#feanope

Morgoth: yes, fëanor

Sauron: ...the guy you manipulated, stole from, drove insane and more or less killed?

Morgoth: yeah that one

Sauron:

Morgoth: Well, who's your favourite mortal?

Hi thank you for the ask!! And sorry for the delay <3

Prompt 31 : After a small rejection

Pairing : Feanor / Melkor

Fëanor can sense the Vala’s presence the moment he enters the forges. 

The air, previously heated by the forge’s flames, abruptly turns icy. The sudden chill makes the sweat on Fëanor’s skin feel clammy. He doesn’t need to turn to see the intruder. Familiar with Melkor's constant lurking, he knows when he is there, watching him silently.

He finds himself instinctively searching for him in every corner, in every dark room.

Gripping his hammer tighter, he wills himself to remain composed. 

“Whatever brings you here,” Fëanor says, his tone devoid of any warmth or welcome, “I have neither the need nor the time for it.”

A moment of silence fills the space between his words and the darkness behind him. As if the presence he felt was nothing more than just a trick of his imagination. 

But still, he waits. 

And there it is, a faint hum that morphs into a deep chuckle, reverberating through the forge room. 

“I doubt you truly mean that, Fëanáro,” comes the response, teasing and casual as if Fëanor is his friend.

It is a cruel melody, a rumble that could shake down the foundations of Fëanor’s resolve. He hates the way it makes him feel. Weak and defenseless against that voice dripping with saccharine deceit and lies.

Turning sharply, hammer still in hand, Fëanor faces the part of the forge where the fires' light doesn’t reach. In the darkness, two fiery eyes meet his gaze.

Melkor finally steps into the light, yet Fëanor can only spot his pale face, cloaked in darkness as he is. Fëanor straightens his back and folds his arms in front of him, waiting for Melkor to speak his lies once again. 

“I have a proposition for you,” Melkor breaks the tense silence while looking around the forge with an innocuous curiocity. Fëanor knows what he is looking for, and he also knows well that it is not here. 

He remains silent. 

“We could achieve great things together,” Melkor says, approaching the bench where Fëanor’s new project sits untouched. “Your brilliance and my insight could create something unparalleled.” 

Fëanor's expression hardens as he turns to face the Vala. "I have no interest in your schemes, Melkor,” he rebukes. “I work alone, as you well know. Nothing can change that.”

Melkor falls silent, his gaze lingering on Fëanor’s workbench, as if it is the most interesting thing in Arda. For a moment, Fëanor wonders if his words have gone unheard. 

“You are making a mistake, son of Finwë,” Melkor speaks again and his voice holds a dangerous edge to it. Gone is the friendly lilt and the false sweetness of it. “You would do well to reconsider my offer.”

Fëanor scoffs, his anger fully resurfacing. “Save your threats. I know what you are and I will not let your tainted hands or your insight near my creations,” he says with a sneer, the fire in his eyes blazing. 

Melkor turns to face him, and beyond the bitter disappointment and frustration, Fëanor can see destruction and death in his steely gaze. 

"You are a fool, Fëanor," Melkor murmurs, stepping away from the workbench and closer to Fëanor until he is mere inches away. "But a brilliant fool."

Before Fëanor can react, Melkor leans in, his lips brushing against Fëanor's cheek in a quick, provocative kiss. The unexpected contact sends a shockwave through Fëanor, and he jerks back, his face flushed with a mix of fury and bewilderment.

Melkor steps back, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. “Do not keep me waiting, Fëanor,” he says. 

Fëanor holds his ground, refusing to look away. It's a battle of wills, and he's determined not to yield. He waits until Melkor chooses to leave, his cloak melding into the darkness as he departs.

Just as quickly as he arrived, Melkor is gone, the heavy iron door of the forge clicking shut behind him.

Fëanor's fingers linger on the spot where Melkor kissed him. He can still feel the warmth of his lips.

A fire ignites in him, a fire fueled by rage and a new unspoken, unacknowledged spark.

Fëanor fights it. He refuses to acknowledge it, because acknowledging it makes it real, and it isn’t. He runs away from it and charges at it with equal ferocity. His mother might be gone, but Fëanor will never lose her as long as he keeps her memory alive. His father might’ve died, but Fëanor will never lose him as long as he himself still lives, because he is his father’s mirror image. Fëanor fights loss at every turn, because it is the thing he’s most afraid of and as long as he keeps fighting, it will never drag him down. He dies, but it doesn’t matter, for he has left his mark on the world. His body will be gone, but his legacy will never be lost. Being alive in people’s memories is the only life worth living.

Maedhros accepts it. He hates the feeling of loss with a passion, but it has become a part of him. As if to make up for the loss of his hand. He carries that pain with him wherever he goes. The guilt, the gut-wrenching nausea of knowing that everyone he’s ever loved will die eventually, because they’re all cursed, lays heavy on his spirit. Sometimes it becomes too much to bear, and he rages, and curses the world and the Valar and Eru himself, and he screams until his throat goes numb. And he moves on. Because it doesn’t change a thing. He could run away from it all he likes, but it doesn’t bring his loved ones back, and it doesn’t help protect the ones still left alive. Loss is a part of Maedhros as much as his visible scars are.

Maglor ignores it. He goes through the motions of life and acts like he’s unbothered. He smiles, but the smile never reaches his eyes. He keeps silent and moves on with a grace none of his brothers can muster, not even Maedhros. But inside he’s cold. He’s angry, broken, scared. He will never admit any of that to anyone, so his opponents on the battlefield are the ones who bear the brunt of his inner turmoil. They, and his harp. During the day he plays what is expected of him. The ballads, the great songs of glorious battles, of heroes and villains, life and death. He leaves his loss for the nights. At night he cracks, his mask of cold grace breaks away. At night he plays his best pieces. The laments he plays into the early hours of the morning to relieve the unbearable ache in his heart. They never really do, so Maglor goes silent and moves on.

Celegorm rages at it. He screams and curses and fights anyone who gets in his way. People learn to stay out of his way. Even his brothers. He hates it when people try to comfort him. He doesn’t need comfort. He isn’t sad. He’s angry and needs something to work his anger out on. Celegorm is always angry. He hides it well most of the time, but sometimes he explodes. When he does he gets himself out of people’s ways. He goes out into the wild on his own and doesn’t return for days on end. When he finally does return his hair is a mess, twigs and mud everywhere, his clothes are torn and dirty, he doesn’t speak for a while. Whether that is because he doesn’t want to or because he has forgotten how to is anyone’s guess. Sometimes he’s gone for weeks instead, but none of his brothers ever worry. It’s just how he is. Celegorm loses, gets lost, then finds his way home.

Caranthir laughs at it. He scoffs and turns his back. He will not let it hold him down. He has better things to do with his time than mourn. Taxes don’t collect themselves; treaties need the signatures of both parties; trade requires the same. Unlike those, life doesn’t bargain. It’s really quite simple and refreshing. Life only pays and collects what’s due. So he smiles his brilliant smile, collects his payment, pays in kind, and moves along. He’s called the dark and has a temper to match, but never because of anything he’s lost. His sense of humour is the best of all his brothers. He can laugh at anything. Even his own misfortune. He laughs and gets dressed in his impeccably cleaned and pressed, expensive clothing, and moves along to sign another treaty. If occasionally Caranthir does show up to the council table with dark rings under his red-rimmed eyes then no one bats an eye.

Curufin uses it. His loss is but a thing that makes him stronger. He grows with it and lets it teach him what it will. His pain is but a momentary thing. An annoying ache that leaves him hollow for a while, and then takes him to heights as yet unknown. He thinks he’ll fall, sometimes. He thinks a time will come when he has climbed so high the only way is down. But until then he’ll use his losses as the stepping stones that lead him to the top. Even if every single of those steps tears at his heart, cries out for him to stop. You’re hurting me. Forget me not. Please stay! He moves along, and every time a silent tear escapes that he can’t stop, he takes it and he crafts it into something else. A thing of beauty, a necklace or a bracelet, or a dagger with sharp edges he can stab into the backs of anyone who gets in his way on his silent stairwell to the top. Curufin’s loss makes him stronger. He does not forget, but he cannot stay.

The twins are loss personified. One is already lost, the other remains behind to feel the loss forever. 

“Assisting the king in the forge?” Ecthelion asked, leaning casuallyagainst a white pillar as he played a few random notes on his favourite flute, killingtime until he’d be able to see his favourite golden curlyhead.

Glorfindel scowled, rubbing the back of his hand.

“I don’t know,” he swore, “how I always get roped into helping him with anew prototype – it’s enough to make you miss bloody Curufinwë!”

“Really?” Ecthelion wondered, raising an eyebrow. The friendship/rivalry oftheir king and his probably-favourite cousin was legendary – though mainly forthe propensity of either of their workshops to catch fire or explode during on oftheir crafting contests.

Ecthelion rather favoured workshops that didn’t explode into a shower ofsoot and splintering stone.

If only for the fact that he’d ruined one of his favourite robes jumping intoa puddle of mud to avoid getting brained by flying brick.

Ecthelion did not miss Curufin.

“Maybe not,” Glorfindel admitted, eyeing Ecthelion’s fine clothing – a favouriteshade of blue with pale pear blossoms embroidered on the wide sleeves – beforeholding up his hand, displaying a vivid burn mark stretching across the back ofit. “At least I’d be less likely to need burn salve, though…”

“Poor darling,” Ecthelion nodded, smiling cheekily as he caught Glorfindel’shand in his own. “I shall kiss it better for you.”

He might have been the most courteous of court boot-lickers, theatricallygesturing as he bent over Glorfindel’s hand, trying not to give in to thelaughter bubbling through him.

But then his lips touched Glorfindel’s skin – slightly warmer where it hadbeen burnt, but still oh so soft – and felt the contrast between his callousedpalm, used to gripping a sword, and the unmarred skin.

The kiss was gentle, featherlight touches, carefully surrounding the burnedskin with a memory of his lips until Ecthelion had to stand up, the joke playedout as Glorfindel’s blue eyes blazed at him.

The next pillar met his back with some force, but Ecthelion didn’t care, wrappinghis fingers in golden curls as Glorfindel plundered his mouth for every sighand moan Ecthelion could make.

Waiting outside the forge had definitely been a good plan, he thought,sinking into the sweet light that was his beloved Glorfindel and forgetting therest of Gondolin entirely.

Follower celebration: Make me choose between __and __