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Home For Wayward Fëanorians
@hyperlexia-1
A fandom grandma. Here for the Tolkien. She/her. Left wing. Fangirl. Disabled. Neurodivergent of some kind. How old am I? I used to read fanfic printed on paper and sold at cons in the 80s. Beware! I may leave positive comments on your fics.
Mary Oliver poetry prompts pt 2 number 30 for Maedhros and Fingon please. I really like the way you write their friendship.
Thank you for the prompt! <33 This turned into a bit from the meanwhile the world goes on 'verse, not long after Go On Aching Still. Also it got a bit longer than the other ficlets so it's going under a cut.
30. What I want to say is that the past is the past, and the present is what your life is, and you are capable of choosing what that will be.
Fingon crossed his arms. “You really want to do this now?”
“I’d rather not do it at all.” Maedhros sat under a willow tree, just out of sight of his mother’s house. A small river flowed along beside it; Fingon had many happy childhood memories of this river, and of Maedhros’ grandparents house with the plum orchard beside it. The ancestors of this willow tree had been quiet witnesses to many hours of laughter and idle conversation, to youthful daydreams and the occasional argument. It did not surprise him to find Maedhros out there now, leaning back against the tree with a sketchbook on his knee, and a pencil in his hand; he had snapped the book shut as soon as Fingon had stepped through the willow fronds. His hair was loose and tangled on his shoulders, and he looked as though he hadn’t slept in the three months since he had returned from Mandos.
Finrod had warned Fingon—that Maedhros was still deeply unhappy, that Mandos had hardly helped him at all, that he would do his very best to send Fingon away and reject all offers of comfort or friendship. Fortunately for them both, Fingon had never met an obstacle he did not want to overcome. He sat down and crossed his legs. “Fine,” he said, “but there’s no point to the back-and-forth, you know, because we both know how it’s going to end.”
“Fingon—”
“First of all, you should know that I’ve never blamed you for the Nirnaeth. I knew even then that if you did not come when you were supposed to it was because something had happened—and I was right. My death was not your fault, and I will not have you continue to punish yourself for it even now, when we are both returned to life.”
Maedhros’ jaw was set in that particularly Fëanorian way. “Fingon,” he began again.
“What came after—that was terrible. Of course it was—I barely recognize the Maedhros of the latter part of the First Age—but it was nearly six thousand years ago now. I have had quite a lot of time to reconcile myself to all manner of things—”
“Findekáno—”
“I would rather choose to be happy to have my best friend back than to stew in the miseries of the past, which can’t be changed. All we have is the present, and with neither oaths nor wars to loom over us, we can both shape our futures as we wish. You can try to send me away all you like, but it won’t work, because I can tell you don’t really want that.”
Maedhros sighed, and slumped back against the tree. He dropped his pencil to his lap and rubbed his hand over his face. “It doesn’t feel like six thousand years,” he said finally.
“Time is odd in Mandos,” said Fingon. “Russo, why did you not let them help you?”
“I didn’t want help. I just—it was quiet, there. If I could have just stayed…”
“Finrod thinks it was doing you more harm than good,” Fingon said quietly. Maedhros didn’t answer. Fingon sighed. He’d said his piece—whether Maedhros believed him or not didn’t much matter, because he had no intention of staying away. “What have you been drawing?”
“Nothing in particular.” Maedhros made no move to open the sketchbook. “My mother just thinks I need to be doing something.”
“She’s right.” Fingon stretched out his legs and leaned over to bump his shoulder against Maedhros’. “I missed you,” he said.
Maedhros sighed, and surrendered to the inevitable. “I missed you too,” he said, very quietly.
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Do not mispronounce IKEA product names. What you summon will haunt you.
Do not trust the arrows.
Walls shift and new ones appear out of nowhere.
Avoid, at any cost, staying after closing hours.
Do not ask employees for directions to the exit. Most of them have been trapped inside the building ever since they signed the contract. These once happy and good people have grown spiteful. Do not trust them. They want you to stay.
Make the bed after trying it out. It makes them less angry.
In case you are trapped:
Find John. He has lived in the store for six years, unnoticed.
Avoid eye contact with employees roaming around.
Hide whenever possible.
The ghost families living in the showrooms won’t betray you.
Do not steal any pencils. It will give away your position.
Avoid walking through the bed area. The creatures sleeping there won’t appreciate your presence.
When music from the 30s starts blasting through the speakers, Walter, the handyman, has noticed you and wants to drive his screwdriver through your ear.
Run.
He often shouts jokes chasing you followed by the laughter of IKEA personnel echoing throughout the store. Never let your guard down.
Open as many wardrobes as you can. Some of them are magic portals. Pray that you find one in time before he finds you.
Only go through a portal when absolutely necessary. What you find on the other side is often not pleasant.
If there is no other option, try pronouncing the name of the IKEA furniture closest to you. The ground will start to shake. Prepare yourself for the worst.
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In light of the no.1 trending topic on this site, I'd like to inform youse that Kitty Kendall, one of the survivors who bravely spoke out against Neil Gaiman and accused him of rape in 2025, has said here and here that if you are looking to support her and other survivors, you can make a donation to OurVOICE (the counselling service Kendall herself used) or your local rape crisis centre. If you can't make a donation, you can help to ensure people do not forget what Kendall and other survivors have gone through and continue to go through as they pursue legal action, and that Gaiman has already spent a lot of money in the attempt to sue these women for speaking out.
Nile: You would not believe how long term you have to mismanage agriculture on my banks to start experiencing soil depletion. I will always be here for you Egypt.
Huang He: *kicks in the door* FUCK YOUR DYNASTY IT'S FAMINE TIME!!!
I took two semesters of Chinese history in college. The first thing the professor started with was “getting to know the rivers, Yangtze and the Yellow Rivers. You need to know them because they will play very important roles in the history of China. The Yangtze has been crucial to trade, movement, culture and more. The Yellow river, the Yellow River can’t be trusted as you will repeatedly see.”
If you got stuck on a question during a test or whatever you could start with “the Yellow river jumped the banks causing instability and chaos that quickly spread” and would be correct more times than you would be incorrect.
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I love Tolkien’s works and I’m probably at least 13% Middle Earth by volume. It’s a rich text and very compelling and we all grew up on it and on works directly inspired by it. But I think the degree to which we impose our own values and politics upon the stories and Tolkien himself is incredibly frustrating and more a product of wishful thinking than anything actually reflected in the text.
I don’t even mean this in a “let people enjoy things” way—more than any other author I see Tolkien idolized not just as a talented world builder but as a profound social commentator. To a degree… sure. For some things, sometimes. But for many other things he was regressive and reactionary even for his time and there is an extreme cultural reluctance to engage with that even among people in the Critiquing Reactionary Themes in Media subculture.
For instance: it’s a really common refrain that LotR is “antiwar”. But what is The Lord of the Rings but an exercise in imaging morally compulsory war? It does depict war as something deeply traumatic for the people involved, but it’s also a war in which the enemy is literally cosmic evil and the primary foot soldiers can and should be destroyed with impunity. How can you have a race of noble warriors like the Rohirrim without the existence of noble war? Even in The Hobbit, war is only a stupid, wasteful folly until the inherently evil faction show up. Middle Earth is a setting in which both cosmic evil and the divine right of kings are real and in which war is a painful necessity that’s still ultimately glorious.
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Took a momentary break from realistic stuff today and experimented with combining watercolour brushes with my cleaner illustration style... not sure I actually like it but thought it was still cute enough to share.
So enjoy a design for Fingolfin in a more practical (Turco-Mongol inspired) outfit whilst crossing the Helcaraxë, featuring the beginnings of frostbite on his ear, alas!
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It is the Third Age and Galadriel has just lost her daughter. She has Sailed, across the Sea to where she cannot follow.
The waves do not call to her, the gulls’ cries have no meaning. Not for many years has the Doom felt so heavy upon her shoulders.
A breath of song upon the wind. A dialect she has not heard for Three Ages of the world.
It is no difficult choice to follow it.
A half-cousin, a kinslayer, is poor trade for a daughter.
But she has missed those of her kin who remember. Remember the Trees, and the wars, and the endless crushing defeat. Remember the lightness that they yet clutched on to, the laughter and song and the joy that they carved out with blood and sword and tooth.
She decides then and there that Maglor will be returning with her to Loth Lorien, whether he wants to or not.