Findekáno survives a terrible fall with grievous injuries. Confined for his recovery, plaster casts on both arms, he’s making everyone in the palace miserable. Fearful for the health of his fëa (and sick of his attitude), Anairë conceives a plan to ease his suffering.
She does not expect to be overcome by her own desires.
10.6k words, Explicit, Anairë/Fingon.
Dubious Consent, Mother/Son Incest, Mommy Issues, Anairë POV, Past Fingon/Maedhros (Tolkien), Background Anairë/Fingolfin, Tirion (Tolkien), Pre-Darkening of Valinor (Tolkien), Years of the Trees (Tolkien), Complicated Relationships, Unhealthy Relationships, Injury, Hand Jobs, Unhappy marriage, in-universe homophobia of the "maybe I can cure him" variety, Hypocrisy, Denial, Clothed Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Woman on Top, Crying, Multiple Orgasms, Chair Sex, Breasts, Vaginal Fingering, Doggy Style, Pool Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Fear of Discovery, stop making love to me when I'm trying to fuck you, Power Dynamics, Family Dynamics, Infidelity, based on a reddit post, the author's barely disguised kink for gratuitous descriptions of jewelry and clothing, Wank and Tell | Creator is Open to Comments about Masturbating to This Work, I'm Sorry Tolkien, Bad Moms of Arda
Our war yet unwon, what's been said and done [WIP]
by jauneclair (@ecofutural)
Fingon said, "I have loved you long enough to know that you will never allow any judgement to fall upon your brothers but yours. No matter that it makes me look feckless and disloyal to Finrod’s people and my own, as well.”
“Then do not force me into a position where I must defend them!” Maedhros cried.
“Forced!” Fingon slammed the goblet down. It fell, splashing red wine in an arc across the rug and the hem of Fingon’s fine robes. Fingon spread his arms wide so that Maedhros could see his soiled robe, the red soaking the dark blue so that it was nearly black. “Yes, indeed, this is the look of someone who forces you to do a thing against your will.”
---
Following the theft of a Silmaril, Maedhros tells Fingon of his plan for a great military Union against Morgoth. But Fingon has not forgotten Celegorm and Curufin's abduction of Luthien--and in his anger, accidentally reveals to Maedhros an old and terrible secret.
Prompt: What I'm looking for is post-Thangorodrim Maedhros and his struggle to regain his agency after being deprived of it for so long. After his rescue he's a mess. He doesn't want to eat, he doesn't want to be touched, he doesn't want the healers, he wants things that may harm him. He can go from terrified to furious in a moment. He fights, he bites, he provokes. He says things that make people who have crossed the ice hell cry.
The people around him - be it Fingon, Fingolfin or his brothers - aren't exactly equipped to deal with him. They make mistakes. They do things against his will because they don't know better or because it's really necessary. They are frustrated. They are angry. They are horrified. They don't know how to help him.
I don't want this to turn into Maedhros doesn't know what's best for him and he should accept help OR into Maedhros has every right to behave the way he does and the others should let him be. The situation is horrible for both parties, they all have valid points and feelings and both make mistakes.
I'd love it if they reach a compromise or at least if there's a hopeful ending, but if you want to go full angst, please do.
Fingon/Maedhros is OPTIONAL. I love it, but if it's the only thing that prevents you from writing the fic, by all means, they can be strictly friends or they can be in a queer-platonic relationship.
Mentions of Angband-typical violence, including non-con, is okay, but NO graphic descriptions please. DNW also Maedhros in a sexual situation, though he can try to initiate it.
"Not wholly unwilling": What happened at the beginning of Aredhel & Eöl's relationship?
Aredhel, unlike her cousin Artanis, is sheltered and controlled by her family, especially, it seems, by the men in her life. So why might that be? Is her wanderlust simply because of how she's treated, or is there a pattern of impulsivity from her childhood? There are hints of neurodivergence about her character -- might her family have felt she is particularly vulnerable, in need of special protection?
Eöl established a homestead in Nan Elmoth because he was ill at ease under Melian's girdle. Why would he leave what was easily the safest first-age haven for a kinsman of Thingol, presumably a Sindar? Was he a rigid traditionalist in a way mainstream Sindar society was moving away from? Was there trauma in his past? Was his ancestry more than just Sindar? Certainly there is some past there to explore.
So explore it we shall -- I've started a series "Where even the darkness is something to see", interconnected, canon-compliant (where canon is available) tales of their history, starting with their meeting in Nan Elmoth. Warning: several of them feature explicit sex (though not rape/outright non-con), so minors please DNI.
Would love your thoughts and discussion about this fascinating, underexplored ship and their son. Send me your headcanons and thoughts!
Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Caranthir/Haleth
Additional Tags: Ritual Sex, Vaginal Sex, Fluffier than anticipated? Probably
Summary: If she's being honest, she's not yet quite sure why she's still a bit surprised that Caranthir has agreed to be here with her, just this once.
Caranthir, Haleth, and an early summer celebration.
Written for a prompt at @silmkinkmeme. Also inspired by homelikecatastrophe's O softly tread.
T, 2883 words, Maedhros/Fingon, warning for muddled consent lines and implied/referenced character death
On Ao3
It is Celegorm’s people who find him wandering in northern Ossiriand twenty-five years after the battle. Wearing rags, bearing scars, he doesn’t answer to his name or title but walks with them when prompted.
He looks through Celegorm and doesn’t speak to him. When Celegorm sleeps, he tries to leave the tent, but the soldiers catch him again. Dazed, he returns. Celegorm ties him up and sends for Curufin.
---
“Do you believe he is in thrall to the Enemy?” Curufin asks.
“He would not be the first one,” Celegorm answers. “We might not find out until it is too late.”
“What should we do with him then?”
“Killing him might be for the best.”
“What shall we tell Nelyo?”
“Nothing. Few know that he lives. My people will keep silent.”
“Can you be certain? Your people betrayed you in Nargothrond. What if Nelyo finds out? He might have forgiven us Ingoldo’s death, but he will not forgive Findekáno’s. Even if we can be certain he will never find out, will you do it? Kill him with your own hands?”
“It will not be too difficult. He can hardly put up a fight in this state.”
“You know that is not what I mean.”
“Does Russandol live?”
The hoarse voice startles the brothers, and they turn to meet Fingon’s suddenly alert gaze.
"He does," says Curufin, the first to compose himself.
A distant smile breaks upon Fingon’s face. He stands, his hands still tied to the pole.
“Take me to him.”
---
They catch up with Maedhros not too far from Amon Ereb. Fingon’s hair and most of his face are hidden, but Maedhros almost tumbles off his horse when his look falls upon the mysterious rider.
He stands still while they approach. Fingon dismounts, walks to Maedhros, grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him on the lips.
---
“How did you survive?” Maedhros asks over supper – the best meat and wine Amon Ereb has to offer. “We were told of your death.”
“It was a near thing,” Fingon says. His smile is almost wistful. “I was taken captive instead.”
“Were you brought to him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he personally interrogate you?”
“He did.”
Maedhros doesn’t ask what Fingon told him.
“Were you put to work?”
“Yes, in the mines.”
“Did you escape?”
“I must have. I cannot remember.”
A muscle strains in Maedhros’s jaw.
“Why did you kiss me?” he asks. “We had never kissed before with others present.”
Fingon smiles at him.
“We have been apart for decades. I escaped thralldom. I missed you. Things that mattered before matter less now.”
Maedhros’s eyes narrow.
“And I did kiss you once before others,” Fingon adds. “Back home when Ango dared me. Remember?”
“Yes,” Maedhros says.
The lines on his forehead smooth over.
“You will be under guard,” he says. “You will not leave the walls of Amon Ereb. You will not carry weapons.”
Fingon gives a placid nod. “For how long?” he asks.
“Until I can be sure.”
“We never did it to you,” Fingon says, still smiling.
“You made a mistake.”
---
Fingon earns his freedom piece by piece over the years. The number of his guards is reduced to one and only when Maedhros isn’t with him. Sometimes, he goes for walks with Maedhros or his guard. At some point, Maedhros stops locking Fingon in his chamber when he is away. And then he stops going away, even though he never spent much time in Amon Ereb before. He preferred patrolling and hunting, returning to the fortress a few times a year. Now, he never leaves it.
---
“He makes me uneasy,” Maglor admits to Caranthir. “I cannot stay in Amon Ereb for longer than a month. Even if he is not in the room, I feel his presence.”
They are wandering in eastern Ossiriand, among Amras’s Laiquendi friends.
“It’s the eyes," Caranthir says. “Too often, they are vacant. As if whoever inhabits that hröa has fled it.”
“And that terrible smile of his,” Maglor says, shuddering. “Like a layer of bright color painted over a rotting roof.”
“It was different with Nelyo, wasn’t it?” Caranthir asked.
“He never seemed absent. Even when his memories overtook him. There was always fire in his eyes.”
“Perhaps he needs time.”
“Perhaps,” Maglor says doubtfully.
---
The first time Fingon tries to kiss him, Maedhros pushes him away. The fifth time – he kisses back.
---
Maedhros sits with his eyes closed, while Fingon braids his hair.
“This feels nice,” he says as Fingon gently scratches his scalp.
“Isn’t this the life we always dreamed of?” Fingon asks. "Us. Together. We have never lived in one place with each other for so long.”
Maedhros smiles as he does every time Fingon mentions something from the past – another small proof that he is still Fingon.
“It is,” Maedhros says. “Despite the circumstances.”
He glances at Celegorm’s letter before him and snorts.
“What is it?” Fingon asks.
“Listen to what this idiot writes,” Maedhros says. “While you and Findekáno were busy braiding each other’s hair—”
Fingon laughs. “Don’t tell him how right he was!”
“Never. While you and Findekáno were busy braiding each other’s hair, my scouts found out— Oh.”
“Is something wrong?” Fingon asks.
“Lúthien’s son has the Silmaril,” Maedhros says quietly. “He rules now in his grandfather’s kingdom.”
Fingon says nothing. Maedhros stares at the letter for a moment.
“I should write to this Dior,” he says.
“Do you think he will be inclined to listen?”
“If I am persuasive, perhaps. He is young, and the Girdle is no more.”
“May I kiss you first?” Fingon asks.
“You must.”
Fingon leans down. Maedhros tilts his head back and pecks him on the lips.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Fingon smiles. “I love you too.”
---
Fingon walks to the gates of the fortress. The guard tries to stop him, but Fingon kills him, takes his sword and kills three more people that stand in his way before he is overpowered.
---
Amon Ereb has no dungeon, so they chain Fingon in the wine cellar.
He lies there, scraping his fingers against the damp wall until Maedhros comes in. Fingon sits up and meets his gaze. They stare at each other for long minutes.
“You killed four people,” Maedhros says.
“They would not let me leave.”
“Why did you want to leave?”
“I cannot remember.”
Maedhros kicks an empty barrel. It cracks, then collapses upon itself.
“What am I supposed to do with you now?”
“Kiss me,” Fingon says.
“You killed four people,” Maedhros repeats, incredulous.
“You have killed more. Kiss me, please.”
Maedhros does.
---
“Do you think it is possible to lock me somewhere I can see the stars?” Fingon asks.
“I am afraid not,” Maedhros says.
Fingon nods sadly. “I miss the stars,” he says, snuggling closer to Maedhros. “If only your people had let me leave, I would not have killed them.”
“Why did you want to leave?” Maedhros asks, tracing a dark scar along Fingon’s ribs.
Fingon’s hands twitch in the chains.
“I have told you many times. I cannot remember. You must know what it is like to be so confused, to have no idea where you are or why you do what you do. You bit my hand once. I still bear the mark.”
“It was a few days after you brought me back. I was delirious and did not recognize you,” Maedhros says. “This is different.”
"I cannot remember," Fingon says.
Maedhros dresses and leaves the cellar, calling the guards back.
---
Maedhros doesn’t tell his brothers what happened, but they find out anyway.
Maglor is the first to arrive. Then, Curufin. Then, Caranthir. Maedhros forbids anyone from entering the cellar. He takes care of Fingon himself.
Once, Maglor catches him leaving the cellar half-dressed but says nothing.
---
All of Maedhros’s brothers are waiting for him in the hall. Celegorm and Amras are still wearing their travel-stained clothes.
“Welcome back,” Maedhros says.
Celegorm slowly turns to him. “How long were you going to keep it from us?” he asks.
Maedhros stares him down. “I have it under control.”
“Four of my people are dead!” Amras cries. “Their friends and families demand retribution. He has to die.”
“He was not in his right mind when he did it,” Maedhros says. “Anyone who has been a captive there could have done it. I could have done it. Our uncle would not put me to death for it.”
“Because it would mean war,” Celegorm says. “Be honest with yourself. He is clearly under the Enemy’s control.”
“There is nothing clear about it.”
“Were it anyone else in his place, you would not hesitate,” Celegorm says, raising his voice. “If you cannot find the strength to do it, I take it upon myself.”
“Of course,” Maedhros sneers. “What is another cousin’s blood on your hands?”
A dangerous glint brightens Celegorm’s eyes, but his voice is calm when he speaks.
“Ingoldo chose his own fate. Findekáno cannot even choose his because he has no will of his own. It will be a mercy. What life is it to live as the Enemy’s thrall and your pleasure slave?”
Maedhros staggers, speechless with rage.
“You still fuck him?” Amras exclaims. “Even after he killed my people?”
Maedhros ignores him. His heavy gaze falls on Maglor, who looks away.
“You told them,” Maedhros accuses.
“I did not use those words,” Maglor says. He raises his head. “But it is not right, Nelyo. What he did. What you do. It is not right. He is not right.”
“What does it matter the words he used?” Celegorm asks. “The result is not changed.”
“You are the last person who should speak of such things,” Maedhros snaps at him.
“Have you considered that I might have learned from my mistakes?”
“No.”
Celegorm laughs. “At least I never chained Lúthien and never touched her.”
He doesn’t move even when Maedhros strides to him, eyes flashing white.
“What Findekáno does,” Maedhros says very quietly, “he does of his own free will.”
“How can you know that? Perhaps it is Moringotto’s will that drives him to your bed. Perhaps he has simply realized it is his best chance to stay alive.”
“I refuse to discuss this with you,” Maedhros says, turning away.
“You cannot avoid this conversation. We all agree he cannot be allowed to live.”
“Not all.”
Both Celegorm and Maedhros turn to Curufin in shock.
“We can use him to get the Silmaril,” Curufin says. “We have to find a way to let Turukáno know his brother lives. We promise to hand Findekáno over to him unharmed if he takes his army to Doriath and brings us the Silmaril. Turukáno’s army is greater than ours. Dior will not be able to withstand him. When he gives us the Silmaril, we give him his brother. Everyone is happy. Then Turukáno can worry about what to do with Findekáno.”
“I doubt he would ever help us,” Caranthir says before Maedhros can regain his voice. “That plan is too convoluted and bound to fail. Why not simply have Findekáno speak to Dior on our behalf? He is still the High King. His father had Elwë’s respect. Findekáno is more likely to convince Dior to give up the Silmaril than any of us.”
“We cannot trust him to do it. He is too unstable,” Curufin says. “Dior might not trust a former thrall either.”
“Dior would never give up the Silmaril willingly,” Celegorm adds.
“Then the only thing left to do is to kill Findekáno,” Amras says. “My people will have justice.”
“Enough!” Maedhros cries. “They were my people too! There are too few of us left to make that distinction. You keep repeating it – my people, my brother. You are not the only one who grieves.”
Amras says nothing. He leaves the hall without looking at anyone. Four pairs of eyes stare at Maedhros in reproach.
“This discussion is over,” Maedhros says. “I care not what you have decided. Only my decision counts in this matter.”
He turns to the door. Celegorm moves to speak, but Maglor shakes his head.
“What do you intend to do with him, Nelyo?” he asks. Maedhros stops in his tracks. “Keep him in chains forever?” Maglor continues. “Trust me, I have no desire to see him dead. None of us does. If you knew for certain that he is not controlled by the Enemy, I would be the first to stand by your side. But you keep him chained because you have your doubts. How long can this continue?”
Maedhros stands still for a moment, then walks out without turning back.
“Think about it,” Maglor says before the door closes behind Maedhros.
---
Someone poisons Fingon’s custard. He suffers for a few days but lives. Maedhros doesn’t leave his side.
---
“Would you like to go for a walk?” Maedhros asks.
Fingon perks up. “Outside?”
“In the woods.”
“I would love to.”
Maedhros unchains him. Fingon brings his hands before him, so Maedhros can bind them with a rope. They leave the fortress together. Fingon looks up at the stars and smiles. He strolls among the trees, his bound hands caressing the bark. He stops when they reach his favorite glade where they have made love more than once.
“Should we?” he asks Maedhros, turning back.
His smile freezes on his lips. He looks at the knife in Maedhros’s hand and then at his face.
“My brothers want you dead,” Maedhros says. “They believe you are still in thrall to the Enemy.”
“But I love you,” Fingon says.
“I am losing my control over them,” Maedhros says. “No one believes you are still yourself.”
“What do you believe?”
Maedhros yanks the rope binding Fingon’s hands and pulls him close. He puts the knife at his throat.
“Prove to me you are Findekáno,” he pleads. “Prove it to me, and you will live.”
“How can I prove it now if I failed to prove it during these years?” Fingon asks. A drop of blood slides along the blade. “We have joined fëar. Surely you would have noticed if I were still a thrall.”
“You hide something. I felt it, but I never asked.”
“So do you! You have ever since you returned. I spent twenty-five years in the dark without seeing the stars or the sun. Some horrors are not meant to be shared. I understand it now.”
Maedhros shakes his head. “Findekáno would not be content sitting idly for years and playing husband to me. Findekáno would fight me if I put him in chains. Findekáno would be wracked with guilt after killing innocents.”
“I have changed. You changed, too, after your captivity. How could we not?”
“It is not a good enough reason.”
“I love you. Isn’t it enough? Were you not happy with me? I was.”
“Findekáno would rather die than live with the doubt that he was the Enemy’s spy.”
“Findekáno was a fool!” Fingon leans forward, the blade pressing into his skin. “Kill me then if that is your decision. But I will not make it easy for you. I will not absolve you of guilt. I will not accept death with grace. I want to live. I want to live, Russandol.”
Maedhros’s hand shakes. Fingon closes his eyes.
---
Maedhros returns alone, bloodied, clutching a long, dark braid. He closes himself in Fingon’s room for three days. No one asks him what he has done. No one speaks of Fingon again.
---
Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin fall in Doriath. The Silmaril disappears.
---
Maedhros seals the letter to Elwing, knowing it will be the last.
---
All three of them leave the fortress together but unaware of each other. Entranced, they follow the call. The treelight brings tears to their eyes. They keep walking until they see the Necklace of the Dwarves, bejeweled with the most precious gems of Valinor – all paling before the Silmaril.
They are so enraptured by the jewel that at first, they don’t see the one who has brought it to them. Then all three slowly look up and stare at Fingon – bloodstained, weary Fingon, holding the Nauglamír in his left hand.
Maedhros sways and stumbles forward, pulling him into his embrace.
“Is this enough to prove I am myself?” Fingon asks.
Maedhros only nods, eyes shut tight against the tears and the light.
“You let him live,” Amras says absently, still staring at the Silmaril.
“And it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?” Maedhros says.
Amras isn’t listening to him. He slowly reaches for the jewel.
“I would not do that,” Fingon says.
He raises his right hand to show the terrible burn on the palm.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
After his experiences in Angband Maedhros has a hard time properly engaging in sexual activities with Fingon. The solution they come up with? Ask Maglor, someone they both trust and find attractive, to let Fingon fuck him and have Maglor share all the sensations of their coupling with Maedhros via the use of ósanwë.
For @silmsmutweek Day 3, using the prompts: Established relationships, proxy, Challange: filling a prompt for @silmkinkmeme
Spicy Snippet under the cut
Kiss him, Maedhros sent the commanding thought down the connection he shared with his dearest of brothers. He watched Maglor squirm on the bed under Fingon’s weight with half lidded eyes, seeing the exact moment when the tantalising thought began to swirl around the minstrel’s mind in warm lustful circles without needing to check on their open thread of ósanwë.
Show him how much I love his touch.
In that moment Fingon languidly rolled his hips, the sensual undulating motion of two naked bodies drawing Maedhros’ gaze, and the elder Fëanorion felt his beloved’s cockhead brush against his little brother’s sweet spot. He softly moaned the same time as Maglor cried out, feeling the spark of pleasure blooming in the younger elf’s mind as if it was his own.
Maglor surged up and caught their cousin’s lips with his own in a fervent kiss, obeying Maedhros’ wishes. Fingon made a noise of surprise at the sudden onslaught of kisses, but he quickly adapted and took over the lead, pressing Maglor back down onto the bed of soft furs, and hiked up one toned rider’s thigh onto his shoulder, fingers splaying possessively over it.
The new angle had him driving his hardness deeper inside of Maglor’s tight hole, earning himself another cry from one Fëanorion splayed beneath him, shortly echoed by the other, who spectated the scene perched on an armchair drawn right up beside the bed. Fingon looked to the side, giving Maedhros a victorious grin while he thrust in and out of Maglor at a lazy pace.
[a fill for this prompt from @silmkinkmeme's promptfest]
“You’re antagonizing him,” Anairë snapped irritably at her husband in the middle of his latest tirade on his unreasonable half-brother.
Nolofinwë’s mouth stuttered to a stop as his brain caught up with what she said. “What?”
“You-” she said, sitting up angrily in bed to glare at him- “have done nothing but complain about his madness while you go about behind his back to get your own way. It is all you talk about now, all you think about! When was the last time you asked me what I have done? When was the last time you took an interest in our children outside of politics?”
Taken aback, he sputtered out, “Leadership of the Noldor is important,” and sat up, uncomfortable with the way she was looming over him.
“We are important!” She all but screamed at him.
“W—”
She overrode him. “This feud and your ludicrous conspiracies of betrayal and corruption of the Valar is all you keep in your mind now. You forget your tender words and touches but you remember your hideous tool of war whenever you go out.” She pointed accusingly at his sword, Ringil, where it hung in a place of honor above the bed.
“We need protection,” he insisted.
“Protection? Protection? That will not protect us!” A mad light gleamed in her eyes. She surged to her feet, hands falling on the scabbard of the sheathed blade. “This protects no one. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see how this insanity drives a wedge between us?”
“What are you doing?” He scrambled back across the luxurious mattress (only the finest craft befitted a son of the king) as she brought the sword down. “Anairë?”
“We don’t need another war, and we don’t need more fighting.” She brandished the thankfully still sheathed sword at him. “Now, lay down.”
