my main is @pyrochilles where i post most of my art and all my other stuff. i'm an 18-turning-19 year old studying theatre, who also quite enjoys writing.

i write mainly for the silmarillion fandom. my asks are open for suggestions, but not quite like "requests" because i have chronic illness + such random spurts of inspiration that i don't want to promise to write anything just incase i never get around to it.

concerning requests :

i do sort of one-shots and imagines, it can be just "a character + a word" or it can be a specific scenario. my limits are : ab*se, inc*st, and i won't write anything that i notice makes me uncomfortable.

masterlist :

"Pears" - Maedhros fic.

Character(s) : Maglor

Description : Maglor realises he is in love and reflects on when there ever has been a suitable time for such in his life.

Good Time

I am not stupid enough to say this has come at a bad time. A quick reflection is enough to realise that any time in this life of mine would have been a "bad time".

Perhaps, back when I was younger, more carefree, without this oath etched into my spine. Back then though, you would have had the impossible task of surviving my brothers. I have been to hesitant to mention it before now, but I do dream about it quite often. About what would have been, had we met earlier.

I have not wanted to burden you with the grief of what could have been.

It would have been a "bad time" either way. I was taught and trained to be royalty, my days were packed full with schooling, my whole life was planned. And any free second I did have, I vowed to my love of the arts. We might not have even gotten the chance of ever being introduced. I was young and filled with fleeting and naive passion.

Perhaps I would have been to gentle a soul for you back then; I know you are easily bored. Though, I make a blind guess that we both are quite different people from our childhood selves. Is it not funny how life never tends to follow the map we lay out for it? It makes it's own route in it's own, often unexpected way, and we do not end up where we thought we would. Our paths crossing earlier might not have led us to where we are now.

Yet, I do dream of the time we never had. This part of the conjoined "us" that it feels as though we've lost.

What would we have been like? Would we have to sneak kisses in between archery and debate lessons? Would you enjoy horseriding? We could watch the stars, I know you would have liked that. We could have done whatever our hearts desired. I'd write your smile into poems, try to press your love into words as though I was pressing flowers. I'd sing the sound of your laugh. Was your laugh always so melodic as it is today? I would have taught you an instrument, if you'd have liked. I would have taught you everything I knew, though I knew so little back then. All the lighthearted joys bestowed upon young love. We perhaps could have had that, had we lived in paradise for a little while.

I would have liked you to meet my parents. You soothe me now as only ever my mother did before. You edge me on like my father. - Softly, yet never ineffectively. Your will is strong, like theirs.

Though they would give me genuine concern for your safety at some point, if not daily, I would have liked you to meet my brothers. All of them.

There is an ache in my heart. It will not leave until the day their actual presence does replace it, when I do see them again. For now, they are lost to me. Even Maedhros is lost, in his own way. I am the second oldest, meaning there has been little time in my life for childishness. But, I think this ache is aging me even further. There are six sharp and emptied seashells in me. I feel them in my feet when I walk. I feel them in my lungs when I breathe. In my throat when I sing.

Perhaps I am happy we did not meet long ago. Grieving my brothers, naught could console me. I do not think you could have either. If we had met earlier, perhaps I would have lost you too. This doomed storm above me, striking lightning on all I hold dear. You've sought cover from the storm under me, but I am a tree, and my hide is misleading as I might attract the next strike and hand it right to you by painful default.

I am far from the elf I was, those years ago. My head was not yet a beach, and had little sand to blow into this glass vase that you seem to have crafted around my heart.

I have grown into a desert, scratchy grains of sand trinkle into me, more and more, day by day. I've grown dry and hot, into a landscape where few survive. I can feel the dust in my throat as I sing.

You bring the ocean. You clench my thirst, and turn me into a beach. Only smooth rolls of foam and waves muster to lull me calm. I am holding on between each tide, clenching my fists in damp sand.

I will retort to singing again, I guess. It does seem to be the only thing for me, and these qualms on the inside of me, sounding a steady tick, tick, tick, by each falling grain of sand. I sing of you the most.

Character(s) : Maedhros

Pears

It fits so nicely in my palm.

The palm of my hand is big. A rough palm. It is a palm for something hard, something dangerous. It's not a palm for other palms. Not a palm to hold things that fit nicely in them. Not anymore. Yet it fits so nicely still.

Not even the gems ever fit so nicely in my palm, as a pear. A palm for pears.

The skin is rough, odourless, unassuming. But it's thin. Anyone could bite into it. If only they did.

"A palm for pears". I almost chuckle. That must surely be the silliest of titles granted me yet. But it might be the best.

I bite.

Sunlight. I remember sunlight. An ocean of sunlight floods my mouth as i bite unjustly into the smooth and undeserving surface. Do I feel bad? The taste is divine. The smell is almost better. I cannot contain the flood in my mouth. A sweet and warm creek trickles down my chin, follows my neck, covers my rough skin in rivers of sunlight. The chunks that roll down my throat taste like lost parts of my soul, returning home.

I hadn't eaten pears in years. What an unlikely place to find them, really. It's cold here, even in the height of summer you'll be frostbitten should you wander with your feet uncovered. The clouds only wander at night, it's the only time you'll ever see a clear sky. And the edges of this place are rough. Mountainside marble that scrapes when i run my palm along it. And the doors here are heavy. It's only wood. But they are dark and they are heavy. No one knocks and no one answers.

It's not like home. Home. A shower of warm rays sneak through the leaves, sneak kisses onto my chin, my neck. They brush all the tangles from my hair with their fingers. We shake the tree and pears fall around us. At home, the floor is made of smooth, white stone. I could see our reflection in it. The juice from the pears we ate would pool at our feet. I could bathe in it and I know nothing stickier. There is a hand in my palm. And a pear in the other. And they both fit so nicely.

I take another bite.