dialogue prompts for ~injury~

When Mairon comes upon Melkor in the laboratory and fiddling with dangerously bright chemicals, the maia just knows there will be some bodily hurt involved, sooner or later. He knows he has to be close by to prevent any hurt, if possible. So-- for now, Mairon delegates things to Langon, Gothmog and Thûringwethil, while he haunts the laboratory like a wraith, anxiously wringing his hands as Melkor takes to mixing the unstable chemicals together to concoct some new sinister thing.

It is past a week, and Mairon cannot yet breathe easy. Melkor has just bottled the mixture-- which had now turned into a white crystalline substance like salt.

"What will you use an explosive for?" Mairon asks, deciding to break the silence and approaching his spouse. The sooner Melkor unhands the bottle, the easier Mairon's breathing would be. Things are never good if Melkor is in the laboratory and starts mixing things. The last time he did, four Balrogs fused, and ten orcs too-- Mairon shuddered, remembering the horrendous clean-up he'd had to help the lesser úmaiar with. He wishes that Melkor would just quit it with chemicals.

He makes to grab the bottle, but Melkor moves it away from his reach.

"What are you doing?" Melkor asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"Give me the bottle, Mbelekhoruz," Mairon says, trying hard not to sound petulant. "You and bottled chemicals are never a good combination."

"What do you mean? I made this. I know what it is, and how to use it."

Mairon resists the urge to sigh and makes another grab for the bottle, but Melkor stands -- towering over him, and keeps holding the bottle beyond his reach.

"Away with you, laurina, I know what I'm doing."

"Well, then tell me what it is for," Mairon scowls up at him. The ends of his ginger hair ignites into flames.

"Why?"

"BECAUSE!"

Melkor gently brushes him aside again, and the big sometimes idiotic Vala shuffles the bottle between his gauntleted hands. Mairon feels his heartbeat stop with every clink of the bottle over the corners and edges of Melkor's gauntlets. Oh, Utumno, why did he have to use thin-glass bottles thin glass bottles are not a good idea stop shuffling it like that, damn--

True to Mairon's foresight, the bottled thing explodes -- a huge blast of fire right at Melkor's face. Mairon shrieks, and it is only his quick thinking that prevents the worst of the flames from touching his lord, his husband. When the smoke clears, Melkor stands there, stunned. He blinks dumbly at his now-empty hands, his face, neck, chest and arms blackened by soot.

"Er," says Melkor.

Mairon smacks him upside the head, the only being in creation who can do such a thing and actually survive.

“You dumbass! Don’t do that! Ever again!"

Melkor scowls, and endures being sat down as Mairon wipes him clean of soot. The maia is nagging at him again, a thousand words per minute.

Er...best to tune it out, then. Yes, yes. Alright, he will be more careful. Yes, yes, of course laurina, as you wish...

&. 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

&. 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬 (𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬?) 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

Thû, maia of Námo (or really, Melkor in a lesser fana), appears out of nowhere in Naga-shape, and slithers into Fëanor's forges. The frequency of the maia's presence is belied by the casual reaction the smith's apprentices regard him with, as well as the familiar greeting sent his way by the elves. Thû answers each one, rattle-end of his half-serpentine fana rattling as he slithers further into the forge, inspecting this work table, or peeking at an apprentice's work here and there.

The maia gets told Fëanor is at the design room, and Thû makes his way there, eager to see what the elf is up to. He finds Fëanor surrounded by sketches of designs. The design room is one of the crucial areas of a Noldorin forge; it is where smiths and craftspeople brainstorm designs or hold meetings regarding joint commissions or massive projects. Fëanor is seated by the left-hand side of the long table there, not by his usual place at its head, peering down at some rough sketches of what looks like a massive, rectangular box.

For some time now, Thû and Fëanor had been engaged in a sort of friendly competition where one designs one contraption, gives it to the other for the other to figure out, and then it is the other's turn to design something to be given back, and vice versa. Thû's latest contraption had been something the maia called a blender, a glass cup with blades inside that could crush ice and fruits and even vegetables, or meats, turning them into a smoother cream or purée depending on the user's needs.

The naga-maia comes to a stop beside the very busy smith. Thû, feeling mischievous, prods Fëanor's side with the tip of his rattle-tale. "What you doing? What you doing, 'Naro?"

Fëanor, ever the focused craftsman, despises being disturbed when he's in the middle of a designing session. He turns to Thû with half-crazed eyes, blood-shot, signifying that he has been consumed by his current idea and that he probably hasn't left his forges for two days now.

"I'm busy!" Fëanor grits out. "Get thee gone!"

Thû blinks his serpentine, slit-pupil, gold-iris eyes. Pouts. "Well, someone's cranky today?"

Fëanor drops his pencil, ushers the naga-maia out, out of the room. The next thing Thû knows, he's outside, and the door is slammed shut in his face. His rattle-tail gives an offended rattle.

"Meh, I just wanted to see what he was up to," the maia mutters. He slithers away to look for Fëanor's boys then, see if anyone of them is conducive to disturbances. Maybe he can drag one for a swim!

The mental image is so funny istg @skaelds

Silmarillion Ask Game

🗡️ Defend your favorite war criminal (or make them worse - I’m not your mom).

Current questionable war criminal is of course my beloved Serpent King, Finrod. Gasp. How can cutiepie Finrod be a war criminal? How dare you! Well, he is tho. Even if his questionable actions are not decidedly as terrible as the rest of the family, still, he helped a genocide into completion. Remember the petty-dwarves? I find it very fascinating that someone that canon hammers to us as 'kind, noble and generous' can go straight up to a people close to extinction, and then practically steal their plot of land and kick them out. Granted Mîm betrayed him, but that part is sketchy, and JIRT gave us blank spaces instead of completely filled-up corners. I find it interesting canon totally overlooks this. This pretty elf comes to the caverns of the Narog, negotiates (or maybe deceives? HMM) the last of the petty-dwarves to cooperate. But perhaps the petty-dwarves are not so easily charmed by Finrod's beauty as everybody else was, and maybe the dwarves, through Mîm, thought they deserved better because that was their land. Ancestral lands, even. This particular part in canon has always interested me, and contributed to my overall take/portrayal of a beloved character.

🐉 A lot of figures in the Silm have weird Eldritch powers or possibly biology. Tell us about your headcanons for one.

The Valar can dwindle themselves down and craft themselves fanar that is so very well-done that even Maiar can mistake them for fellow Maiar, once they dwindle themselves down so. But many of the Valar don't put this power into practice. They think highly of themselves. Besides, why would anyone lower themselves to the status of a servant? But Melkor used this ability to his great advantage. By crafting the fana of Thû, 'Maia of Námo', he was able to recruit many, many more to his cause. Like Mairon, for example.

the red threads of fortune   by   neon yang

Mairon trails his gaze on the form of Thû, the strange maia of Námo who has captured his attention the first day they beheld each other. The world is bathed in the light of the Lamps, but since they met, Thû has been in a foul mood, scowling up at the lights and muttering to himself.

"Why are you scowling at the lights?" Mairon asks. "Come, sit with me." The copper-haired chief maia of Aulë pats the patch of grass beside himself.

Thû turns to him, and his scowl lessens, but on his face is this unreadable expression Mairon dislikes. Thû had a brilliant mind, true, but often, Mairon gets glimpses of the unknown that only serves to confirm to him that Thû is much, much more than he lets on. Chief of the Hröar Division, Mairon's arse. There is something more than a middling title in the ranks of the maiar that serve the youngest of the Fëanturi.

Thû sits beside him. "I ask you, what is the use of all these lights? They're beautiful, yes, but must we have them both shining at the same time? Did you know that too much light destroys?"

It surprises Mairon. He stares at the maia that has his attention and affection both. Thû has always been enthusiastic and full of strange ideas, but never before has he seen this kind of vehemence from his fellow Ainu.

"It's supposed to be a cycle," Thû mutters. "The hröar I have designed will wither under these too bright lights. Both shining at the same time! Nuisance! Pest! Hmph."

"The Lamps are the great work of my lord Aulë, and us his maiar," Mairon scowls. "Or have you forgotten who you are with today? Tis as much as mine work as mine fellows and mine lord. Have a care on your criticism, Thû."

"Did anyone ask what would make me happy? No," Thû retorts in annoyance. "All Ainur know that the Children of Ilúvatar will eventually come to be, and I have been tasked, alongside my team, to craft their hröar. Did anyone ask us what is good for the Children? Of course not, and now under this Light, they won't thrive! Too damn bright!"

Mairon can only gape slightly as Thû stands and paces. The fiery maia's own temper crackles just beneath the surface, but this is the only time he and Thû got to see each other after a long stretch of business in their Valar's realms. He stands and hugs the dark-haired maia from behind.

"Subside, my Thû. Subside and hush. I will see if I can try to address thine concerns for the Children with my Lord. And then perhaps Aulë can also forward thine concerns to Varda. We will think of something."

"Tell Aulë of cycles. Can't have all these damn lights shining at the same time. Not good, I tell you. Not good."

"I will, I will." Mairon kisses Thû by the temple and hugs him closer. Slowly, the bristling annoyance from the purple-eyed maia of Námo softens and ebbs. Mairon senses it disappear, like rippling upon the surface of a lake slowly vanishing.

There. Better.

Mairon thought of asking Thû to be one with him today, but with the other's annoyance, he decides to postpone his proposal. After all, Ainur had all the time in the world.

@skaelds

Melkor Syndrome 🤷🏻‍♀️ @skaelds

Angbang in a nutshell:

fanfic end of the year asks

Oh man, so mANY.... I just have so many damn ideas in my head. Here are a few:

And that's just some of the louder ideas I have.

@antares0606

→ 𝑫𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑺𝑳𝒀 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑺.

Context: Red

It amuses Melkor sometimes, how the Valar and Maiar had come to develop such fondness for 'social obligations', little get-togethers -- feasts and parties where everybody had the chance to socialize and glom together. It amuses him even more that he of all the Ainur get invited to these little events, even if Dagor Dagorath had come and passed, and this World is New.

Manwë, of course, never forgets the chance to include him in whatever gathering, great and small -- though Melkor chose only which gatherings he deemed of enough interest to him to go. Now this one, in Valmar, he went to because the expected turnout was small, and if he chose to while away the hours sitting in the bell garden, nobody would question him.

There. A good three hours had passed, and Melkor thinks he can remain seated here for another hour more before he can slip away and go back home--

But Manwë, of course, finds him. In contrast to his plain black-and-gold appearance, Manwë is radiant in white and gold and pale blues. His brother beams and sits beside him.

"What are you doing here in the back garden? You're the most handsome man in the dining room earlier, will you not go back and indulge our guests?"

"When are they my guests?" Melkor returns. "I never invite anybody."

Manwë rolls his eyes. "But will you not show yourself? Even a brief appearance? Just a wave or two."

"Why?"

"Because it would make me terribly glad, brother."

Melkor knows the word please hangs in the air between them. Palpable, but not given enough so to exist. He snorts faintly. Instead of staying to be nudged at, Melkor decided then that no, this is enough. He stands, pats Manwë on the cheek. His brother's eyes widen, but before Manwë could give life to the protest, Melkor disappears in a swirl of darkness.

𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙘𝙮 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙊𝙏𝙋𝙨

Mairon leaves his penthouse at 7:00 am, sharp.

His driver, Adunaphel, is waiting for him, and the sleek Aston Martin car is familiar to everybody in that high-end condominium tower. When Mairon gets into the car, Adunaphel knows the route, and the first stop of the day is his boss's favorite Starbucks drive-thru.

Three coffees, two pastries, and off they drive toward Utumno Prime, first tower in a compound of consisting of three towers total, each one about 180 floors each, total.

His office is by the 180th floor. Impressive skyline, all modern industrial design. But today when Mairon enters his office, he finds his furniture and his desk, and all his picture frames (which mostly feature Finrod and their child, a chocolate-colored British Shorthair cat with golden eyes named Draugluin) covered in little hot pink (he hates the color!) post-it notes.

Temper ticking in 5...4...3...2...1...

"T H Û R I!!!!!!!!!!!"

His secretary comes clattering from their own pantry, lovely in her corporate attire. "Sir---!?"

Mairon rounds on her, positively livid. If he could, he'd emit smoke from his ears and nostrils. "WHAT. IS. ALL. THIS?!?!?!!?"

Thûri, for her part, has a very valid excuse. "Sir!" She says, dismayed. "Sir. When I got here, Sir Melkor was putting all those post-its and told me to tell you to read them all beginning from---from---uh, that one." She points to the post-it stuck to a little cactus plant on the table by the receiving area.

"....Melkor?" "Yes, sir. It wasn't me," says Thûri. "Read that one first, he said." She points again.

The infamous temper ebbs, some. Mairon dumps his briefcase and cashmere scarf over Thûri's table (in perfect imitation of that character in that Devil movie) and snatches the first post it.

[Don't blame your secretary. It's me. -- M.] The note contained a clue onto which note he should pick up next. As it turned out, Melkor was playing a game. At first, the post-its were nothing but work-related matters, reminding Mairon to do this and that, schedule this and that, check out on this and that. It annoys Mairon to no end but the post-its have caught his attention. As his day progresses, so the tone of the post-it's messages shift from reminders of his coffee, his snack, his lunch. Hell, even a reminder to text Finrod and ask him how his day is doing.

It is bizarre, really. But Mairon finds the gesture endearing, and the last post-it of the day he removes from his PC monitor says this:

[Go home, you workaholic. Mind your Finnegan and your cat.]

So far, Mairon has collected all the notes into a stack. He decides he will keep them. As he prepares to leave the office for the night, he sends Adunaphel a text. Go find a bookstore before he picks him up, and buy about fifty post-it bundles, in baby blue, and six Sharpies in red.

@skaelds

Coming soon, on and treachery takes root:

Throwing silly ideas w @skaelds about melkors creatures. So far we have platypus (ASOP), then we thought about it and adelie penguins are definitely from him. So are dodo birds (made them for Manwe. When they went extinct, Manwe cried). Shoebills. Ostriches. Llamas. That fungus that eats you alive. Sunfish, oarfish, blobfish, anglerfish.

Melkor casually throwing these odd creatures into his siblings’ realms just to spite them maybe lmao