New and Updated Fiction

Maeglin writes to Idril.

Cúrandil knows the stories, knows how their people first awoke in the water. How they came to walk the land and how the sea has called them back ever since.
It is their turn to follow the call now.

Any and all Silmarillion drabbles I have written will be posted in this story. May or may not fit in with anything else I've written.

Maglor performs the Noldolantë and the room reacts.

In the wake of his ravishing by Morgoth, Mairon, who was Arien, falls.

Fingon leaves a note for his family before attempting to rescue Maedhros

For the Dark Matter Challenge, a double drabble on the nature of Creation.

Two survivors finally get together, with a bit of help from Elrond.

It is not, Maedhros thinks, that Fingon is no longer angry. It is just that Fingon has never let anything as clean-cut as betrayal stop him from loving Maedhros in despite.

---

After everything, they are just a little insane about each other.

His gaze, inevitably, is drawn back to Finrod, the marred beauty of him. It has not been Curufin who ruined him so—had not been Curufin who had dragged him out of Nargothrond and into the wolf’s den, who had let Finrod protect him with his life. And yet.

And yet it feels oddly fitting, that such a ruined thing should be Curufin’s.

---

Through careful manoeuvring and a few lucky coincidences, Curufin saves Finrod's life without having to admit to anything so humiliating as having emotions. Contrary to what one would expect, this does not make things all that much easier.

Alternatively: Curufin lies, Finrod lives, and somehow they do still manage to figure it out, for better or for worse.

Five tents, he counts. Two dead guards. The fire within him burns so white, he wonders if it will leave anything of himself behind. Wonders if he can bring himself to care. Wonders, too, if this is what his father had felt like when he found the innards of their grandfather’s head spilt over his well-wrought front steps.

If so, perhaps Maedhros finally understands.

Maglor is taken. Maedhros handles it as well as can be expected, which is not at all.

They speak as if they have not been sending messengers to keep each other informed of what was necessary. As if this—war, strategy, cold facts—is not all they have exchanged ever since Maedhros had removed them East.

He wonders if Maglor has forgiven him yet—for giving away the crown, for not asking him first, for coming back someone other than himself. He wonders if he has forgiven Maglor yet—for leaving him to Morgoth, for looking at him returned only with horror and guilt. For not forgiving him yet.

They have not spoken in twenty years. Maedhros doubts that this is the kind of reuniting that their uncle had in mind.

He used to be able to read his brother better than his own mind. He used to think that he would do anything, would bear anything, to have him back.

Maglor’s worst crime to date, he thinks, is that in this, too, he has proven himself a liar.

Maedhros abdicates the throne. Maglor copes, more or less (it's definitely less).

Celebrimbor smiles into the dark, and wonders if this is what Nelyafinwë meant when he spoke of the satisfaction of resistance, no matter its price.

Sauron does not kill him in Eregion. This is his first mistake.

Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; Finarfin needs no doom, no treasonous brothers, no Middle-earth to believe it true.

The House of Arafinwë before, during, and after its Exile. A history told in an assortment of loosely connected drabbles.

And he would not fool either of them, clearly, claiming that it did not settle something within him that has been in uproar ever since they set foot on Beleriand’s shores.

“Go on,” Maedhros says, his voice gentle now. “Will you not do this for me, Káno?”

Maglor knows what Maedhros is doing, allowing him to pretend. And yet—

And yet. Maglor would not deny him anything, not any longer. He cannot.

Maglor struggles to give up control. Maedhros makes sure that he learns.

“Do you think,” Aredhel starts, her tone idle as she wraps the last strip of fabric around his shoulder and ties it tight, “that killing your husband weighs lighter or heavier than slaying your kin?”

Celegorm freezes, his throat going dry. She does not move away, her dark eyes unforgiving upon him.

“That depends,” he finally says, catching her wrist before she can snatch her hand away. “Did you love him?”

---

Aredhel had visited Himlad. Celegorm decides to find out why.

What is left of it, you wonder?

---

Finrod, on the eve of the War of Wrath.

There is shame in it, scathing-hot and heavy. If Makalaurë is honest, that only makes it more of a delight.

Everything in Tirion is holy perfection, white-pure and immaculate. This is just the latest desire of breaking something open, of getting to watch how it bleeds over untainted marble.

---

Maitimo has been avoiding him. Makalaurë deduces why.

Blood wells to the surface, hot and sticky. It runs over Curufin’s hand and down Finrod’s neck, the smell almost overwhelming. Finrod thrashes when Curufin presses fabric against the wound with enough force that darkness dances along the edges of Finrod’s vision.

He is breathing harshly, and it sends pain lacing through him with every inhale, every exhale. His hands have found Curufin’s legs, his wrist, nails digging into fabric and soft skin.

Finrod would apologise, but he does not think that he has anything but curses and confessions within him.

---

Finrod gets hurt. Curufin does what he must.

"Would it help,” Maedhros starts, his tone pensive and his fingers pressing more firmly against Maglor’s jaw. “Would it help if I did not forgive you as easily? If I punished you for what you did not, could not do?”

It takes a moment for Maglor to understand, Maedhros pushing images into his mind—of rope and chains and bruised skin, of pain and pleasure mingling without release.

It makes him shiver, the thrill quickly followed by shame hot enough that he wants to flinch from it.

---

Maglor is unable to let go of his guilt. Maedhros gets inventive about it.

“A pity,” Fingon says, and his grin looks only a little forced. “Will you dance with me regardless?”

Maedhros first instinct is to say no. Elbereth, he should say no. But he looks at Fingon with his flushed cheeks, the braids coming loose, the banked hope in his eyes. The way the slant of his mouth reveals that he expects a rejection, and how he asks regardless.

Maedhros has always been terrible at denying him anything. It is why he had put half a continent between them, why he knew that coming here was a mistake before he so much as left Himring’s walls.

---

Maedhros believes that Fingon deserves something better. Fingon disagrees.

It is too much to ask, Findekáno knows. If there is one thing he understands it is loyalty, the way it sits on your shoulders, the crushing weight and comforting form of it. Maitimo can no more turn his back on his family than Findekáno can, and that, more than anything, has always been their most wretched similarity.

---

One last meeting on the Eve of the Fëanorians' exile.

Maglor had expected it to give him an edge. He had not expected to level the battlefield and the forest, everything but Maedhros who remains, untouched and staring at Maglor as if he has been awoken from a long and terrible sleep.

Even their horses are gone. Maglor’s throat feels as if he has swallowed glass.

---

The first time they are attacked after Maedhros' rescue, Maglor handles it very well.

Maglor comes alive beneath it all the same; is not proud of the noise that makes it out of his throat and cannot bring himself to care, not even a little. He pushes closer, greedy suddenly, so greedy.

They used to do this often, in a time long past; back when the Trees still washed Aman in hallowed light, when their family had been its own world, without running brothers and mad fathers. Back when there were not yet cousins and mountains of guilt between them.

---

After Maglor loses the Gap, Maedhros offers comfort in the only way he still knows to.