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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.

“Show me your hand,” Maedhros says, once he seems satisfied. At Fingon’s frown, he rolls his eyes. “Your finger; you cut yourself before I got here.”

It hits Fingon like a punch. He had forgotten, the pain fading into the background, and now here Maedhros sits, alcohol and gauze in his naked lap because Fingon had cut himself on what was once, long ago, meant to be a betrothal gift.

He is sure that somewhere, some Vala is laughing at him.

---

In the wake of Fingolfin's death, Fingon's first instinct is to run East. It has been long years since Maedhros' arms meant comfort, and yet, at the end of it all, it may have been one of his better impulses.

In that time before he had taken himself and his brothers East, taking Fingon back to his bed had been the last thing on his mind. After, in his cold fortress and alone with his thoughts, he had almost been grateful for it, for never having asked. As if this was something Fingon would still want—the ruined body, the betrayals like landmarks etched into it.

---

A sweltering summer day during the Long Peace, a cool lake, and a revelation; it is enough to bring back together what Maedhros thought lost.

This, them, is a caricature as well. Fingon unleashes another row of blows upon Maedhros and does not think about the way it feels like penance and revenge both. Does not think about how this is the only way he still knows to touch Maedhros without fear.

---

After Thangorodrim, Maedhros needs to re-learn how to fight. It goes about as well as can be expected.

Strands of hair fall red like blood upon black stone, and Fingon’s hands don’t shake the same way that Maedhros isn’t trembling. Which is to say that neither of them does, but it is a careful, arduous exercise of restraint and bitten tongues.

---

In the aftermath of Thangorodrim, not everything falls back into place easily. But Fingon is nothing if not patient, and if giving Maedhros what he needs means silencing his own demons, well—there is no one that Fingon would rather do it for.

The firelight splays golden across them, and he listens to Curufin's breathing

Maitimo had allowed it, his eyes dark and knowing, even as it was a gamble. There is only one person who is known to wear gold in their hair like this; there is only one thing that wearing someone’s token means.

Much the same way that a crown signifies allegiance, Findekáno thinks, as Maitimo kneels in front of their grandfather’s throne.

---

The copper circlet Maitimo is crowned with is a work of art. He finds that he likes it much better on another's brow.

On a scouting trip to Dorthonion in preparation for the Fifth Battle, Maedhros, Fingon and Fingon's wife Alphangil find themselves embroiled in a battle for Alphangil's life when a traitor strikes. Will their relationship survive the fractures and trials ahead?

Dear Elrond, It feels a little silly to be writing this to you while you are sleeping right next to me, but I cannot sleep.

Tyelkormo was currently outside the house, hiding from his mother.

It was nearly winter and every winter was peak matchmaking activity time in Tirion’s palace. So Nerdanel focused more on her sons at this period since she wanted them to make a good impression so they could find a good wife as was proper for young adult elves. 

Alas, Tyelkormo didn’t want that. 

Works for the Sitcom Bingo : We need a distraction, Failure is the Only Option, and getting volunteered (poor Makalaurë's dramatic so he enjoys being volunteered, worry not, no minstrel was harmed in the writing of this fic).

A oneshot on the complex relationship of Maglor, Maedhros, and giving.

For Maedhros & Maglor Week 2025.

When Maedhros goes to parley with Morgoth’s army after Fëanáro’s death, Celebrimbor sneaks out to join him, and the consequences are dire.

Rated M for graphic violence (primarily torture). First three chapters were posted only on AO3 in 2024.

It was well-established knowledge amongst all their brothers that if they did something that made Makalaurë suitably upset, he would retaliate by playing his pipes very early outside the offending brother’s window.

However, while Maitimo was certain that he had done something to earn this assault on his ears, he could not for the life of him figure out what it was.

(In which Maitimo is the latest victim of Makalaurë’s early morning bagpipe playing.)