Tolkien Meta Week Starts December 8!
Join us December 8-14, here and on Tumblr, as we share our thoughts, musings, rants, and headcanons about all aspects of Tolkien's world.
It begins as a game, in their Tree-lit, happy youth: Touch my mind, and draw what I am thinking. Is it an apple, or a pear?
Fingon and Maedhros, thinking for and of each other.
Argon sees the world with an artist's eyes. All the way to the end.
Drabbles Content:
Fingon attends a concert given by the Tirion Academic Symphony.
Maedhros and Fingon meet in the mists, again and again. Until they don't.
What bow, what arrows will serve against such a foe as Glaurung? A single drabble.
The competition cocktail party was a regular event, and Fingon gradually learned to appreciate, if not always enjoy it.
A triple drabble, with images and recipes for 9 cocktails.
There came a time of winter, when night was dark and without moon; and the wide plain of Ard-galen stretched dim beneath the cold stars, from the hill-forts of the Noldor to the feet of Thangorodrim. The watchfires burned low, and the guards were few;
The Silmarillion - JRR Tolkien
Fingon and Maedhros shape new lives after Mandos. One chapter from Fingon's point of view and one from Maedhros'.
“This is not the way of the Eldar.”
“It’s mine. Am I not one of the Eldar too?”
At the Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reunion, plenty is always going on: so many people, so many encounters and interactions, tensions and forging of friendships .
That night, in this moment, in this little corner of Mereth Aderthad, nothing happens. Almost nothing. But it fails to happen with some intensity.
There had been war-camps in Beleriand, purposeful and deadly serious, as well as full of song and camaraderie. There had been the Mereth Aderthad.
This tournament camp was, oddly — or perhaps not — most like that.
Once per year, on the night of a holiday only she still celebrates, Galadriel lights fourteen candles.
Tirion's masked ball offers decadent delights, mistaken identities, insatiable yearnings, and inescapable philanderings.
The first and last time Turgon sees Aredhel
Fingon comes to Nevrast and finds it empty.
“Well, Sam,” said Frodo one sunny afternoon as they sat together in the garden, “what do you think of Elves, now that you have seen Elvenhome?” He spoke with a smile, and both of them remembered the times before that he had asked the question—after first meeting Gildor and his party and spending the night with them at Woody End, and later at Rivendell, and later still as their sojourn in Lothlórien came to an end. It was practically tradition.
Findekáno’s coronation should have been a grand affair. Moringotto was dead, and the Ñoldor could begin to rebuild and slowly retake the lands the Enemy had destroyed in the battle that they had all thought was the beginning of the end.
But Findekáno’s father had fallen even as he slew the Black Foe. Over four hundred years he had ruled, and Findekáno knew this was quite possibly the worst time for a change in leadership.
He still didn’t know where Turukáno and Írissem were.
He still had not heard from Russandol.
Fingon rescues Maedhros from Thangorodrim.
The story of Ernis, wife of Fingon, and Erien, their daughter.
Modern AU with Russingon QPR.
I have a full background for everyone and everything, though I envision this as a series of one-shots, rather than a linear story. Russingon QPR will be the main focus, but other characters will make appearances and maybe steal the light. It's a bit lighter on the trauma in the sense that everyone (beside Finwë and Míriel) is alive, but they each have their own issues.
For practical reasons (aka I didn't want to have to deal with it in-universe), Fëanor is only Míriel's son and was adopted by Finwë at a young age, so Maedhros and Fingon are not biologically cousins, and don't really consider themselves as such, though they have known each other since they were kids.
“I’m in love with you,” Fingon says one morning in September.
Maedhros is perched on the couch’s armrest, bent down, struggling to tie his laces. He looks up at Fingon as the words sink in. His unbound hair makes a curtain in front of his eyes, and he can only see parts of him, the hand on his shoulder bag, the golden beads in his perfectly braided hair, his hesitant, expectant smile.
His face falls the longer Maedhros takes to answer. They’re running late for the meeting, and there’s a lead weight in Maedhros’s gut that pulls painfully as words fail to form on his lips. I’m in love with you too, the words are right there, but it’s like someone has sucked all the sound out of him.
‘None of the Valar, but the King rides upon Rochallor, his great steed. Yea, and wrathful he is, flying ahead as an arrow.’
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Ard-galen witnesses Fingolfin's final stand.
Fingon and Maedhros go camping, taking Fingon's young daughter along with them. Once she falls asleep, they discuss their complicated feelings.