall from grace over night. Melkor was losing his sight. Years and years of tormenting solitude while staring at the void. It didn’t seem so vast to him. It crushed his ego, black as it was, made him quail at how futile was his being. And then it began painting his vision black in slow distress.

He confessed. He said he repented his actions, and it wasn’t far from the truth. He was falling apart inside and out. His whole identity was on the brim of becoming undone. He was so helplessly caught up in his own fear, that he almost believed he had become one with the void. That he was to turn into his own worst nightmare: nothing.

It was plain that his sanity was being infested with a constant delusion that grew more solid day by day. He never forgot the acute pain in his eyes as they dragged him to the blessed light. Recoiling at how blindingly bright it was, he shielded his eyes and gave a silent cry. Had he already gone blind? He dared not look again to make sure. He held his head down reciting the words they wanted to hear, while in his heart he was gravely sick of their biased ethics.

All had not been lost yet. Now and then he roamed the holy land which never quite welcomed him like home. He wandered mindlessly, taking in what might have been his last visual memories ever. His vision was becoming less and less clear, but he was too proud to let anyone notice.

And then he saw them. Oh what a sight for his sore eyes. They were undoubtedly of unspeakable and matchless beauty, his final glance on sheer perfection. And they cost him his sight.

His madness took the better of him. He lost himself after he lost his ability to see. Now it was void forever and ever. Blindness became a prison of its own, and yet it was the only refuge left for him, the cemetary of hope.

Everything became strange. Even crying felt peculiarly new. He stole them, they were his now. It almost felt like regaining his sight. They caused him discomfort, scorching his flesh, so close to how his eyes felt when he still could make out shapes and forms.

Now he just sat there in his throne, motionless in his eternal darkness and curse, doomed and deprived of joy. Had he had his vision still, chances were he might not have been this way, a crippled force of nature waiting to diminish until nothing was left, as though its very creation was being reversed.

The Silmarils weighed the world on his head, and yet they were the only connection left, delaying the demise of his lucidity. All in memoriam of a punishment, and a faint echo of a gracious life that could have been.

[be11a2496-blog]

....what .-.

[be11a2496-blog]

HC that Maglor raps when he’s nervous

[be11a2496-blog]

If you are weird, secretive, dark and mysterious, insanely talented in a specific thing and have an unhealthy obsession with elves, yeah you’re probably a Maia

[be11a2496-blog]

HC that after rescuing his beloved Maitimo, all Fingon could think of was how to shine the light of hope on his life again. Now his eyes seemed distant when he looked, and he seemed distracted, as if he wasn’t there. Fingon didn’t like that at all. He hated to allow the very thought that the effort was in vain. He brought him back for a reason, and he wanted him to be whole again.

Not that he minded at all, he would still love him without hesitation even if Maitimo betrayed them all. It was Maitimo himself, who seemed to have lost faith altogether. He was changed, and his heart didn’t seem to be in the right place. He had grown cold, bitter, and shut everyone out, including Fingon.

This didn’t hurt him one bit. He felt his lover suffering, and he understood his reasons, however selfish they might have been. He simply wished to get through to him. He knew, that there was an old part of him there somewhere. But he was scared he might dig too deep and lose him forever.

That’s why he came up with it. He didn’t do it alone of course, it was too much of a work to be done single-handedly, so he asked quite a few other elves to give him a hand. He was sure of his own intentions, and yet it was not the same Maitimo anymore. He didn’t know if this would only make his long sufferings turn into pure hatred against the one he used to love. But it was a risk worth taking, that is, if he still was -though deep down- his same old lover.

Maitimo would now spend most of his time working, alone, busying himself with plans of payback by means of war. Imprisonment had turned him into a recluse. He would no longer be open to others, and this way he was in made him easier to be avoided.

Nonetheless, there came Fingon, relying on love and everything they shared, and not much else really. He had prepared himself to be rejected, for his heart to be broken, of course, but he wouldn’t let those thoughts bother him. It was Maitimo afterall. He couldn’t deny what Fingon gave, or so Fingon made himself believe.

As he approached, there was an eerie silence. For a moment he gave in, almost, looking at his once exhuberant lover, sitting mute in the shadow of his own mad grief. Maitimo looked up, and as he set his stony gaze on Fingon, he almost took a step back. But then, he took notice of his face, and he could feel his expression softening a little. Maybe he was just imagining this as a sign of peace, but there was no obvious protest from Maitimo either.

Fingon took heart again, and as he approached him, Maitimo dropped his eyes, as if pleading not to be cornered and be left in peace. He murmured something under his breath, but he didn’t look reluctant to have Fingon for company. Fingon got closer, and he could now hear his heart beat faster as it echoed too loud to his own ears through the gloomy silence of Maitimo’s sulking corner.

Fingon took a step closer, they were now inches apart, and abruptly Maitimo Jerked and stood up, looking defensive and uneasy. Fingon felt hurt, a little more than he thought he would be. He swallowed hard, unsure of what to do, and decided to leave him be. But as he was turning to go, Maitimo let out a sharp breath and tried his best to sound comforting in a low voice: I wasn’t expecting anyone’s company. Still, it’s not right to let you leave like this. Tell me, what you came here for.”

It seemed to Fingon as if he had dropped his guard, but that voice, it was the voice of a stranger. Fingon felt tears welling up in his eyes. He was terrified to look at Maitimo’s face, and see what he knew he would. So without turning around he replied, trying not to let his voice waver: No particular reason. Just that I was used to us...” he trailed off and decided not to let him know the truth: It doesn’t matter now. I’ll leave you be.”

When he reached the doorstep, Maitimo saw a box in his hand, and almost on instinct he asked: What’s in that box you carry?” Fingon stopped, and then turned to him. He realized he had already lost him, so what’s a little more. He cleared his voice saying: I had brought you a gift.”

Maitimo frowned in confusion, yet he gestured for him to return to his side and said: Changed your mind, then?” Fingon didn’t answer, he just put the box on his desk. Maitimo glanced at the box and then at his face. There was this childish, yet sweet fear in his eyes which made Fingon smile despite himself: Go on. Open it. It’s yours afterall.” Maitimo avoided making eye contact. He still wanted to question, but it just didn’t feel right. So he opened it.

There, inside the box, laid a beautifully wrought mechanical hand, designed specifically for Maedhros. All the measurements, the size, the model, everything was unquestionably fit. Maitimo was staring at it in disbelief. The silence lingered for a moment too long, and Fingon began to feel intimitated, thinking he might have crossed a line.

Maitimo looked at him again, this time, meeting his gaze and not looking away. Fingon’s heart dropped. This time he looked down. Maitimo reached and lifted up his chin: Fingon...you did this?!” Fingon couldn’t answer. He searched Maitimo’s eyes for confirmation. This seemed like too good a moment to let pass by. But before he could find the courage, Maitimo pulled him into a hug, so tight and passionate for a moment he thought his ribcage would be crushed. Then, as if being overwhelmed by all emotions at once, he broked down and sobbed like a child.

Fingon returned the embrace. Despite his broad shoulders and giant figure, Maitimo suddenly was so small and susceptible to the smallest painful thing. Fingon held him, and he was filled with sympathy. It wasn’t the Maedhros he used to know, he was a broken parody of his former prideful self. And this realization tore Fingon’s heart in half.

Before long Maitimo fell and clutched to Fingon’s knees. He was finally letting all the hurt out, feeling like a wounded little fawn in the cold of winter as it anticipated death’s shadow closing in on him. Fingon tried and managed to lessen the terror by his presence, as he stood firm like a protective shield against his nightmares. Never before has it been this way, it was always Maitimo providing shelter. But it was about time he returned the favor. It was nothing if it meant to truly save the one he loved most.

“It’s beautiful” Fingon could make these words out of Maitimo’s scattered words. He went on repeating, as if no matter how many times he said it just wasn’t enough. Fingon was kneeling beside him now, holding his head against his chest, stroking his silky red hair. Maitimo held onto him a little longer, then finally composing himself he turned his head to his: Aren’t you gonna show me how it works?”

Beaming, Fingon immediately stood up and reached for the hand. Maedhros did the same, and standing beside him he watched him enthusiastically give instructions. Yet he could not help getting distracted by how adorable he was. Before he himself could know, he interrupted Fingon with a fierce kiss. He then rested his forehead against his, and stroke his cheek with the only thumb he had left: No need for that. I want you to do it for me.” He added as Fingon smiled: every time.”