There is a pause.

“In five days we will change roads,” Celegorm says. “We will proceed to Amon Ereb. I doubt Caranthir has enough stock resources in Dolmed to host what remains of our people.”

Maedhros looks at his brothers through the palantir . He trails a gold-mithril finger over the chipped rim of his cup. “No. Proceed to Nargothrond.”

“ Nargothrond? ” Celegorm repeats. “ Why ?”

“Because the Noldor took a devastating blow from Moringotto’s surprise assault,” Maedhros continues. “We have to regroup as efficiently as possible, and the more important concern is someone has to secure the Western Treasury .”

“So? Why the hell are you sending us to Nargothrond ? Ingoldo is there!”

“I do not know if you have received the intel,” Maedhros says, ignoring Celegorm’s protest. “But the first Noldorin stronghold to burn under the fire was Dorthonion. None survived. None , do you understand? Angrod, Aegnor and all of their people are lost.”

Celegorm and Curufin exchanged looks. Both briefly offer a silent bow. Their families have long splintered, but the memory of the elves are long and undimmed, and there had been a time in their faraway youths where Finrod and Angrod had joined their family for summers in Formenos. 

“Ingoldo does not take to that kind of grief well,” Maedhros says, watching his brothers through the palantir . His scarred, gaunt face betrays nothing, but both Celegorm and Curufin are painfully aware that the cogs and wheels of Maedhros’s brilliant mind are ever-spinning. “Of our family he has been among the most sheltered and most beloved. This kind of grief will break him, if he does not have the right support at the crucial time. The Noldor cannot afford to lose the wealth of Nargothrond to the orcs of Angband.”

Curufin’s lips press into a line. “Nargothrond is more than its treasures.”

Maedhros takes several sips of his wine. “Certainly, Curvo. You have been having an affair with our cousin even before the Sun and the Moon arose in the sky. Surely you would prefer to be his succor now that he has lost his two most beloved brothers. He raised Aegnor, and as good as Aegnor’s father. We cannot afford to lose Ingoldo to grief.”

Curvo’s face goes purple. True that he has done all these things, but there is something in the creepy, very calm and nonchalant way Maedhros reminds him of his…indecent acts…that makes the fifth son of Fëanor uneasy and ashamed every time.

Maedhros sets aside his cup. “Stay on your road. Take yourselves and the survivors of Himlad to Nargothrond.”

“We don’t even know where Sunshine built his Eru-forsaken realm!” Celegorm exclaims.

“Go to the Narog,” Maedhros says. “And poke into every badger-hole you can find. I am sure one of those holes will have the door to Nargothrond.” Here, his lips twitch into a hint of a smile. Then he turns to Curufin. “If Orodreth survived the chaos at Minas Tirith, he would have rejoined Ingoldo by now. That pitiful excuse for an elf is one of my main concerns why I’m sending you to Ingoldo’s side instead. Orodreth does not have Angrod’s strength and decisiveness. Ingoldo will need strength in these times. Help our cousin. Secure the Western Treasury. Ensure that the likes of Nínimben, Dúlindaer, and Trichon do not wrest power they have never deserved for themselves.”

[ashes / AO3/ Part 15 of Noldorin Finances]

“Battle on two fronts,” Finrod says. He stands, and moves around the plates of food on the table. The half-touched plate of turkey he sets as Angband, then sets a cake in the supposed place of Hithlum, then sets a platter of lembas in the supposed location of Himring. Then he puts three unopened wine bottles in the place of Dorthonion. “The fighting will be concentrated on the Ard-galen.”

“Thargelion and Nargothrond can sustain a battle of such proportions for a thousand years,” Caranthir says. “But since you are asking all elven realms to put all our strength behind this venture, we will leave the fields and industries untended. The mines and smithies will be overtaxed with the need to constantly put forth weapons and implements of war. Other industries will slow production to a trickle, or even come to a halt entirely. Taxes shall be raised even higher, and the proceeds directed to war. Sumptuary measures shall have to be enacted by all territories, and the aristocrats will be the first to bear the brunt of such edicts. Then it will trickle down to the common families. You are asking everybody to tighten their belts– for an indefinite time. We have wealth, this is true, but wealth will run out if it is not replenished. Economy will take a dip, if not come to a standstill. Say that we win and manage to draw out Morgoth and all of his forces, what happens to us? Both Thargelion and Nargothrond will predictably have empty reserves by then. Currency will mean nothing. Everything will cost triple, quadruple. We will not have enough people to return to the farms, and rekindle other industries. The Eldar do not breed like dwarves and men.”

“Doriath is out of the question,” says Maedhros when the pause grows at the wake of Caranthir’s words. “But Turgon will have to show himself for such a great undertaking. The East will accept no less. Require from us our full strength, then Hithlum will have to give its everything also.”

Fingolfin’s face goes wooden. “Maedhros, neither Fingon nor I even know where Turgon is.”

“The same way we do not know what lies beyond the Ered Engrin. All war bears risk, this is true, but how are we certain Morgoth will even take the bait? What trap shall we concoct that will make Angband spew out everything it hides in its belly?”

“Make Doriath put Lúthien on a pedestal, or something,” Caranthir mutters. Maedhros shoots him a look, and he falls silent.

[hints of war / part 13 of Noldorin Finances / AO3]

&. 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬 (𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬?) 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

Context: [Red]

Maedhros himself awake to the half-dark of his Lord's Chambers in Himring, and for a second his eyes register nothing but a flat, dark gray world that only slowly focuses as his mind catches up with the waking. Sleeping with one's eyes open is a very interesting thing, instinct rewiring itself from the moment the elves had returned to Beleriand. The short-lived summers of the Lothlann tundra are coming to an end, and the days are shortening again. Maedhros rouses, pauses for a moment in bed, and by his internal reckoning he supposes it is around two in the morning.

He slips out of bed, and he wears a fur coat over his sleeping clothes. He takes a freshly-lit candle and he makes his way to his study, which is just an interconnecting room. Here, he lights five more candles.

If sleep is proving to be futile, let it not stop him from being productive.

He sits in his chair and peers over the last of the papers he abandoned last night before he retired. Correspondences from Hithlum, Dorthonion, Himlad, Nargothrond and Thargelion. Last spring, the High King had sent a coded letter to the Noldorin realms. If Maedhros's approximations were correct, Fingolfin was planning an all-out assault on Angband. The tone of the letters said as much, and the implication could be found in the inquiry after the resources of the Noldor, particularly the state of wealth in Thargelion and Nargothrond.

Maedhros runs his left hand absently through his red hair as he lets his eyes roam over the Tengwar letters written on the parchment. The resources are no problem. Maedhros knows that the East alone can sustain a siege for a long time-- the real question of the utmost importance is if the Noldor can surround Angband at all.

There are no maps of the Ered Engrin, and knowledge of the terrain is crucial. Maedhros does not delude himself that only very few elves will want to be under the cold and ice of the north, though the Noldor possess high courage boundless, because--

He pauses. As he watches, the candle nearest him begins to lose color, starting from the jumping edge of the flame burning the wick, and this grayness spreads quicker than thought, and before Maedhros can straighten in his chair, all color has faded from the world, and the flames in the hearth and on the candlewicks have frozen in a timestop.

Bollocks, Maedhros thinks, and he flicks his left hand and a dagger slides into place in his hand as he braces himself. The headache comes. It always does. As does the creeping cold. For this instance, it comes from behind him.

"For being someone you hate, I'm sure on your mind a lot."

It takes near all of Maedhros's mental strength to brace against the raw hurt. He briefly shuts his eyes, and only slowly opens them. His instincts are screaming, the tiny hairs by his nape prickling up. Behind him. Yet, he stops himself from making any reckless movements. He stays absolutely still.

Darkness from his left periph, moving to stand before him. Maedhros grips his dagger. Still he says naught.

"That's interesting, isn't it, Maitimo? Would you agree to an attack on Angband?"

He strives to think of nothing, even if it be futile. Maedhros lifts his silver-gray eyes, and he attacks-- stabbing the dagger blade right toward Melkor's face.

Of course, predictably, the Vala simply catches him by the wrist. Pain explodes from his wrist, and he drops the weapon, useless. Amusement shines from Melkor's eyes.

"Now, now, that's very rude."

To Maedhros's surprise, he is let go. He follows Melkor with his gaze, not daring to sit back down. The Vala paces around his study, picking up little knick-knacks. Then he pauses by a map of Beleriand.

"You know you can't take a post of command in that attack, Maitimo," Melkor continues. "That would be....hilarious, to begin with."

The Lord of Himring says naught. Because it is true. He can't continue with the charade, if the assault pushes through. He would lead them all to disaster. Would serve all the Noldorin forces on a silver platter, to Morgoth.

Melkor gives him a final smile. "Good boy. Then you know what you have to do, hmm?"

A blink.

The world has regained all its color, and time moves again. Maedhros releases the breath he has been holding, and he slumps to the floor.

Yes. It's true. He knows what he has to do.

@spiritofwhitefire

My commission from the very talented @rinthecap 🥰🥰🥰

“My Sassy Elf” 😂😂😂

In Beleriand, the incomparable wealth of Nargothrond and Thargelion entail some family drama between them.

Or, a look at the tangled political-economic web of the Noldor during the First Age.

an arrowhead or two

Maglor trudged wearily toward two of his brothers were. He heard news just now that Maedhros was wounded, and worry curled a cold fist inside his guts, and he shoved elven soldiers out of his path in his hurry to get to where Maedhros was. It wasn’t fatal, he hoped – and by now Maglor knew that no simple orc blade could kill Maedhros, but still, the very news alone that someone managed to injure the strongest of the brothers was ill-taken.

He found Celegorm already with Maedhros, both on the ground. Maedhros had two arrows lodged into his person; one by his right flank, and another by the left side of his chest, far enough from the heart but surely pierced the ribs. Celegorm sat behind him and was already cradling him in preparation for the pulling out of the arrowheads; it was not going to be a pretty thing.

Maedhros himself was pale not with pain, but rage. These days, whenever rage or some other such strong emotion distorted his already scarred face, the silver-gray of his irises become tinged with red, or else melt into red entirely. Of course, the first time this happened, this had terrified his brothers in differing levels. Maglor admittedly, and to his eternal shame, had been scared half to death. Celegorm took it in stride and made no comment about it, while Caranthir took it most calmly of them all. Curufin and the twins were afraid, not just for their brother but also for themselves, though whatever comments they had, they kept to themselves. And so there it was – Maedhros pale with blood loss and rage, his eyes red, gnashing his teeth as Celegorm wrapped his arms tighter around his torso.

Celegorm began to sing a song, of soothing hurts and healing and recovery. Attempting to put Maedhros at ease.

“Do it, godsdamn it, just do it already,” Maedhros hissed just as Caranthir, Curufin and the twins arrived. He snarls, not much different from a true orc, challenging his brothers.

Maglor took one look at his brother’s half-monstrous face, and he declared: “I’ll hold him, you do it,” he tells Caranthir, and he proceeded to avoid the ugly task ahead by grabbing Maedhros’s legs.

Caranthir’s ruddy face darkened. His jaw tightened, and he shot Amrod a look. The elder of the twins quickly scrambled around, found a piece of wood, and he gingerly darted forward and bade Maedhros bite down on it. Maedhros obeyed; he bit down, and Celegorm sings louder and tightens his hold around his torso. Curufin and Amras ran forward to secure his arms, and Caranthir removed his gauntlets and doused his hands with disinfectant that a healer gave.

The fourth son of Fëanor got distracted by this; he managed to glare at the healer, who could only look away. It took the bravest and most obstinate of healers to treat Maedhros with injuries sustained from combat; otherwise he frightened them all off anyway, and none can look into his half-elf, half-orc face, nor bear to have the Lord of Himring snarling at them with the voice of a monster made in Angband.

Right.

Now for the first arrow.

Caranthir grasped the arrow by Maedhros’s chest first, and he met his brother’s feral gaze, and mentally, they both counted by their breaths: one, two, three—and the rest of their brothers braced, and Caranthir pulled, and Maedhros growled like a creature from Udûn, and the wood between his teeth cracked.

There was the ugly sound of ripping flesh—the arrowhead was barbed, and Caranthir put all his strength to it, and it came loose, and dark blood, darker than normal, spilled forth from the wound. The healer quickly clasped a clean cloth over the first wound, and Caranthir turned his attention to the next arrowhead.

Maedhros breathed and panted and huffed and puffed like a trapped monster. The growl came from the depths of his chest, and his irises bled into outright crimson now, and the healer’s fear spiked and batted against Caranthir’s mental barriers, and Caranthir for a moment entertained the idea of backhanding the healer across the face to get the ellon to get a grip on himself.

“Alright, hanno?” Caranthir asked their brother. “Just one more. Just one more.”

Maedhros, red-eyed and snarling and growling, nodded. Celegorm sang louder, and this time Maglor’s more powerful voice melded with his, and Curufin and Amrod and Amras grasped what limb of their eldest brother they could to hold him down with all their strength.

Caranthir grasped the second arrow, and pulled.

The sound torn from Maedhros could not have been made by an elf. He growled, deep and sinister, and he gnashed his teeth so hard the wood between his teeth broke and splintered. He roared.

Caranthir and the healer were quick on their feet and jumped away as far as possible first, the second arrow in Caranthir’s hand. In a burst of monstrous strength Maedhros pulled free from Celegorm’s hold, and headbutted the nearest brother in reach who wasn’t fast enough to escape him: Maglor. There followed the crack of skull and against skull, and Maglor’s own pained shout.

Still growling and roaring, Maedhros got to his feet, blindly grabbed for another within his reach, and the unfortunate bastard to get trapped next is Curufin, captured by his ponytail. “Ai, ai!” Curufin yelled as he tried to pull the clasp holding his cape in place, but he isn’t quick enough, and Maedhros’s flesh-and-bone fist crashes against his brother’s cheek, and the blow knocked out Curufin, and he crumpled to the earth like a puppet whose strings were cut.

“Nelyo! Calm down!”

“Nelyo!”

“Ai! My nose!”

Amras scrambled forward, ducked low, and pulled Curufin away to safety. Maglor was crouched nearby, clutching his bleeding nose.

Maedhros growled, still seeing red, and he rounded on his brothers, who skirted him, leaping away from his grabbing hands. Blood frothed on the Lord of Himring’s mouth.

“Stop it, Nelyo!” Celegorm yelled. “Stop!”

Maedhros took several heaved breaths. As they watched, slowly, the red began to retreat from his irises to reveal silver-gray once more. The snarling and growling stopped. When the Lord of Himring fell to his knees, Amrod braved darting forward. Caranthir followed, and together they quickly got Maedhros out of his armor plates, then out of his chain mail, then followed removing his tunic. The healer crept forward last, armed with disinfectant and more cloths.

Maedhros dwindled more after that. Celegorm returned to holding him propped up from behind, as his wounds were cleaned out and potential poisoned flesh carved out. The bleeding was staunched, and nobody dared comment on his darker blood, almost black. Then the healer would have stitched his wounds closed too, if not for Caranthir shooing away the healer from the task, and doing the job himself. The healer instead tended to Maglor and Curufin.

Celegorm smoothed back Maedhros’s grimy, matted red hair from his face. Then kissed his cheeks. “Well done, hanno. Well done,” Celegorm murmured. Now he was mostly hugging Maedhros into his chest. Caranthir wiped their brother’s scarred flesh clean for a final time, and barked at a nearby soldier to bring a fresh tunic for their lord. The soldier ran to obey.

Caranthir then observed his stitchwork. Convinced they’re perfect, he nodded, then picked up one of Celegorm’s abandoned wineskins. He popped it open and drank, then pressed it to Maedhros’s lips, and he too, drank three deep swigs. He sagged in Celegorm’s hold.

“Just another day in Beleriand,” Maedhros muttered, his voice still ragged with his recent hurt.

“Yeah,” Celegorm agreed. He took his wineskin back and drank deeply from it. “Just another day.”

Caranthir sat beside them, and stretched out his legs, his weight down his arms. He let out a long sigh. The healer returned to his side now, and made to look at the bloodied gash by his left temple, but Caranthir slapped the healer’s hands away. “Get thee gone and look at Makalaurë’s nose instead. If it heals crooked, he will have your head.” Yet his voice has no real hostility in it; just exhaustion.

Above the battlefield, victorious though it was, carrion-birds circled.

Two days ago Caranthir found Nelyo awake and raiding the bread box in the supply tent. Celegorm had only seen Nelyo twice since his rescue, and what he had seen of what his brother had become had been enough to bring him to tears, escaping the healers’ tent, to go to the edge of the camp. There, isolated, he crouched, hugged his knees and wept like the elfling he had not been for a long while, with Huan sitting beside him and nosing his ear, trying to comfort him.

He remembers, in all pain, how Nelyo helped raise him: carrying him, shushing him, changing his clothes, feeding him. Making him his first bow and arrows, altering his clothes for him when he sprouted an inch more. Strong, beautiful and patient Nelyo, who sat him on his lap on boring afternoons and read to him to help him sleep. The images of Celegorm’s half-faded childhood gives way for the Nelyo that Fingon brought back: emaciated and scarred, red hair only halfway to his back instead of hanging to his bottom, a clear sign that his hair had been shorn short at one point in time. Jutting shoulder blades, hollowed cheeks, and that terrible, gruesome stump where his hand had been.

Celegorm bursts into a fresh flow of tears as he cubes the mutton, and he hastily has to put his knife down and pull back, to avoid ruining the meat. 

And to think that he reluctantly voted in favor of abandoning Nelyo to the unknown.

He did that.

However reluctant, but he did.

Celegorm will never forgive himself for a long time.

[a bowl of guilt / AO3]

awakening

When Fingon returned from Thangorodrim on the great eagle’s back and first handed over the wrapped bundle of what’s supposed to be Nelyo to Maglor and Celegorm, Caranthir stood a little bit at the back. He saw a bony arm dangle from beneath the folds of the bloodied blanket, and at the end of that bony arm was a crudely wrapped stump, the cloth Fingon used soaked with too much blood it was black. Caranthir admitted he recoiled at that moment, if not physically then mentally, fortified his own mental barriers against the gaping wound that was Maedhros’s mind. 

He hung back even as Maglor and Celegorm rushed Maedhros to the healers’ tent, and for the next stretch of days an unease and tension descended upon both camps of the Noldorin factions. That first night, when Maglor and Celegorm first gathered the rest of the brothers, Maglor wept as he described the extent of Maedhros’s injuries.

Yet Caranthir said nothing of the injury of the mind; so raw and deep that he could almost taste the half-rotting, metaphorical flesh, a putrid kind of a hint of sourness at the back of his throat, a sensation. 

Helwion, who would be the chief healer of Himring, barred visitors except from the brothers during that first week.

On the eighth day after Fingon’s miraculous rescue, Caranthir awoke in the middle of the night.

He opened his eyes against the darkness of his tent, and he could hear the night insects humming and thrumming. The footfalls of the night-shift guards as they enacted their patrols. Around Caranthir the minds of the Noldor swirled, a gigantic mass of color blurred and slipping together, such that if he focused hard enough on a single train of thought, he would know who is thinking it, and where they are. But this is not what drew him from Irmo’s hold.

Just beyond his guarded perception is the sensation of Maedhros’s raw mind, and it is the first time Caranthir felt it unfurled. A wound, gaping, the flesh at the edges rotting and dotted with black, bone and marrow faintly visible. Again, the faint hint of rot and the ghost stench of decay threatened to overwhelm his mental perception. Caranthir mustered his strength against it, just as he swung his legs over the side of his cot. 

He shrugged into a coat, tied the belt, picked up a Feanorian Lamp, kindled it, and he went out into the cold night, the mists rolling from the mountains offering low visibility, punctured only by the light of the torches and lamps. His feet crushed dew-stained grass, and he followed the rot and decay of Maedhros’s mind as he navigates through the pathways between tents indistinguishable in the half dark. 

He steels himself, and peers even closer at his brother’s mind. Raw and open, but there is something else in the midst of that exposed ‘flesh’; something dark and veined with gold, throbbing there at the very center of the hurt. 

He closes in on Maedhros. His brother is inside a supply tent, and Caranthir wastes no time ducking into the tent, the flaps pushed aside with his free hand. The proximity increases the ghost stench and the ghost aftertaste at the back of his throat. He almost retches.

“Nelyo?”

The name rolls off Caranthir’s lips just as his breath mists white before him. Caranthir navigates through the crates and boxes, and he finds his brother crouching by an opened crate, scarfing down thick-crust bred like an animal. Bony, scarred arms appear to him like the limbs of some eldritch insect under the light of his lamp. Maedhros’s hair glint red, like dried blood. Telperion-silver eyes mirror alarm when Caranthir look into them for the first time, then recognition, then relief.

It happens too fast for Caranthir’s taste.

For someone who supposedly hung from Thangorodrim’s precipice for some decades, Maedhros should not be capable of such quick clarity and alertness, much less quick recognition of who had come to seek him out. It clashed against what Caranthir could feel of his mind, the wound of it, the throbbing blackness at the center of that wound that–

“Here, hanno, do not eat so fast,” Caranthir tries to dissuade him from eating the entirety of the loaf of bread. “If you want, I will find some soup for you, that’s all you can eat for now, soup, something light and easy on the stomach…”

“No,” Maedhros whines like an elfling when his bread is taken away. His voice is akin to a river flowing over some jagged rocks. “My bread–.” Yet his bony fingers slacken, and he recognizes the futility of his struggle, and grudgingly surrenders the bread.

Again there is clarity that should not be possible, for someone exposed to the elements for thirty, forty years.

There is something else here, that Caranthir rapidly begins to understand despite himself.

He helps Maedhros to his feet. He supports his brother’s bony weight, then decides to just carry him back to his tent, which smelled of medicated herbs and concoctions. Maedhros limps in his hold and hides his face into Caranthir’s chest.

There is something here.

As he lays Nelyo back onto his abandoned cot and pulls the blankets back over his brother, their eyes meet. Telperion silver and the dark gray of storm clouds. 

Memory comes unbidden to Caranthir: Morgoth’s echoing laughter, then the black chain wrought with song, and how the Vala hung Maedhros on that precipice five days before Fingon claims his ‘miraculous rescue’.

Caranthir understands.

Maedhros wasn’t rescued.

Maedhros was hung precisely to be found.

The awful truth and all of its implications rises in Caranthir’s mind, like a rogue wave out in an open, stormy sea, threatening the land yonder, and all that the Noldor think they know so far.

A grin spreads on Finrod’s lips. “I am thinking about it, then I remember your haru Mahtan, and his great red beard.”

“Oh?” Maedhros’s eyebrows shoot up curiously.

Finrod’s grin grows. “He sprouted his beard young, didn’t he? And you are nearing your third millennium of life, in the reckoning of the Sun and Moon.”

Maedhros begins to understand the joke. The beginnings of a frown scrunches his brow.

A peal of delighted laughter escapes Finrod. “You too will sprout a great red beard like Mahtan, I expect. Ai, how ugly! I will have to shave you myself!”

An outraged little mumble from Maedhros. He gently elbows Finrod. “Ai, stop! How dare you. Or have you forgotten that Ingwë’s father who got left behind in Cuiviénen also had a great golden beard? Haru Finwë told us stories. A great golden bush, he said. So, you aren’t safe! Silence, you!”

Finrod keeps laughing. It is the laughter he reserves for family and other intimate friends: ugly and snorting, like a pig. So unlike him at all. Or at least the facade he shows to the world. 

[lord greatbeard / Part 22 of Glissando / AO3]

Can you imagine the sheer excitement of the Fëanorians when it’s dividend season and they know Thargelion is about to declare and remit ✨profits✨?

Eöl came to a full court session. So many Sindar aristocrats, from great and small houses, seemed to have poured into Menegroth bearing many petitions and complaints. Every single one of them have one complaint: the trade restrictions now imposed upon them by the Noldor – not just from the East, but also from the West. Apparently, the children of Finarfin who were kin to the King, especially the eldest of them, a certain blond Elf who was known as Finrod – started restricting maritime trade from Círdan’s lands. 

To restrict Círdan at all! Just how powerful did these Noldor become in such a short span of time?!

King Thingol sat upon his throne and Eöl would swear he has never seen his uncle so angry. But what is a king’s anger and pride against the clamor of his entire court, against the common Sindar elves whom the majesty of Menegroth relied on? The aristocrats and commoners wanted the repeal of the Quenya Ban, or a substantial easing of it, because they cannot trade with the Noldor, and with the Noldor surrounding Doriath from all sides, the Sindar cannot now reach their other trading areas! They were hemmed in! Hemmed in, and were in very real danger of starving!

Even Elmo, Eöl and Galadhon’s father, began speaking against Thingol, urging him to reconsider the very rigid terms of the Quenya Ban. The nobles moved for Doriath to re-open negotiations with Hithlum. 

Finally, even Queen Melian was forced to listen and advised Thingol so.

And Eöl watched, fascinated, as Thingol struggled and swallowed his pride, and agreed.

The missive asking for negotiations was dispatched through Commander Mablung, on his fastest horse.

[lesser evils / AO3]

It happens precisely as Finrod and Maedhros plan and predict it to be. Angrod does let slip crucial information to Thingol: their deeds, their numbers. Their forces. Caranthir makes a show of his infamous temper: vitriol is thrown against Angrod, in such vehemence that everybody there present can only believe its honesty, and only the most perceptive will know it is an act. A small push to enforce the shove, a little drop of the reagent to spur further chemical reaction; the little crack in the ice forestalling the avalanche–

But the reminder that Arafinwe – Finarfin, on these lands – remains a lord of the Noldor, though Earwen be of other kin– 

An uncharacteristic coldness comes over Finrod’s beautiful face then, though he hangs onto his patience and control and temper with all claws he ever possessed. He knows Caranthir is provoking him; provoking him into showing his hand, exposing himself, to unearth his plan to abscond East while everybody else is embroiled with the technicalities of rebuilding society. The great wildlands of the East, where the greatest potential of Beleriand lay undiscovered–

He and Caranthir look at each other across the table, and Finrod is keenly, sharply aware Maedhros is watching too, as is Fingon. But Finrod wins this round; he says naught, refuses to rise to the bait, and there is the faintest twitch in Caranthir’s temple. Not today, Kinslayer, Finrod thinks. 

“King is he who can hold his own, lest his title be in vain,” Maedhros says, breaking the deadlock between his cousin and brother. “This Thingol does naught but point to us lands where he does not hold power. The Noldor will thank him for this gift, and he will soon regret not coming here himself to treat with us.”

A pause. Caranthir bristles subtly. Galadriel holds her breath, and Finrod senses her tense. They come to it, this one specific moment in history that–

“Yet there is a greater matter here, that the Noldor must acknowledge. I, High King Nelyafinwe Maitimo Feanorion of the House of Feanaro, decree this to be mine official act, made in clear mind and aware of all consequences appurtenant hereto.  Hereafter I abdicate the crown and throne in favor of Nolofinwe Arakano Finwion, of the House of Finwe.”

It is as if Maedhros reached across the table and slapped Finrod across the face.

[stone on the board / AO3]

He is aware Maedhros is watching him critically. It has always been a sore point in their long-standing relationship – their differing religious views. They have given each other what accommodations there can be had, but since receiving instruction from Ulmo, Finrod has known that this might be an area of friction between himself and Maedhros. 

“You do not have to obey everything the Valar say, Ingoldo,” says Maedhros. He keeps his tone diplomatic. Courteous. 

“Yes, but how long do you think this Peace will hold, melda?” Finrod turns to him, as he hands him his bowl. “You cannot surely believe Morgoth will lie in quiet forever, even if our lives be long.”

Maedhros takes the bowl from his fingers. He sets it aside, then his strong hands close in around Finrod’s waist. He pulls Finrod onto his lap. Hugs him there. 

“Send Angrod instead,” Maedhros reasons. “You and Aegnor can hold Ladros and Dorthonion. Mm? It can be like Orodreth when you sent him to Minas Tirith.”

“Nelyo, it has to be me,” Finrod says. “I will not venture too far. Thingol has told me at least about some caverns by the Narog, and I will have to look at it, see if it suits the purpose–.”

“Narog!” Maedhros exclaims. His hold around Finrod’s waist tightens. “What the– not too far, you said? The Narog is halfway across Beleriand, Ingoldo!”

“Well,” Finrod says, opting to keep his tone light, aiming for the diffusion of Maedhros’s building temper. For like his brothers, Maedhros has the infamous Feanorian temper too – it is just not as quick to explode, and it can be stalled, using the right one, the right timing for a soft touch, here and there. “It will be good for us both – Caranthir already accuses us of taking too many of our trips and doing nothing but fucking, so…?”

[before you leave /AO3]

For @elentarial

darker vibes

Silver-gray eyes follow every movement Finrod Felagund takes. Currently the King of Nargothrond is standing some five steps away from the one who scrutinizes him -- Finrod is busy inspecting the food laid out by the servants a few minutes ago. With a bejeweled hand he removes dish covers, letting out steam and the aromatic scents that tickle the senses. He makes appreciative noises as he peers at each dish for about five seconds, before he returns the dish cover over the food item.

Maedhros Fëanorion has mixed feelings with purely elven or mannish food these days -- an aftermath of his long captivity in Angband. He appreciates elven dishes just the same, of course, the textures and flavors and aromas, but there are days when he just wants raw meat, the bloodier the better. His appetite has tripled since his 'rescue' from Angband, yet his body remains the same. The healers have said his captivity affected his metabolism.

Finrod turns in a swirl of his Telerin skirt (white and red, today, with a belt of pearls), his golden hair dancing. Maedhros's pupils widen, and the simple sight to him is a vision. Hooks to his soul, and every gesture tugs at him. Even if the gesture is decidedly simple in itself, like Finrod tilting his head, or Finrod toying with his dangling earrings, or Finrod turning to him with a smile.

"I don't know how you bewitched me," Maedhros says, awe and adoration in his voice. "But it needs to stop."

A softer laugh is the King of Nargothrond's answer. He turns from the table completely now, walking toward him. He is barefoot in his own chambers -- but then, he runs around barefoot most of the time. Maedhros stays where he is, feels his throat go dry just a notch. Finrod is standing right before him.

In a rustle of cloth, Finrod sits himself onto his lap. Maedhros has his hands immediately by his sides. He smells very good. Vanilla and musk, or some sort. Fuck if Maedhros knows. He doesn't. Once Finrod sits on him like this or goes closer than an arm's length away, Maedhros finds eighty percent of his brain function goes out of his ears, in all directions.

(When did this happen?)

"You, my lord, have been bewitched long ago, back in Valinor. I'm afraid there is no hope for you. All my pretty fingers are curled around your fëa, and there is no escape," Finrod tells him, chuckling as he goes.

"Yes, this is the truth," Maedhros answers, half-dazed. He looks into those very blue eyes -- the very sky of high summer, forever preserved in Finrod's eyes. And his hair is the zenith of lost Laurelin's golden-most hour. His hair is the stuff of legend, truly. The name Findaráto was aptly given.

(Beside him, Maedhros feels like an orc.)

"Now, now," says Finrod, leaning in, pressing his perfect lips to Maedhros's torn earlobe. "You have not been in Nargothrond a while. Getting you out of Himring to visit me is a feat for the Valar! Ai, I hope you know that I will make sure I collect my due, as long as you are here with me, melda...~"

Maedhros feels a shudder ripple down his spine.

Sauron was distracted from his thoughts when he sensed Draugluin bring up the next group of orcs to report to him. The doors opened, and he watched the group from where he melds with the shadows. Thirteen orcs from Slodagh’s detachment of twenty-six, last stationed by the River Malduin. Originally part of the host that stormed Dorthonion, then Minas Tirith. They were put there as one of the checks against the elves in that area.

“Where is Slodagh?” Sauron asked the orcs, gaze studying them, noting their armor, their weapons – yes, even their stink.

The broadest scarred orc in the bunch, named Garakh, simply peered about in the dark. “Uhhhhhhhhh,” it uttered dumbly, then proceeded to scratch its own armpit. “Slodagh camp,” it replied, grunting out the words as if it didn’t understand what it was saying. “Busy.”

“Busy with what?” Sauron asked next. Sometimes, getting something half-comprehensible from orcs required effort.

“Uhhhhhhhhh,” Garakh murmured again, as if putting its brains to use just to talk was costing the orc every ounce of energy it had. “Scratchin ‘is balls.”

“Is there anyone here with actual working brain cells?” Sauron barked from all directions. He directed his gaze to one of the squat, smaller, but no less narrower orc in the group. “You. Where is Slodagh?”

“P-pardon y-your great d-d-d-darkness, Lord Mairon the b-b-b-b-beautiful, S-Slodagh is at c-c-c-camp.”

“And?”

“S-s-s-s-scratchin ‘is balls, your great prettiness, Lord Mairon, s-s-s-s-s-sir.”

“’E hoardin’ the meats,” one orc complained.

“And who are you?”

“Ghordug, great prettiness, sir.”

Ah, finally, one with enough working brain cells, Sauron thought. “Ghordug, report.”

“Slodagh hoardin’ meats, great prettiness, sir. We hungry. Slodagh not feeding us proper. Want elf-meat, man-flesh. Only give us maggoty bread!” Ghordug snorted with great indignation.

Sauron was getting bored. “Killed many elves and men, then?”

[there and back again /AO3]

“Arda is vast,” Maglor reasons. “We have other opportunities, surely,”

“Yes, and do you not think Fingon sees this not?” Maedhros trails his gaze over all of his brothers. “Fingolfin might be dumb in certain aspects, but his eldest son is not. We are fortunate enough that Argon perished in Lammoth, for if he survived, Fingon and Argon will be another formidable battle brewing in our horizons, and already we are half-spent trying to outmaneuver Finrod.”

“Not half-spent,” Caranthir corrects. “I’d say a quarter spent. He has the greater gold reserves than us, but economics does not flow and work with gold alone. We still hold the bigger number of craftspeople and tradespeople. We can prevail if push comes to shove, but for the East; all eyes now turn to the wildlands of Eastern Beleriand. Finrod will already be planning as to how he will be the first to push east, this I can guarantee you.”

“Amon Ereb will be the prize,” Maedhros says. “As will be Thargelion, so close to the dwarven kingdoms of Nogrod and Belegost. We have to get there first.”

“Why don’t we just abscond now?” Celegorm speaks. “Take all our people, establish a new Noldorin capital east?”

“Because, you mutt,” says Curufin, in a soft snarl. “We need to anchor Fingolfin down here, make sure he can’t and won’t follow us, and so also keep Fingon rooted here, whether he likes it or not. We can negotiate with Finrod. Nevermind Angrod, that git; whatever prattle he makes, if Finrod doesn’t give a care for his ideas, he will overrule him and that will be the end of it. Aegnor is useless, no brains beneath those curls. Galadriel is shut up and also useless in Doriath. We have to keep Fingon at bay.”

“Nelyo?” Maglor asks, ever indecisive in such great matters.

Maedhros keeps flexing his gold-and-mithril hand. “I will abdicate.”

As he expects, there is outrage. Curufin is the first to stand in anger, going purple in the face. Maglor and Celegorm follow, aghast. The twins also express their shock. Only Caranthir remains calmly seated, looking at him, waiting in silence.

“I will abdicate,” Maedhros says. “Because the moment we landed at Drengist, Haru Finwë’s crown has become nothing but a useless piece of ornamentation and dead weight on whomever bears it. I will abdicate, as a smokescreen, to make a show for the irate majority of the Noldor. With this gesture, I shall also make a show of payment of reparation and damages to all those who crossed the Ice. With this gesture, we shall attempt to heal the quarrels between the factions in the Noldor, or make bridges sturdy enough for economy to flourish, and lay the foundations of our realms and our future strength to besiege Morgoth. I will abdicate, to anchor Fingolfin here in Hithlum, and incapacitate Fingon for as long as he can be incapacitated, and we and our people shall be free to outrace Finrod to the East.”

[the foundations of power / AO3]

“You have read your briefer, of course?” Maedhros asks as he sits down, as he gestures for Caranthir to take a seat. His brother obeys. Caranthir pulls his black furs close – despite all the Song Maglor put into raising Himring, and despite Curufin and Celebrimbor’s genius with plumbing and centralized heating system – nothing can truly keep away the cold of Morgoth’s touch, so near Thangorodrim. It is not without some small sick fascination that Caranthir wonders that perhaps this played into why Maedhros picked to install himself here in Himring. Surely it cannot be just for the golden opportunity to glare at Thangorodrim every morning?

“Yes,” Caranthir replied as he held his cup of hot wine with both hands.

“Your new realm will be mountainous,” Maedhros says, contemplating him, before turning his silver-gray eyes to the map of Beleriand unfurled on the lord’s desk between them. He points with a mithril-and-gold finger. “Thargelion, it is called. And this mountain will make for a very nice fortress. Maglor will raise it to your specifications, and Curufin and Celebrimbor will install the necessary facilities.”

“I wish to delve,” Caranthir says, also fixing his dark gray eyes where Maedhros points. “Vaults, deep into the earth, enchanted with Song and traps. I see where you decided to place me.” He too, points with a beringed finger. “So close to the known realm of the Naugrim: Nogrod and Belegost.”

“Of course you do,” Maedhros says. “Nogrod and Belegost will be your special assignment from me. You will foster diplomatic relations with the dwarven lords, and from there build the trade channels. Maritime trade is limited to us; Ingoldo sank his fangs there first, being kin to Thingol, and by extension, Círdan.”

Caranthir nods. He does not speak Khûzdul as well as Maglor or Curufin, but he knows how. Anyway the chance will be a good exercise to develop further fluency on the tongues of the dwarves. 

[recoup / AO3]