“If you let me give you a bath, I’ll sing you a song,” Maglor wheedled.
Elrond and Elros looked at each other—then shook their heads.
Maglor sighed. Being a fa... Being responsible for children was exhausting. How had his parents managed seven? No wonder Fëanáro had spontaneously combusted by the end...
“I’ll tell you a story?” he offered.
A longer pause of consideration, and he held his breath...but no. Another round of shaking heads.
“I’ll... I’ll...” Maglor could only think of things that were not appropriate for these children, like “I’ll teach you how to use an axe” or “I’ll let you go out hunting alone” or “I won’t tell Atar you snuck out to see Findekáno again” ...all things that would work better on slightly older children, or just his brothers specifically.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he said desperately.
An even longer pause. And then, at last—
Two nods. Maglor sighed in relief, shoulders slumping. What secret? He hadn’t a clue, but he did have an entire bath to think of one.
~
“Secret!” Elros demanded, grabbing him by the sleeve. “You promised!”
Maglor sat at the edge of their bed. “What kind of secret?” he asked.
They conferred with one another in the way twin elflings had. (If that twin bond was at all affected by their mortal blood, he couldn’t tell. Or it was balanced out by the strain of Maia within them.)
At last, Elrond said, “Secret about...him.” He shuddered, and Maglor’s heart sank.
“Maedhros has lots of secrets,” he said slowly. “Some of them are even secret from me.”
“You promised,” Elros whined.
“Only some!” Maglor said hurriedly. He’d been too busy corralling twin peredhil through bathtime to think of something to tell them—and he wouldn’t have dared to offer something about his only remaining brother.
He took a deep breath. Well, this was something they would probably need to find out eventually, and Maedhros would appreciate not having to be the one to tell them.
“Now, you musn’t gossip about this,” he warned; “it is a secret, after all.”
Their eyes lit up and two heads nodded vigorously. “We promise!” squeaked Elrond.
Their eyes went round as the moon at its fullness, changing color to match its silver sheen as well...or perhaps to match Maedhros’ eyes.
“To who?” Elros gasped.
“Erestor?” Elrond guessed, and Maglor shook his head, a small smile on his face.
“He is married to the High King of all the Noldor,” he said. “Or—the one before the last. Findekáno was his name in Valinor, but you would know him as Fingon of Barad Eithel, the uncle of your grandmother.”
“Oh,” Elrond breathed. “That’s very sad, then. Isn’t he dead?”
“He is,” Maglor confirmed gravely, “which is why Maedhros is so grim. Well—part of why. You musn’t bring it up, unless he does first, and even then you should be careful.”
They nodded solemnly.
“How did they fall in love?” Elros asked.
“A story for another night, if you are good at bathtime again,” Maglor promised. He’d keep the more scandalous details to himself; there was plenty of drama to keep them entertained even without that.
They snuggled together under their covers, and, possessed by some fatherly impulse he could not deny, Maglor kissed each of them on the forehead. To his surprise, they didn’t pull away. It looked as if they were ready to drift off to sleep, their curiosity, for the moment, sated.
Or not. As Maglor rose to tiptoe out of their room, a small hand grabbed his shirtsleeve.
“You said Fingon was our grandmother’s uncle?” asked Elrond sleepily. “Thought that was...Daeron the Minstrel?”
Maglor froze, mortified, wondering if these children could read his thoughts. He had come very near to marrying Daeron himself, and he could only imagine the irony if they’d gone through with it. Related to the twins on both sides of their family, to the same degree as Maedhros, even...!
“No, that’s your grandfather’s uncle,” he managed to choke out. “And the other side of the family. Fingon was your father’s mother’s uncle; Daeron was your mother’s father’s uncle.” He laughed nervously. “Go to sleep, little peredhil. Maybe, after I tell you the story of Maitimo and Findekáno in the time of the Trees, I’ll tell you the story of Makalaurë and Daeron at the Feast of Reuniting...”
But luckily, they had not heard that last half-an-offer he did not truly wish to follow up on, for they were already fast asleep when he finished secret-telling.
I know with a name like “Shadowhand” it sounds like Essek should be doing spy stuff but consider: he’s a magical prodigy. He did somehow manage to get his hands on a beacon. He stays at home all the time in his fancy wizard towers. The Kryn heartland is covered in perpetual magical night aka shadow. Essek’s job is Does Magic For High Level Government. It’s why he was involved at all with the Scourger stuff without actually knowing much about the specifics of the situation.
I kind of love this idea??
What if the reason Essek’s often at home and rarely leaves Rosohna is that he’s responsible for maintaining the magical, dunamantic darkness over the city? Surely that must need to be re-cast occasionally? Most magic has a time limit, after all, and even the magical items in the EGtW that create magical darkness have limitations. Essek seemed so proud of the darkness bubble too, when Caleb first asked about it. What if at least one of Essek’s responsibilities is kind of like Gilmore’s role in maintaining the protective barrier over Whitestone in C1?
It’s entirely possible this is not the case, but what interesting speculation, I’m all about this!
Can we ask for more than one? 17 for Fingon/Maedhros and/or 5 for Feanor and Fingolfin
of course you can!
5.
“Why are you helping me?”
“Truth be told,” Nolofinwë said, “I don’t know. Something about brotherhood and ties that bind across all else and blood, probably.” He braced his legs against the edge of the rock and pulled hard, drawing the rope up hand over hand. “What were you doing down here, anyway?”
“There’s a vein of quartz that runs through this cliff,” Fëanáro informed him, “and I wanted a better look at it.” They were close enough to reach out and touch, which was exactly what Nolofinwë did, kneeling down and grabbing his brother’s forearm and hauling him up over the edge of the precipice. The rope harness fell to the ground around them, and Fëanáro looked at once annoyed and relieved.
“You risked your life by freehand climbing a cliff alone to have a look at some rocks,” Nolofinwë answered.
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe you.”
“I doubt you’d understand, anyway,” the older nér said. “I want the crystal for a project I’m working on. An improvement to my lamps.”
“I might not be a craftsman or a smith, but I’m not stupid. If you tell me what it is, I’m sure I can follow.”
“Hm,” Fëanáro said, his voice taking on a familiar condescending air. “Thank you for saving me, but I’d like to be alone now.”
“Whatever you want,” Nolofinwë shrugged, picking up his rope and going back to where Roccolórë was grazing. “Don’t feel obligated to thank me.”
“I won’t.”
~*~
17.
“Love is overrated.”
Findekáno raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“Yes,” Russandol replied lightly, grinning at him. “Love makes you do absolutely idiotic things.”
“Like what?”
“Marrying me, for one. That clifftop rescue, for another.”
“Of course,” Findekáno said, rolling over onto his side and kissing his husband. “Idiotic things all.”
“I’m right,” Russandol answered, kissing him back, voice heavy with newly-kindled want. “You know I am. You’d be better off if you didn’t love me.”
“Maybe so,” Findekáno answered, “but then who would braid your hair when you get cross?”
Another kiss.
“Hm,” Russandol answered, “I could ask Laicanyérë.”
“You could,” Findekáno said, kissing him again, and then once more. “But Laicanyérë wouldn’t kiss you while he did it.”
“Mm.”
“Or lie on top of you and work the knots out of your shoulder.” Another kiss.
“Hm.”
“Or suck you off,” Findekáno finished, looking up at his husband with heat in his eyes.
“... you make a fair point,” Russandol said, and then pulled his husband close and slid his tongue into the other nér’s mouth.
I was going through your blog and I found this post you reblogged: *post/174881436878/bizarre-neurodivergence-things and point one is nesting. Is this getting all wrapped up in blankets? Because that's what I immediately thought of and if that's the case, OH BOY
Stuff like that, yeah! It’s smthn that isn’t rlly talked about a lot bc it’s not necessarily JUST an ADHD/autism thing, but a lot of ppl do it, yes! For me I usually think of it as like a stim/sensory thing. Like when I go into “nesting mode” I get sat right in the middle of my bed with a bunch of snacks and books and drinks and I make sure I have a ton of blankets and pillows all around me and it’s quiet and it’s really nice. It’s a nice way to calm down after some bad sensory experiences. Not everyone does it, but from what I’ve seen, it’s pretty common! :)
So I see in your summary up top that you’re a revivalist. I assume that that’s different than reconstructionist, but I’ve never heard of it before. Could you elaborate?
Reconstructionism is mainly focused on doing something as similar as possible to how the Ancient Egyptians practiced their religion, whereas a revivalist approach allows for modern reinterpretation, changes based on modern peoples’ (and gods’, if you’re a woo type -which I am) needs and situations.
Different people will likely give you different definitions of the words, but that’s how I use them.
It’s a post I wrote a month or so ago. You can find all meta posts under the #zevran meta tag, but here’s some links.
Zevran the Seducer - some musings of how/why he was so good at seduction, and some of the lasting impact of this on his life. (I say some erroneous stuff about Taliesen in this one, I didn’t know anything about him at the time. World of Thedas 2 states he was purchased from a Tevinter wreck at Llomerryn.)
Zevran and his Feels - This is basically my argument against the theory that Zevran will always have difficulty expressing feelings, especially regarding whether or not he could have the capacity to say “I love you.”
Zevran (epic cinnamon roll) - This is me screaming about Zevran in general.
Trained to be the next Hahren for the clan and pass on the oral histories and mythologies of the Dalish, Theron has done his very best to stay true to his people since being forced to leave Clan Sabrae for the Wardens. A sword and shield warrior whose go-to tactic is charging people, his fighting doesn’t often reflect his personality. He has a ‘long face’ and comes off as sad or melancholy on first impression. While serious, somber, and placing a high value on duty and honor, he loves and cares deeply, and is overall friendly and kindhearted. His relationship with Zevran grew slowly, but they are deeply committed to each other.
In the years after the Blight, Theron has built a relatively small but close-knit community of Wardens borne out of his tendency to walk off with/recruit anyone who seems like they need help. He regularly sends recovered historical texts and artifacts to the Dalish, and secured a new homeland from Ferelden for them. Despite his abiding love of his people, his deep piety, and his persistent tendency to think of himself as Dalish first, Warden-Commander of Ferelden second, and Arl of Amaranthine third, his bitterest enemy, both on the personal and political fronts, is another Dalish - Mahanon Adahl'lin Lavellan, the Lord Inquisitor.
Theron’s post-Blight adventures are found in the Wardens of Ferelden series.
Mahanon Adahl'lin Lavellan
A poor fit to the Inquisition in temperament and ideology, Mahanon’s main reason for attending the Conclave was to prove a point in his bitter ongoing political battle with the Dalish Warden-Commander of Ferelden about the future of their people. He got off to a very rocky start in the Inquisition, given his unwillingness to concede a point once chosen and his scorn for all things un-Dalish. Over time he warmed to a select few of the people around him- Sera, Dorian, and Josephine. Josephine he came to love, and his surprising, if not easy friendship with Dorian Pavus caused an uneasy shift in some of his views that he is deeply reluctant to own up to.
This internal tension and his revelry in the power being Lord Inquisitor has brought him, has kept him from returning to the Dalish or keeping in contact with any of his clan or family. As Dorian’s friend he added dabbling in necromancy to his magical skills in ice and lightning, and as Josephine’s love he bent his mind to politics, placing Gaspard on the throne of Orlais in the first move of a long-term political scheme that he prays will benefit the Dalish and give him prestige beyond that of the Warden-Commander’s in the eyes of their people.
