50 Prompts: AU Silmarillion by Urloth

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Prompt: Invade (Feanorions et al. Fingolfinions et al. Finarfinions et al. Original character)

I swear this one is pure crack. 

Warnings for: silly slash and rare pairings galore. Swapping back and forth between sindarin names and quenya names because the newly arrived host of Nolofinwe don't know sindarin yet. Meanwhile sindar is the lingua franca for trading in the silvan and avar groups so the Feanarion's know it.

And Mire hops pronouns.

Lets play: how many rare and weird pairings can I shove in here.

There is some minor smut.

So, FINALLY concluding what was started in Prompt: Explosion, and carried on for far too long in Prompts: Care, Protect and Decision.

Happy endings for everyone? (no this is the Finweans. They don't do happy.)

Summary: the host of Nolofinwe arrives. And then there is nonsense.

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And the history books will say later that it was a glorious hour when the Host of Nolofinwë finally arrived upon the plains before Angband where a mighty battle was taking place between the forces of Morgoth, much wounded by the explosion of light that had occurred some many years past, and the army of High King Fëanáro.

And lo, the books will tell you, there was much rejoicing as the brothers saw one another.

And with a roar the two armies joined together as one and drove Morgoth up against his iron fortress where upon he was taken prisoner, and his spirit sundered from its coil and captured within the hammer of Grond which was sent forth back to Valinor that proof that what the Valar cannot do, the Eldar can.

The injuries were many but all of the royal contingent survived and there was much celebrating to be had, though some were too incapacitated to truly appreciate it.

As recorded in the journal of Prince Caranthir, his royal uncle Nolofinwë met with great misfortune and became “intimately acquainted” with the warhammer of Morgoth, mighty Grond, and thus was left unable to walk for some time.

---

 “Well now you're done trying to punch me. Brother! It has been far too long, I could kiss you. I suppose that is what I should say to you. Pucker up.”

“Don’t you dare. I will bleed on everything you love and care for. Shut your mouth right now, stop smiling, and give me some more poppy.”

“It would be interesting to see how you would accomplish that with two broken legs brother but certainly.”

Mírë stares uncertainly at the tent. Perhaps they should come back later.

Wait, think male! Male! Because there are the Nolofinwion’s here, at last, after years of preparation for this date.

Mírë looks around unsurely. Now what shall they…what should he do? He can’t visit his brother’s tents.

There are strange wet noises coming from Maedhros’ tent.

And grunting.

Maglor has had to abscond with Amras, after a horrible, shrill black haired person with golden haired offspring set him off into a memory-fit.

The golden haired offspring did try and calm their father down. So the golden haired offspring is not so bad.

Caranthir and a loud gold haired person are in separate tents to ‘cool’ off after Celegorm and Curufin had to drag them apart to stop them fighting.

Curufin got knocked unconscious while that was happening.

Celebrimbor is also in a tent ‘cooling off’ after talking to the horrible, shrill one that hurt Amras.

There is a golden haired female in the goal, apparently she is in trouble.

Something to do with Alqualonde.

And there is another black haired female and a golden haired male in Celegorm’s tent, talking to him.

And sometimes punching him.

Mírë sighs, kicks at a rock on the ground, and glares at the sling his left arm is in.

“Hello?”

They look up. It is the golden haired offspring of the shrill, horrible black haired one.

“Hello,” he replies unsurely.

“A…are you one of my cousin’s children?” the golden haired offspring asks.

“N…no.” Mire replies uncertainly.

“Oh then who –“

Oh she wants an introduction.

“I am Mírë! Mírefinwë Fëanárion.”

“Fëanárion…” she repeats sounding like someone just hit her over the head then asked her to find the right angle of a triangle.

“Yes,” oh he’s meant to add something after aren’t they, when talking to Nolofinwë’s people. “I was born just before Formenos.”

“Just before Formenos,” she parrots and then her knees give out. Mírë catches her under her arms.

“Oh dear, are you hungry? Are you alright?” he asks.

“No I am…” she protests weakly, and then her stomach growls loudly.

“Food then,” Mírë steadies her on her feet, feet which are bare, he notices, and covered in hundreds of silvery scars.

“Your feet look silver,” he says.

“Yes,” the woman says with a slightly stronger voice, “people do say that a lot.”

“The mess tent is this way,” Mírë shrugs and leads her away. They suppose feet like hers are the reason why Celegorm insists on them wearing boots all the time.

---

Mírë carries her over the last patch to the tent because it is ankle deep mud filled with sharp rocks. It’s a bit awkward to do it with only one arm.

She makes strange squawking noises. They… he sets her at a bench with a fellow whose hair is so gold it’s hard to look at straight on, and returns with a plate of rock-cakes, and a pot of the local tea which tastes a lot like oranges whilst looking like mud in a cup.

“I have made it clear that I intend to never marry,” Silverfeet says nervously but looking them straight in the eye.

“It is good that you feel you can be open about your sexuality to a near stranger,” Mírë replies. Celegrom covered all of that nonsense surrounding same sex relationships during lesson 100 of why people won’t take well to someone who switches gender for no reason other than they want to.

Golden haired fellow snorts tea out his nose. Silverfeet squawks again.

Mírë wonders if they should offer to become female to make her more comfortable.

But Celegorm covered that lesson 50 of why people don’t take well to someone who changes gender etc. etc.

And Silverfeet might think they’re trying to court her.

---

Celegorm is currently in an awkward situation.

Well in terms of awkward situations, there was that time Mírë went hunting with him and managed to find a half-maiar pagan wolf goddess lounging about.

And then managed to thoroughly piss off her husband.

That was more awkward than this.

Though to be fair to Mírë and Celegorm, she’d been nine feet tall and naked. How are you supposed to not stare?

So this isn’t as awkward as that. But still awkward. Because Findaráto appears to be trying to grab his cock.

“Findarato,” he says awkwardly, “I am not Amairë…”

Celegorm’s body is currently an achy mess from being slapped and punched by various cousins, plus the long hard slog of battle, only completed a day ago.

Though to be honest he’d rather be him then be Maedhros right now. He had distinctly heard Findekáno say he was taking payment for their separation out of Matimo’s arse.

Keep it classy Findekáno.

Sometime into catching up with Irrisë and Findaráto, a truce was called (Irissë carries more of a punch than she used to) and they decided to close their eyes for ten minutes, because they were slurring their sentences.

Now Celegorm has awoken. That is not Mírë pressed up against him because Mírë has had only the one erection and they were thoroughly appalled by it. They proceeded to read every single healers text they could get their hands on to figure out their own body, and force it to never pull such a stunt on them again.

It’s also not Mírë because whilst Mírë might cling like a leech sometimes, especially when it gets cold… Mírë’s never tried to discretely undo Celegorm’s leggings, ever.

Findaráto presses further against him and oh Oromë, that is certainly an impressive erection grinding against his hip.

“Well no, I would have noticed if Amairë has one of these.” The hand squeezes him through the material.

Celegorm’s body is waking up and remind him how long it’s been since he’s managed to have any sort of an orgasm. Mírë apparently sleeps on a hair trigger set off by the sound of someone trying to discretely wriggle down their braies or pull up a sleeping tunic.

Sleeps like a log through everything else.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” Findaráto grumbles into his hair, and that trespassing hand shoves straight into Celegorm’s leggings.

“Irissë is in the next bed!” he hisses instead, telling his body to calm down, that’s only a hand on his cock.

Ooohhhhhh.

“She sleeps like granite,” Findaráto licks the shell of his ear, “and she’s hardly going to see what’s going on under a mountain of blankets.”

Fair enough. She could probably guess though.

She’s Findekáno’s sister, not to put a fine point on it.

Celegorm manages to twist around enough to get a good look at Findaráto’s face. Findaráto looks at him like a man looks at the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. The tunnel being celibacy and chastity enforced by living in constant, icy danger, and the light being a warm, attractive body with a pulse, who is capable of giving consent.

Celegorm bites his lip, and realises he is going to have to profusely grovel at Mire’s feet for all of this

Findarato, sensing capitulation, apparently has a ferret as a spirit animal and completes a complicated manoeuvre that finishes with him nicely between Celegorm’s legs without disturbing a single blanket.

-

Silverfeet, who is also called Idril, is nice enough to talk too.

The golden haired fellow, who is unimaginatively named Laurefindë, is also very nice to talk to. But eventually they have find places to sleep. Irdil is apparently sleeping in the same tent as her shrill, horrible father.

Golden fell…sorry..Laurefindë has a tent apparently. The one with golden flowers on it.

So Mírë went back to Celegorm and his tent…

Well…

He supposes Celegorm has needs. He’s a grown man after all.

Maglor passed by the mess tent and mentioned he was going to talk to Maedhros. So maybe Maedhros’ tent might have space for them.

N…

Nope.

There are still those noises, more of them.

And three voices contributing.

Well.

Curufin’s tent is out of the question, Celebrimbor shares the tent with Curufin as well.

Caranthir’s tent then, Mírë thinks hopefully.

He sticks his head in to said tent, and sees Caranthir busily attempting to eat the face of the loud blond one he argued with earlier. The blond one is attempting to do the same.

There is a low growl of “AH! Angaráto!” and an answering hiss of “Carnistir!!” accompanied by the snarl of clothing tearing.

Mírë pulls his head back and blushes from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

Amras, he thinks desperately, jogging across the campsite.

More of those noises like in Maedhros’ tent.

There is sudden sob of ‘Aikanáro.’

This. Fucking. Family. Mírë thinks in despair, then apologises profusely mentally to said family because they love them and don’t mean them ill.

---

His mother’s shade is dancing quietly with his father’s shade to unheard music. Fëanor watches them with pleasure, unable to sleep in his new bed on the floor of his tent.

He could come up with absolutely no excuse why his brother, having received two broken legs whilst removing one of Morgoth’s, should not be afforded the pleasure of the best bed in the camp until they return to the more permanent settlement at Mithrim.

“She is lovely,” says a voice by his shoulder.

He startles and peers down.

Mírë stares back at him, having successfully shucked boots, coat and managed to wriggle into his temporary bed without Fëanor noticing.

There are several questions he could ask.

Mírë, why are you in my bed?

Mírë why are you in my bed?

Mírë how did you get into my bed without my noticing?

Mírë, how the hell are your feet so cold even in socks?!

“One of the gold haired ones is fucking Celegorm in our tent. And there is a black haired female sleeping on my bed.” Mírë replies with characteristic bluntness, pre-empting his question “you were distracted by the ghost dancers, and my feet are always cold after riding a horse all day; Celegorm says it’s my circulation.”

And then they look guilty for breaking the mind-reading rule,

“No it is alright,” he sighs and tucks his living silmaril against his chest. “How are you feeling?” he lost sight of Mírë for a few terrifying moments during the battle. It was not something he would have willingly taken the living silmaril into but they insisted.

“I am alright,” Mire waves their bandaged wrist, “all I did was sprain a wrist and wrench my shoulder twisting a dragon’s head off.”

“Twisting. A. Dragon’s. Head. Off?”

Was that Nolofinwë stirring?

No. Still asleep.

“Yes.” Mire agrees. The adrenaline rush had overcome it and it had just reacted to a fire breathing threat, “it was missing a leg though,” they add.

“That is a thing that you can do then?”

“Apparently.”

Fëanor makes a note of this for the list of things that he now knows his silmaril can do.

“So you got ousted from your own tent,” Fëanor yawns, watching his father swing his mother, his mother laughing and twisting her fingers into Finwë’s hair. They are dressed in clothing he does not recognise, style and embroidery primitive but beautiful. Another time and place. A happier one. Before him.

“And no one else has space… or they are all fucking one another.”

Fëanor snorts, “Findekáno and Matimo?” he asks with a chuckle.

“With Maglor,” adds Mírë, confirming a suspicion he’s had for a while but never bothered to confirm.

“Curufi – no you would rather sleep in the mud I think.”

Mírë’s expression confirms this.

“Caranthir?”

“The shouting gold one.”

“Angaráto?” he guesses.

“That was the name he was hissing,” Mírë agrees, initiating Fëanor into the circle of knowing far too much about Caranthir’s sex life.

“Maglor’s tent?”

“Shares it with Amras.”

“Amras?”

“Someone named Aikanáro.”

Fëanor blinks.

Well that was unexpected.

“I could have happily gone to sleep whilst the blond one tires to put a hole in Celegorm's matress using Celegorm,” Mírë says in an aggrieved voice . By process of elimination Fëanor now knows that Findaráto is fucking his son. He honestly would have guessed the other way around but then again...

Findaráto’s always been a wild card.

“But there is that black haired woman sprawled across my bed like a big lump” Mírë finishes in indignantly.

There is a muffled noise from his proper bed where Nolofinwë sleeps… apparently.

“Ahh,” he sighs and kisses Mírë’s forehead until the frown smoothes out, “I am sorry.”

“There was a nice golden haired one named Idril who might have let me sleep on her floor, but she is sleeping with her father and I hate him. He is horrible, shrill and he set Amras off with what he said to him.”

There is another noise from Nolofinwë the very much not sleeping.

Fëanor grins widely.

“And there was another one, Laurefindë, he might have had space for me but he’s a stranger really, like everyone else. At least the Nolofinweans are related to me yes? Even if they are uncontrollable rutting beasts.”

“Yes,” Fëanor can’t stop his laughter now, “Though by my count, it’s the Arafinweans who are leading the charge there. Oh Mírë, Mírë, Mírefinwë, what am I going to do with you.”

“Make me your heir; I am clearly the only one of your children that is not sex addled.”

“WHAT?!” Nolofinwë finally roars, sitting straight up in bed, no longer even trying to pretend to be asleep.

---

“Good morning.”

Laurefindë looks up from his breakfast to see the strange, pale haired doppelganger of Fëanáro settling on the other side of the table from him. Laurefindë replies a good morning though he’s sure most don’t think that.

There is a serious lack of tents amongst the people of Nolofinwë. Bunking up can be a unpleasant game of roulette.

The doppelganger chews thoughtfully at the morning ration of toasted old rock-cake and sips the strange, murky drink that is served warm here.

“Sleep well?” the doppelganger asks.

“Yes,” he replies, yawning, “you?”

“Alright once my uncle was sedated,” the doppelganger says pleasantly, and then makes room on their bench for a thoroughly debauched looking Tyelkormo Fëanárion.

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Chapter End Notes

Spiced Wine is to blame for my on going addiction to Finrod/Celegorm.

Tumblr is to blame in general for Angrod/Caranthir.

Don't ask me where Aegnor/Amras came from.

I. Do. Not. Know.

And the nine foot tall naked wolf goddess is D'rak'tari who turns up in Prompt: Meat, Grandmother and Meetings.