Maedhros and the crown of Noldor. After being taken prisoner to Angband and saved by his friend from the Second House, Maedhros relinquished the Kingship of the Noldor to Fingolfin, head of said House, thus alleviating the feued (somewhat) between the elves.
listen i can’t help it that i go apeshit for men in formal 18th-19th century naval dress that’s just an instinctual response. the admiralty knew what they were doing and they should be held accountable for it
wow 1k notes on this bad boy. the age of sail fandoms really said “is anyone gonna validate this horny motherfucker” and did not wait for an answer
i do think there’s great potential for an au where thingol, not knowing anything about the kinslaying, welcomes the noldor to visit his house, only for creeping realization that his people’s murderers are in his halls to set in,
The thing is that Thingol likes them, the princes of the Noldor. Those fatherless sons of the house of Finwë, his dear friend – Finwë so long gone.
Maedhros is pleasant company; sharp eyes and dry wit, a reckless willingness to put himself onto the frontlines – and for that Thingol is grateful, for it keeps his kinsmen people safe. He is sharp with grief – so sharp one must be cautious with him, as with a shard of broken glass. At times he rebukes Thingol’s kindness, speaking himself unworthy of it – but that is the pain of his torment, of course.
The voice of Maglor is a wonder; Thingol had never before heard any who could claim to rival Daeron, his own bard. The two of them sing together at his feasts, and Thingol notices not when the songs turn sorrowful and ashamed.
Celegorm takes a liking to his daughter a little too fast, and Thingol stifles that fire. But in truth he would not be against it if, given time, some love bloomed between them two (though Luthien laughs at these words!). Would there not be something beautiful to it, if the houses of Finwë and Elwë were joined?
Caranthir is fey and quick to anger, and in truth Thingol does not much like his company. But he finds common tongue quickly with the dwarves, speaking some craftsmanship known only to the Noldor, and he is happy to help Doriath establish trade that had previously been refused them. Thingol has tolerated ill company for far less than that.
Curufin, of all of them, is said to most resemble their father. The truth of that Thingol does not know – but he sees Finwë in his features, raven-haired and smart-eyed, and for that alone he shall chance his perilous moods. They talk of the cutting of gems and the beauty of Valinor, of the linguistic differences between their tongues. Thingol meets Curufin’s young son, who speaks so little and things to his father’s hands, and shows him the statues of rock that the dwarves had carved for him, which had so delighted Luthien in her youth. The boy speaks little, but on the third day he says something or other about a burning sea – a strange turn of phrase, and Thingol means to ask him more of it, but Curufin smiles and turns the conversation away, towards the beauty of the palace.
Amras speaks to him little, and rides seldom through his lands to hunt. He had lost a twin, all tell him, so alike to him to him in mood and face – and what elf can live through such loss? Thingol sends him condolences, and gifts, and does not take it personally when nothing is returned. He wishes only that he knew more of how to life the grief on the young man’s heart.
They are fine boys; brave boys, who had through war and pain and fight yet for his land. Thingol has no sons. It is right, he thinks, that he should care for the orphans of Finwë’s house – Finwë having been dearer to him than all but his wife and child.
Not all of them come, of course. Fingon son of Fingolfin leaves his company quickly, refusing to look him in the eyes, mutters something about bloodied hands and debts unpaid to his brother when he thinks none of his men listen. It must be Finwë, Thingol thinks. Perhaps he had been there when Finwë had fallen. Some guilt, as any devoted son may feel, being so unable to save his grandfather.
Melian cautions him against their company. Some Doom lays upon them, she can feel, and she likes not their presence in her realm. But if they are doomed, Thingol thinks, is it not only for reason for kindness? Not all are so lucky as he, with a people whole and well, the most wondrous of wives by his side, and a realm that shall never fall.
It’s you friendly neighbor fanfic author here. In the light of this apparent new trend of people feeding unfinished fics to AI to get an “ending,” and some people even talking about “blanket permissions,” let me just say this:
I EXPLICITLY FORBID ANYONE TO FEED MY FICS TO AI. DUDE, THAT IS ABOUT THE LEAST RESPECTFUL THING YOU CAN DO. IF YOU DO IT, SHALL YOU BE EXCOMMUNICATED FROM YOUR FANDOM AND WALK ON LEGOS BAREFOOT TILL THE END OF DAYS.
That is my anti-permission.
Thank you for your attention.
As above, so below.
Yes, I know I only update OBIS like once a year, but that’s because I’m a busy, stressed adult.
The kind of busy, stressed adult that works full-time and hasn’t taken a vacation day in almost a year, while simultaneously having a bunch of other random stuff wearing me down (taxes, assorted family drama, health issues, rent doubling in eight years, clearing tens of thousands of dollars of medical bills and attorney fees, that kind of joy and delight).
Despite the above, I still work on my story whenever I have time. My chapters are crafted with love and care, and painstaking detail, and I think they’re worth the wait.
While I appreciate that it’s a long wait between updates, if you really can’t be bothered to bear with me while I write it in between the parts where I need to live my life, and are so impatient that you would rather have AI bastardize original ideas on the cheap than wait for the real thing, you should probably take your need for instant gratification elsewhere and write your own damn story.
With your words.
Not mine (which would require my permission, which you do not have), and definitely not AI’s (which would invariably do a substandard job of imitating my writing style, write a million words of nonsense, and then abruptly choke to death on the plot).
I would like to make it expressly clear that if anyone’s going to choke to death on the plot of my story around here, it’s going to be me.
Thank you for your patience and understanding while the next chapter drives me still further into a spiral of madness, which I have come to understand is an integral part of the creative process.
Cheers!
Dubs 🍓
Same. Please do NOT feed any of my work into AI. The dude bros are already feeding it enough without readers helping them.
Oh yeah, The Ordeal. Its normal to wake up in a cold sweat years later with nightmares about The Ordeal. Anyone who didn’t go through The Ordeal is forever marked as a little too carefree. A little too uninhibited. Its illegal not to send your kids to The Ordeal.
Miners are trained when things go wrong to lie on the ground, breathe slow and shallow, wait until the light breaks at last through a chink and they are found.
— Sara Berkeley Tolchin, “What
Just Happened?”
They have given him his mother’s old
room. Maeglin knows it was once hers because the enormous bed on its raised
dais is dressed in the pine green and rich browns she had favored. He knows it
was hers by the crowd of white gowns gathering dust where they hang in the
closet, by the silver jewelry packed away neatly in chests on the armoire. The
room itself is directly across from Turgon’s at the crown of the King’s Tower, which
tells him that its first owner was held an equal of the king; and who but his
mother had ever gainsaid Turgon’s command to remain within the walls of
Gondolin? This, also, proves it was hers.
Mostly he knows by the smell. Beneath the empty
chill of neglect, his mother’s scent of spice on new snow lingers, a balm for
spinning thoughts – save the one whispering that, soon, even this will be gone,
and Mother will then be no more than a figure in his memory.
