Fanworks Tagged with Fingolfin

Maedhros is left behind by his family after the Kinslaying at Alqualondë after falling beneath the waves. Fingon, in a chance return to Alqualondë, finds an unconscious Maedhros and brings him to camp. The two will discover anew what their love means for them after the lies that split them apart.

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Feanor and Fingolfin, from their youth to their fall.

"I will do this gladly," Fingolfin said, whispering into Feanor's mouth, grasping for reasons and sense. "Gladly, if it will bring peace between us. If it will end the madness."

"The madness will not end," Feanor said. "There will never be peace."

Chapters 1-11 and 18 were originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2002 and slightly revised for this version. Chapters 12-17 were written in 2026.

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Fëanor shrugged, studying the contents of his wine glass. “Something must be done about that house. It will fall down eventually.”
“It does not follow that it must be you that tears it down single-handedly. Are you sure you do not want help?”
“It’s not as though I have much else to do. I need to build something new there,” he said after a few moments. “To do that, I must first clear away the old and broken things.”

Decades out of Mandos, too many things in Fëanor's life remain broken. He can't do anything except wait for his sons to come to him, but he can do something about the old and crumbling house where they once lived. 

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Later, Fëanáro will look back on this moment, on finding Melkor bearing down on Ñolofinwë, and try to brush off the panic that had gone striking through him as irrelevant. It is a panic he would have felt no matter who was engaged in such a foolish fight and so, it does not matter.

Lies, even to oneself, work best when they are shrouded in truth. This does not make them less of a lie.

Or: Loop 4 & a glimpse into Fëanáro's thoughts at the start.

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One drabble per Finwëan. Currently on first and second generations.

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All Melkor wants to do is turn everyone against each other. Why is it so hard?

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Some thoughts on Tolkien canon

1. Helcaraxë

2. Cuiviénen

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Riflessioni

1. Helcaraxë
2. Cuiviénen

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“Can I not what?” he asks, at last. “What do you want me to say, Nolvo—oh no, brother, please do not wed, so that we may continue our ill-advised perversion behind closed doors? Do you want me to fuck you slow and gentle, tell you that it has always been you? That I will ruin your wedding and leave my wife, so we may run away to live life—“

Nolofinwë reverses their positions with such force that Fëanáro is slammed into the wood panelling, all air punched out of his lungs. This is more like it; this is how they began, what they know; what is, in the end, all they ever ought to be to each other—Nolofinwë’s features contorted in fury and hurt, Fëanáro baring his teeth like he is just waiting to cause more of the same.

They stay there for a moment, both breathing harshly, a precipice that is only waiting for them to fall.

Fëanor, Fingolfin, and their last night before Fingolfin is to be wed.

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A sound came, then, that was not sleet or wind or the heavy breathing of one who slept. It was footsteps, crunching in the ice outside. They stopped for a moment, and the tent flap opened, granting entrance to both Ingoldo and a cold gust of air. His face was red with cold.
“How did it go?” he asked in a low voice as Ingoldo turned to secure the flap once more.
“As well as can be expected.”

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On the day I became a god the darkness of the night sky shone as bright as the future ahead of me - swallowing whole what shan't have been for alms were a currency owned by the rich...

...or a gift too many during the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

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“When we get out of this bedamned frozen wasteland,” he murmurs, pleasure pooling in his stomach and leaving everything glowing golden, “I am going to strip you bare and fuck you until you stop having ambitions higher than you should.”

“And if I do not stop,” Ñolofinwë returns, voice rough and cracking across the words, “if I keep trying to take the crown you do not even enjoy having, what will you do then, brother?”

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He burnt himself to ashes, Makalaurë had told them, voice remarkably steady for one who clearly did not want to speak of it. It had taken several back-and-forths of clarification for Ñolofinwë to realize this was meant in the most literal manner possible. His brother had managed to outshine everyone else even on the matter of death itself, and he had been forced to close his eyes for a long minute for fear that he would start crying or laughing, or worse, both.

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“You know as well as I do that the aphrodisiac is never meant to be consumed in such a high quantity,” Ñolofinwë says evenly. “It is well known to be lethal in such a high dosage if there is no one around to lay with.”

Fëanáro shoots him a scathing glare, as if Ñolofinwë has said something incomparably stupid. “I am well aware of the properties of the plant,” Fëanáro says flatly, shrugging his jacket off and glaring at the pollen on it. “But I am not alone, am I?”

It takes a moment for Fëanáro's meaning to hit him, and he does not quite stop himself from gaping when it does. "We cannot lay together!" he exclaims, voice going humiliating high with horror. "You are my brother!"

The words earn him nothing but a disparaging snort; Fëanáro only half paying him any attention at all as he glances around the clearing. "You are not my brother," he says, and the words are not even cruel, only a simple fact. "I am not going to die because of your useless morals."

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Those who survive do so by cutting parts of themselves off; their innocence, sacrificed to the altar of devouring hunger. Their faith, drowned alongside their children. Their fingers, toes, limbs, coin the Ice demands in exchange for passage.

Those who survive do so in despite; they do not know yet that this will be true for centuries to come.

---

The House of Nolofinwë, and their time on the Ice. A deed of great renown and endurance, told in an assortment of loosely connected drabbles.

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Maedhros, unlike most, watches closely—has not known how to do anything but, ever since Fingon brought him back. Does more than that, too, and few Elves care to guard their mind so closely that someone who wishes to would be hindered from catching surface thoughts.

Back in Aman, there was no need; it was a matter of courtesy not to go rummaging around in other people’s heads, and for all of Tirion’s political scheming, not even his father would have ever considered breaching such trust.

This is not Aman, and Maedhros is not his father. And Fingolfin’s mind, for one, is very loud.

---

Fingolfin struggles beneath the weight of the crown. Maedhros does what he must to help.

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“It is called having friends, Fëanáro; you should try it sometime,” Nolofinwë spits, and it comes out sharper than he means it to, but he is—

Lord, he is tired; of Fëanáro’s vitriol, of how easily he himself still unravels at the slightest push. How effortlessly Fëanáro slides beneath his skin, and Nolofinwë wants to dig his finger into the unmarked flesh, wants to hurt, wants—

He wants; that is perhaps the most terrible part about it all.

---

Ever has the House of Finwë been renowned for its sense of competition. This, though, Nolofinwë knows, must put even the worst of it to shame.

Or: Fingolfin and Fëanor will turn even brother-fucking into a contest. Who could have guessed.

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“Are they fighting again?” Idril asks, wandering over to the fireplace the moment Fingolfin lets her down.

“It is what you do with siblings,” Fingolfin says, and succeeds at not laughing at the irony.

Oh, how much would be different if it were not so true. She treats him to a look full of sceptical disbelief and sets to restacking the fire.

---

An exploration of the Nolofinwëans in early Beleriand, and the effect that Maedhros' rescue and abdication would have had on the relationships between them, in the wake of the Ice and all its horrors.

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“We are going to get caught,” Fingolfin hisses, though he makes no move to actually push Fëanor away from where he’s sucking a bruise onto Fingolfin’s collarbone. Fëanor hums, shoving a knee between Fingolfin’s legs and smirking against his skin when he’s forced to bite back a moan, hips jerking up.

“Do you want me to stop then?” he asks, voice rich with amusement as he kisses his way up Fingolfin’s neck. “Tell me,” he whispers, mouth hovering over Fingolfin’s. “Tell me you want me to stop.”

Fingolfin is genuinely worried they are going to get caught. It does not stop him from cursing quietly and kissing Fëanor to shut him up.

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Fingolfin wants Fëanor absolutely shattered in his bed, his name the only thing in Fëanor's mouth, in his thoughts. He wants to break Fëanor down to his most basic essence, a flame hiding in the body of an elf, and then slowly build him back up again as if feeding a fire on a windy night. Wants to make himself an integral part of the rebuilding so that he can never be erased, never be shoved out. He wants to be fully given what he was always denied—

—Fëanor’s trust. 

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“You do not have to do this,” Fëanáro murmurs, voice strangely gentle.

Ñolofinwë shrugs, feeling tired to his bones, and completely unwilling to leave Fëanáro's side. He slides the sponge over Fëanáro's shoulders, shifting Fëanáro's hair out of the way so he may run the sponge across the back of his brother's neck. "It is customary, is it not. For one to be prepared for their coronation by their family."

Fëanáro makes a strange noise, half-laughter, half-scoff. “I do not feel this is quite the manner my sons would have helped me prepare,” Fëanáro says dryly.

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Fëanor did not know how to explain the ill-defined uneasiness and the almost instinctual dislike he felt, how impossible it was to reconcile the impression he had gotten from the tapestry in Mandos to the reality of Daeron in person, in life. “He seems careless,” he said, because he did not know how else to explain. 

“That is certainly not true,” said Nerdanel, “though I know well that I cannot expect you to take my word for it. It is long since you placed any trust in anyone’s judgment aside from your own, flawed though it is.”

Midwinter is meant to be a time of feasting and merriment, but Fëanor does not find it so, especially with Daeron of Doriath in attendance. 

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Fingolfin died. Or so he thought. Until he suddenly, disorientingly finds himself reliving one of the worst days of his life.

This time though, it goes differently.

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After his release from the Halls of Mandos, Melkor seduces many of the Noldor with honeyed words and accusations against the Valar.  The Two Trees are ruined and the Sun and Moon arise.  One of these elves, Ardana the Astrologer, leads her people to return the skies to their original form, nothing but stars.  But she must destroy the Sun and Moon to accomplish that from her holds in the south of Middle Earth.

This is a non-canon story that is inspired by an MERP RPG series that was a gift from my aunt.  Most of the characters and settings were from the series and some quotes and songs are taken from Tolkien's writing.  It also ties in with the Wars in Beleriand and two my other two stories, The Dark Mage of Rhudaur and The Thieves of Tharbad.  The story is designed to span three ages.

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Hope is a weapon. Hope is a skill.

or, the art of not giving up in the face of the impossible, as seen through the eyes of fifteen people living in First Age Beleriand.

16 perfect 100 words drabbles, exploring this concept.

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