Part 1: Loss

Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

Here it is, y’all! More Nolofinwëan feels that nobody asked for! :’’’’)))

This was inspired by the lovely dtiys entries that y’all have done! So many people chose to do the painting of Argon’s death, and after looking at all the marvelous art styles and getting feels, I decided to elaborate a bit on the scene XDD The rest will be posted over the next few days!

I ended up getting the script translated into Quenya (huge thanks to the awesome folks on the Vinyë Lambengolmor discord chat!!), then transcribed that into Tengwar (Classical Mode). Here are the translations, not including Arakáno’s name:

Tye varna “You are safe/protected”

Ni otye “I am with you”

Do not follow her, Turvo. Don’t go there, you mustn’t go! You cannot leave Itarillë – you cannot leave me! Don’t leave me!

Fingon and Turgon on the Helcaraxë! Since I still had these two on the brain, I decided to indulge in some more brotherly feels (or angst, in this case). This scene is sometime after Elenwë is lost; I imagine Turgon was so taken by despair in the days after that he nearly followed his wife, but Fingon stopped him in time. So Turgon had to release his grief some other way!

“Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come.”

I was inspired to draw this when Clamavi de Profundis released their cover of the Oath of Elendil, but then I just left it to gather dust in my folders for months loll As messy as it is, I’ve decided to post it anyway because I really do like it (though I wish I had the energy to clean it up more).

Anyways, for context, it’s yet another scenario with Maglor and Tar-Minyatur! Maglor was wandering around the beach, only for Elros to sneak up on him and bring him back to Numenor. As for how Maglor was caught off-guard, I imagine Elros used a trading ship that Maglor was tracking in the hopes of doing some trade with humans, and he didn’t expect Elros to be there.

He never made a big declaration of it or rubbed it in Finwe's face but it was rather important to him to not repeat that particular mistake

…because when he hits Middle-earth he’s suddenly in a position where he has no choice but to choose one son’s desires over the other’s. Fingon risked his life to save Maedhros and enable reconciliation with the Fëanoreans. Turgon lost Elenwë on the ice and hates the Fëanoreans with every fibre of his being. No matter what Fingolfin chooses - both in the first decision to reconcile at all, and in many subsequent decisions - he has to choose between them.

And yes, there are any number of solid practical political, diplomatic, and strategic reasons why mending fences with the Fëanoreans is a good call. But that doesn’t make anyone, especially not Fingolfin or Turgon, feel any better about the fact that it feels like he’s picked Fingon over Turgon.

And then, a while after several such decisions, Turgon just straight-up disappears and Fingolfin never hears from him again.

like this guy is built up to be a genius in 2384739847 different ways, charismatic as fuck, insanely spiritually powerful, made the magical artifacts the book is named after, he’s got Sexy Protagonist Energy for days, you’re only like a few chapters into the actual story of the Silmarillion, so you’re like “yeah, alright, this guy’s our guy, i can’t wait to see what crazy shit he gets up to in Middle-earth, what kind of character development he has–”

and then he gets to Beleriand, tries to fight Satan, and IMMEDIATELY dies. like. Battle #1. he beefs it. literally spontaneously combusts.

AND YOU STILL HAVE MOST OF THE REST OF THE BOOK LEFT. absolutely ICONIC of tolkien to kill his main character in the first third of the story, and then despite elves being able to return from the dead, he literally never does, not even post-canon. NO ONE ELSE CAN PULL THAT OFF. this is SUCH a power move.

….on a more serious note, Feanor’s decisions and motivations leave a huge impact on every other character, almost every other plot point in the entire story can be traced back to what he did, and killing him off not only increases his narrative importance to those he left behind but also makes it impossible for any character to actually confront him or reconcile with him. he’s a ghost throughout the whole rest of the story, but he’s haunting everyone in myriad ways, through the Oath, through the Silmarils, through his sons, through the repercussions of the First Kinslaying, through the unrest of the Noldor and the rebellion against the Valar, through everything.

I realized something else while scrolling back through this post. It is so, so fascinating to me that Fingolfin gets the death that Fëanor’s character arc seemed to lead to. I think we can agree that an elf isn’t gonna kill a Valar, especially not the most powerful of them all. But Fingolfin did the next best thing—going toe-to-toe with Morgoth for seven blows before crippling him.

And yet it’s Fëanor who swears vengeance, Fëanor who lost his priceless jewels, Fëanor who has the arc building towards a dramatic death in battle against his greatest enemy. But no. Fëanor bites the dust on, like, day three in the most embarrassing and pointless way possible. And Fingolfin is the one to claim the honorable, fulfilling death. I’m not really sure what that thematically says about the brothers’ relationship yet, but I’m so here for it.

I feel like this is something of key importance to the book. Fëanor is the driving force of the Noldor’s return to Middle-earth, he’s the one with the vendetta against Morgoth, but everything of importance done by the Noldor in the actual war against Morgoth is done by the children and grandchildren of Indis, whom Fëanor hates and resents and thinks should never have been born.

So Fëanor dies pointlessly shortly after getting to Middle-earth, and it’s Fingolfin who has the dramatic climactic duel and dies injuring Morgoth. And it’s Finarfin who ultimately is the leader of the Noldor among the armies who defeat Morgoth.

And it continues to the second generation – among the Noldor it’s the grandchildren of Indis, not the sons of Fëanor, who strike the major blows against Morgoth. Fingon has a massive price on his head. (Beren, a Man, the race Fëanor fears and despises, later gets an equally big price on his head from his victories fighting entirely alone.) Morgoth fears Finrod in Nargothronds and especially Turgon in Gondolin, and both are crucial to his defeat – Finrod from his role in the Quest of the Silmaril, Turgon via Eärendil. Fingon saves Maedhros, and thereby probably saves the House of Fëanor given that Maedhros is the only member of that house with a demonstrable ability to negotiate. And with Maedhros accepting that secondary role to the House of Fingolfin, it’s not just the kingship that passes from the House of Fëanor – it’s the protagonist energy. They’re secondary to the story after that, and the one time Maedhros tries to take on the protagonist role – the Nirnaeth Arnoediad – it fails disastrously. From that point, and in stark contrast to Morgoth’s fear of Nargothrond and Gondolin, the Sons of Fëanor are basically Morgoth’s patsies – he regards their oath not as threatening or dangerous, but as convenient and useful, as they take out Doriath and Sirion for him.

I’ve had a mental fanfic about Maedhros’ time in the Halls in my head for a long while that I never managed to write down. Your question’s given me the impetus to put one part of it on the page, so thank you for that. Beyond that snippet, I’ve added some headcanon.

I have written very little fanfic before, so I’m very nervous about this.

******************************************************************

The burning in his hand, sharper even than the fires into which he cast himself, had not abated with his death, not even in the Halls where all sensation was muted. It was not the flesh that had offended the holy jewel, not skin and blood and bone. It was the spirit that was corrupt, and the spirit that burned.

It enforced clarity. It meant that he could not deny the knowledge as his brother had, his brothers who had laughed at him when he had looked in their faces and shrunk back at seeing their eyes. Faces that might have still passed for Eldar at a brief glance. Eyes such as those he had seen in Angband.

The pain was a small thing in comparison to this knowledge.

He had feared it, during his imprisonment, more than any other danger. Needlesly. Morgoth had needed to do nothing at all. This was their own work, their own craftsmanship.

In any moment, the knowledge was nigh unbearable. In the measureless time the Halls offered, it was unimaginable. He might go a year, a hundred years, ten thousand, with nothing but the knowledge of what he had become.

When he could endure the knowledge no longer, he sought Nienna and cast himself at her feet. He could not look at her, could not raise his eyes from the floor, but managed to find strength for a voice scarce above a whisper. “Is there any hope? For any of us?”

Her voice was low, and deep, and gentle. “Look at me.” He raised his face a little, paused, forced himself to look up, and then collapsed back to the ground without meeting her eyes. She was Ainur; she could not be ignorant of what he was when he lay before her, whether he met her eyes or not. But he could not bring himself to; could not bring himself to see in her eyes the same revulsion and horror he felt in his whole being. “I have no right to seek you. I know what I have made of myself, and it is a thing abhorrent to Eru, and to the Valar, and to myself.”

Her voice remained unchanged, still gentle. “Maedhros. Look at me.” He dragged himself to his knees and, trembling, met her eyes, looked away in disbelief, then met them again, seeing no horror there but only love, and compassion, and measureless sorrow. “How-? How can you -?” he choked out.

“My siblings and I each have our own cares and loves. The seas are Ulmo’s, the winds Manwë’s, the plants and animals Yavanna’s. The lost and the broken are mine, and how should I not love them?” She placed a hand gently on his head. “There is always hope. Will you give me your hand?”

It was more claw than hand, charred and blackened across the palm and to the first joint on the fingers, and still clenched as it had been when he held the Silmaril, but he placed it in her own, and she began to weep. And as her tears fell on it a steam went up, and it began to cool, and the pain faded at last.

And then he was in her arms and she was weeping over him, her tears running through his hair and down his face and across his shoulders, and it seemed that by this his own tears were loosed and he too began to weep, choking out confessions of all things done and suffered in the past centuries, in no order or sequence. His sword at Sirion, plunging through the chest of a soldier who had stood by him in every battle of the long Siege. Flames at Losgar. The wrath and despair that consumed him after the Nirnaeth, crying if all we do must turn to evil whether we will or no, how may we be blamed for doing it? Salt and blood at Alqualondë.

He clung to her like a lost child, and sobbed harder at this thought. For the abandoned children of Doriath; for all those he had killed, and betrayed, and led into evil. And when at last he was done with weeping, still she held him, and smoothed his hair, and kissed his forehead, and he met her eyes with a gratitude deeper than any words.

He could see now a path forward, for the first time since he had entered the Halls. It was no a pleasant one; the thought of facing those he had killed, those who had suffered by his deeds, terrified him. But it was a path, and that was a greater gift than he had dreamed possible.

*********************************************************************

That’s all of what I’ve managed to put into fic. My headcanon beyond this is mostly a great many apologies (some of which are accepted, some of which are definitively not) and a gradual process of healing. After quite some time, probably a point after the fall of Ost-in-Edhil, other elves in the Halls start to seek out Maedhros. There are a lot of people in the Halls with regrets and wrongs and mistakes, some greater and some lesser; they find Maedhros a convenient confidant because no matter what they’ve done, he’s done worse and has no right to judge them (and some are inclined to tell him so at length; he’s used to it by that point). For the most part, he doesn’t advise, just listens.

At some point, Maeglin starts talking to Maedhros. Mostly unpleasantly; Maeglin is rather far past the point where he can conceptualize the possibility of being anything but orcish. But Maedhros is by this point pretty much incapable of taking offense at anything, and he’s the one elf in the Halls who’s able to sincerely regard, and treat, Maeglin as not fundamentally different from himself. And over time this relationship manages to pull Maeglin towards being something that more resembles a person, and to at least realize that he doesn’t want to be the way he is and, just maybe, doesn’t have to be the way he is.

Okay, wow, I have a lot of thoughts on this….it basically covers large parts of a fanfic that I’ve had broadly plotted out in my head for a long time but am completely incapable of actually writing.

This is going to be very long (EDIT: extremely long, apparently) - and rather messier and more scattershot than my usual posts - so I’m putting it under a cut.  This one only covers events in the Halls of Mandos; I would need another one to lay out post-Mandos headcanons, if I can put it together.

I’ve had a mental fanfic about Maedhros’ time in the Halls in my head for a long while that I never managed to write down. Your question’s given me the impetus to put one part of it on the page, so thank you for that. Beyond that snippet, I’ve added some headcanon.

I have written very little fanfic before, so I’m very nervous about this.

******************************************************************

The burning in his hand, sharper even than the fires into which he cast himself, had not abated with his death, not even in the Halls where all sensation was muted. It was not the flesh that had offended the holy jewel, not skin and blood and bone. It was the spirit that was corrupt, and the spirit that burned.

It enforced clarity. It meant that he could not deny the knowledge as his brother had, his brothers who had laughed at him when he had looked in their faces and shrunk back at seeing their eyes. Faces that might have still passed for Eldar at a brief glance. Eyes such as those he had seen in Angband.

The pain was a small thing in comparison to this knowledge.

He had feared it, during his imprisonment, more than any other danger. Needlesly. Morgoth had needed to do nothing at all. This was their own work, their own craftsmanship.

In any moment, the knowledge was nigh unbearable. In the measureless time the Halls offered, it was unimaginable. He might go a year, a hundred years, ten thousand, with nothing but the knowledge of what he had become.

When he could endure the knowledge no longer, he sought Nienna and cast himself at her feet. He could not look at her, could not raise his eyes from the floor, but managed to find strength for a voice scarce above a whisper. “Is there any hope? For any of us?”

Her voice was low, and deep, and gentle. “Look at me.” He raised his face a little, paused, forced himself to look up, and then collapsed back to the ground without meeting her eyes. She was Ainur; she could not be ignorant of what he was when he lay before her, whether he met her eyes or not. But he could not bring himself to; could not bring himself to see in her eyes the same revulsion and horror he felt in his whole being. “I have no right to seek you. I know what I have made of myself, and it is a thing abhorrent to Eru, and to the Valar, and to myself.”

Her voice remained unchanged, still gentle. “Maedhros. Look at me.” He dragged himself to his knees and, trembling, met her eyes, looked away in disbelief, then met them again, seeing no horror there but only love, and compassion, and measureless sorrow. “How-? How can you -?” he choked out.

“My siblings and I each have our own cares and loves. The seas are Ulmo’s, the winds Manwë’s, the plants and animals Yavanna’s. The lost and the broken are mine, and how should I not love them?” She placed a hand gently on his head. “There is always hope. Will you give me your hand?”

It was more claw than hand, charred and blackened across the palm and to the first joint on the fingers, and still clenched as it had been when he held the Silmaril, but he placed it in her own, and she began to weep. And as her tears fell on it a steam went up, and it began to cool, and the pain faded at last.

And then he was in her arms and she was weeping over him, her tears running through his hair and down his face and across his shoulders, and it seemed that by this his own tears were loosed and he too began to weep, choking out confessions of all things done and suffered in the past centuries, in no order or sequence. His sword at Sirion, plunging through the chest of a soldier who had stood by him in every battle of the long Siege. Flames at Losgar. The wrath and despair that consumed him after the Nirnaeth, crying if all we do must turn to evil whether we will or no, how may we be blamed for doing it? Salt and blood at Alqualondë.

He clung to her like a lost child, and sobbed harder at this thought. For the abandoned children of Doriath; for all those he had killed, and betrayed, and led into evil. And when at last he was done with weeping, still she held him, and smoothed his hair, and kissed his forehead, and he met her eyes with a gratitude deeper than any words.

He could see now a path forward, for the first time since he had entered the Halls. It was no a pleasant one; the thought of facing those he had killed, those who had suffered by his deeds, terrified him. But it was a path, and that was a greater gift than he had dreamed possible.

*********************************************************************

That’s all of what I’ve managed to put into fic. My headcanon beyond this is mostly a great many apologies (some of which are accepted, some of which are definitively not) and a gradual process of healing. After quite some time, probably a point after the fall of Ost-in-Edhil, other elves in the Halls start to seek out Maedhros. There are a lot of people in the Halls with regrets and wrongs and mistakes, some greater and some lesser; they find Maedhros a convenient confidant because no matter what they’ve done, he’s done worse and has no right to judge them (and some are inclined to tell him so at length; he’s used to it by that point). For the most part, he doesn’t advise, just listens.

At some point, Maeglin starts talking to Maedhros. Mostly unpleasantly; Maeglin is rather far past the point where he can conceptualize the possibility of being anything but orcish. But Maedhros is by this point pretty much incapable of taking offense at anything, and he’s the one elf in the Halls who’s able to sincerely regard, and treat, Maeglin as not fundamentally different from himself. And over time this relationship manages to pull Maeglin towards being something that more resembles a person, and to at least realize that he doesn’t want to be the way he is and, just maybe, doesn’t have to be the way he is.