noldolantë.

Another Silvergifting doodle dump <3

I wanted to write something wholesome, but this is silvergifting, so here's a toxic HC instead:

Annatar systematically isolates Celebrimbor.

He convinces himself it's purely strategic bc he can't have Galadriel or anyone else interfering with his plans and pointing out all the red flags!!

HOWEVER if he's being honest with himself (he's not), at least half the motivation is pure jealousy and his growing obessession with him. He doesn't want anyone else having access to his gem smith. Not his time, not his attention, not his affection.

Celebrimbor is HIS alone.

But Volwë did not waver, because Ulmo had decreed that he help the kinslayer, and Ulmo was both generous and unsubtle with his signs.

(Please, he thought, on a daily basis, Ulmo, to whom all fish are dear, let the laurelaina lingwë survive as a species, and recall some pity for this Falmar in his time of need, because none of your other fish taste as good, and the water is a lot colder now, which makes me nervous, because they really like warm water. And for that absolutely garbage prayer, so oft repeated and so meaninglessly petty in a world that had just suffered a minor apocalypse, he was pretty sure Ulmo had given him chores as punishment. And by "chores" he meant Maglor.)

At least he was good at cooking. It was unclear how a prince had gained such skill, but whenever Maglor cooked, Elrond and Elros were mentioned. Volwë was careful never to interrupt; that was how he was able to infer that during that time after the Third Kinslaying, when Maglor had raised the twins, had had also cooked for them. He thought back on his own time with the twins, and how, in spite of everything, they had seemed so confident, and he understood a little more why.

They really had been loved.

In no way did this prepare him for being addressed by the name of Maedhros the Tall, who slept now beneath the earth with his father's treasure clutched to him, as far as Volwë knew, while he was sitting at the table grinding spices with a mortar and pestle.

ᯓ‎𝄞 ˗ˏˋ ❝Hmm?❞ Makalaurë was... distant.

He finished chopping the carrots mechanically, added them to the pot, then turned to search the shelves for... what was he looking for?

Nothing looked right. Why was everything so unfamiliar?

His mind blended past and present & he stared into a cupboard he did not remember ever being there. None of this was meant to be here. Then he turned to Aerwain, and that familiar look crept into his blue eyes, one that so often came just before he snapped.

Aerwain… yes, he was new here. A recent addition to his household. One of the new servants, wasn't he? He'd proven pleasant company...

Maglor didn't question how a Teler had come to serve at Amon Ereb or what his duties were, because some part of him knew this was not Amon Ereb at all. Elrond and Elros were no longer children, Nelyo was dead, & he was somewhere else entirely.

But it was one of those moments something in him refused to acknowledge the truth.

❝Forgive me,❞ he said softly, drifting aimlessly through the room that felt both familiar and alien, his feet carrying him toward the door. Maglor didn't even know where he meant to go. ❝I forgot Nelyo went… hunting, did he not?❞

Volwë smiled as he was tackled. Deep down, this was what I wanted, wasn’t it? An excuse? he asked himself; but he was unsure of the answer. Maybe he had wanted Maglor to reach out for support. To trust him. To allow himself to grieve.

Too bad. Volwe had spent too much time with Arafinwë and with his own elder brothers, been in this position too many hundreds of times, to lose at wrestling desperately with someone who was crying on the floor. It had been an everyday occurrence (though usually, as the youngest and most ill-behaved, he’d been the one crying, and the one who lost). He got a limb inside Maglor’s guard and flipped them, landing in a way that pinned the smaller elf down without crushing him.

“Fuck you, Kanafinwë,” he snapped. “You’re grieving your mother and your sons--and they are still alive! They still love you! You want me to stop saying good things about your mother? She was a gracious lady who deserves to hear from her son! She welcomed me at her table and apologized to me for Alqualondë! For Elulindo! Did you consider that when you decided not to go back to Aman to face trial? When you decided to throw yourself into the ocean, did you think about your mother hoping every day she'd see her only living son sailing back at last? You want me to claim Elrond and Elros were good little boys who wanted to obey you before someone tore them away from their intentions? They weren't! By example, you taught them not to give a fuck about the person who raised them! And you know what, Makalaurë Kanafinwë, accursed Noldo, slayer of kin?”

Volwë’s treelit eyes were radiant with barely-suppressed fury.

“You can still fix it. You can still change your life. Because you are still alive. If not for your own sake, for the sake of the fallen, and for the sake of those who still wait for you: you must go on."

A long pause, during which Volwë caught his breath.

ᯓ‎𝄞 ˗ˏˋ All-consuming rage was perhaps a curse all Fëanorians carried, even Maglor.

There was no reasoning with him in that state. Rational thought had fled entirely & he didn't process any of the things the Teler said. There was just FURY and PAIN, and the kinslayer would thrash and claw like a feral anmial. Fortunately for them both, Maglor's weakened condition rendered him relatively harmless that day.

ㅤㅤㅤThe ner was a mess.

For the following days, he refused to speak to Aerwain and at some point even left... only to return soon after because Kanó realized he had nowhere else to go.

He felt trapped, caged, frustrated.

Even so, he eventually began to help with the chores around Aerwain's home (if only to ease the weight of feeling like a burden) but he still only spoke when absolutely necessary. It took a long time, but slowly, he began to thaw. Sometimes, he'd even smile when Aerwain said something particularly ridiculous.

It seemed as though there was hope for him. That Maglor might, in time, heal.

That hope had been shattered again when the Teler made some seemingly harmless remark that triggered something in the unstable Noldo. It caused him to snap during supper ; he grabbed a knife and lunged for Aerwain.

And still, Aerwain hadn't cast him out. Perhaps that was the moment something fundamental shifted in Maglor.

He was a MONSTER, but Aerwain... Aerwain didn't abandon him. Aerwain had looked at the monster he'd become & seen something worth saving.

This was more powerful than any spell and it began tearing down his walls.

Situations like this would still arise out of nowhere, causing Maglor to lash out violently. At other times, they would send him into meltdowns or leave him withdrawn for days. However, aside from those lapses, something like friendship had begun to bloom — tender & delicate, yet steadily nurtured by Aerwain's care, and with it, Maglor's grief became a little more bearable as it grew.

It made him want to try. It gave him hope that there might be something for him beyond damnation after all.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤWeeks had bled into months.

Today, Maglor had insisted on cooking again — it was something that brought him genuine joy! He'd made honey cakes for dessert, mentioning several times how his brothers and the twins used to love them, and how the recipe came from Indis.

He hummed contentedly while chopping carrots for the stew, lost in his thoughts. The honey cake baked already in the oven, filling the cabin with the warm scents of clove and cinnamon, & without realizing it, they transported him somewhere else entirely.

. . . Somewhere long ago.

After all, he was fundamentally a lazy prince who used to talk people through problems on a volunteer basis, not a perfectly serene sworn servant of Ulmo. Those were two very different things. A volunteer could remove the mantle of wisdom, when he needed to, and beat ass. And deep down inside, the most immature reaches of his soul really, really wanted to smack Maglor right now.

But it wouldn't help. Pain was not cured by more pain. They needed to work on healing the wound that caused the pain.

He moved slowly, kneeling near where the glass had shattered. Each piece he picked up with his left hand was dropped into his right palm, forming a small pile he held carefully as a baby bird so none of the edges would cut him. When he spoke, it was without looking up, as though they were having a casual conversation, and not...this.

"I could give you an answer that would make you feel justified in your anger." Clink. Clink, clink. "But it would not be true." Clink. "You are not a child, to be shielded from what is inconvenient." Clink. "I will tell you the truth about what Elrond and Elros chose. I will even tell you some truths you don't know I have."

He straightened, carefully pouring shards from his hand onto his plate, where they would stay safely contained. Only then did he meet Maglor's gaze again.

"Your sons are not from Aman. When you and I think of sailing, we have an image in mind. We have people in mind. Even if you fear judgment, you know what judgment is." He sat down slowly, like an old Man; but it was not weary joints that troubled him in the atani way, but a weary fëa, as befit an elda. "Nothing I said, no stories of the shores of Alqualonde or the high towers of Tirion, could convince them to depart for the unknown after they had fought so hard for this land. And nothing Gil-galad said," he went on, steeling himself, "could convince them that they should make the choice freely, and not consider whether or not they were 'needed' here. You don't know him, but he would rather choke down every burden in the world than let those boys feel they owed him, or the Noldor, anything. And yet, still, they both thought they were needed here, in their own ways."

He reached a hand across the table, but only halfway, where it rested palm-up. It was a place for support, for touch if Maglor seeked it, but, Volwë thought warily, also a place where Maglor could take up a shard of glass and stab him, if he really wanted to. He was willing to take that risk...once. If he was stabbed, though, he would need to leave for a while, to stop himself from kicking this deeply annoying kinslayer's ass all the way up the coast to the Bay of Forochel, back down the Lhun, circling around the Blue Mountains and throwing him back into the sea in Forlindon for Ulmo to deal with.

He took a deep breath and exhaled very slowly until he felt normal again.

"You've just learned your children chose danger over safety, and over your own guidance," he said, with a gentleness that betrayed nothing of the fantasy he'd just indulged. "But your grief is not a new one. It may be how our forebears felt when some completed the Great Journey while others stayed behind. It was how my family felt when I left Aman. And...it must be how your own mother felt, when you left Aman. Yet before I left Aman, I saw your mother a few times."

He did not mention the context: visiting his sister, Eärwen, who had become very close with Anairë, Indis, and Nerdanel after the Flight of the Noldor for painfully obvious reasons. At least Arafinwë had turned back, though whether he had reconciled with Eärwen was unknown to Volwë.

ᯓ‎𝄞 ˗ˏˋ Watching Aerwain pick up the shattered glass, guilt crept over Maglor for his outburst.

Bitter as it was to admit, Aerwain was right.

Elrond and Elros were strong-willed (one might call it STUBBORN) and they'd made their own choice. The truth tasted like poison, but it was truth nonetheless.

His expression softened. Blue eyes dropped to the table, to Aerwain's outstretched hand, but he couldn't bring himself to reach out. He didn't want to be touched... He wouldn't know what to do with such contact after so long without it.

ㅤㅤㅤThen this wretch mentioned his mother.

Maglor's sanity had been deteriorating since Alqualondë, but the third kinslaying had shattered what remained. There was so much blood on his hands, guilt and loss piled upon guilt and loss, & he'd never been allowed to process any of it. It had festered like an infected wound.

So, he'd built this fragile dam inside himself to hold it all back, and if anyone caused even the smallest crack, he would explode because reality had become unbearable.

It had already cost the life of a servant — a servant at Amon Ereb, during those years when Maglor had retreated completely into his delusion of family and a semblance of normal life. They had made the fatal mistake of challenging that illusion.

His fantasy lay in pieces now, but that changed nothing. If anything, without anything left to anchor him, it made him even more volatile. Maglor's heart had always been gentle, meant for love rather than violence, but the Oath had perverted his gentle nature. Forcing that tender heart to commit atrocities had destroyed him and made him dangerous & unpredictable.

ㅤㅤㅤThe brief moment of remorse vanished from his face. This anger was different... and it fixed entirely on the Teler across from him.

Suddenly, he lunged across the table with terrifying speed for someone so worn down (battle training hadn't left him), the carafe & dishes flew everywhre, crashing to the floor. Both hands went for Aerwain's throat as a sound nothing short of FERAL tore from him.

@secondageweek 2023 - Day 3: “Dwarves”

He wanted to say I don't believe you understand the Valar, or how many times they intervened to save us all. I don't believe you understand that you are not absolved by calling yourself unimportant. He was not stupid enough to think that little discussion would go well, especially when it would be necessary to bring up Maglor's brothers again.

Volwë shook his head as if to clear it.

"...I don't believe it's possible to live through something like that and not find your nightmares haunted," he said instead, and his voice was full of sorrow. That flash of fury had burnt itself out quickly. It had been too long, and he knew too well that the cost of the kinslaying was not borne entirely by one side, even when one party was clearly the aggressor and the other the victim. It was a massacre to the Teleri. It was a rot to the Noldor, and the rot had not been entirely rooted out in all the centuries since. Perhaps it never would be.

He took a deep breath, sipped his water, and started answering Maglor's final question in a far more appropriate state of mind to be speaking to someone with such a shattered heart.

"I joined with Ereinion Gil-Galad's host in the final years of the war," he said simply. He called it a host, but it had been more of a battered band of soldiers who didn't know what else to do. "They never told me the whole story, but after they grew to full stature under your care, they also became attached to the host of Gil-Galad. That was how I met them. We became friends in...the way you likely expect, having raised them. Elros liked to spar with me, and Elrond would treat his bruises afterwards while we laughed about..." He trailed off.

Warm & full of genuine affection.

❝Elros and his swordplay,❞ he murmured with gentle amusement. ❝That wasn't from me, I assure you. That was Nelyo's doing. My brother always insisted they learn to fight.❞

His smile turned wistful... then bitter.

❝I… I wished for them to never touch anything meant for bloodshed. I wanted them both tutored as healers and scholars, not warriors.❞ A beat. His gaze turned distant. ❝I suppose that was always a fool's hope.❞

Those years sitting out the war had been… difficult. He'd built this fantasy in his head where the twins could give him everything the Oath had taken from him: happiness, normalcy, a family. He'd clung to that delusion so desperately that his sanity had started unraveling.

❝When it all ended and we sent them to Eönwë, I hoped they would sail to Aman....❞ Maglor's voice broke off & he dragged a palm down his face, exhaling slowly, shaking his head in denial.

Then, in a sudden flash of RAGE, his hand lashed out and sent the water glass crashing to the floor.

❝Gil-galad poisoned their minds!! He must have convinced them to stay in this... this ruined land! They would have sailed otherwise! What LIES did he feed them?!❞ Cold blue eyes then fixed Aerwain, anger twisting his features.

NAME: Amrûn (chosen name)

RACE: Altmer (Elder Scrolls) / Sun Elf (DnD) / Maia (Tolkien)

GENDER: nope

PRONOUNS: They/He

DnD CLASS: Light Domain Cleric

DEITY: Lathander (DnD), Mara & Auri-El (Elder Scrolls)

OCCUPATION: Healer & minstrel

SEXUALITY: (pan)Hypersexual

VISUALS: Tan/golden skin, white faintly glowing arcane tattoos, long platinum hair, delicate build, vibrant blue eyes, nipple piercings, belly button piercing, golden jewellery, crystals

ITEMS: Weathered journal with prayers & ritual notes, herbs, potions, a self-made staff decorated with collected & gifted trinkets, a small knife worn on the thigh, amulet of Lathander / Mara

verses: TOLKIEN | D&D | ELDER SCROLLS

I've been struggling with my gender identity and sexuality since I was a teenager & I've always thought I was broken, or that something was wrong with me.