#thishour

Aaaand now I`m glad to reveal Tolkien Secret Santa gift I did! @thishour, happy holidays! :D There were feanorians on your list, so here are these Maedhros and Maglor spending their time together during some short days of peace. I hope you like them^^

33. A unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.

 Impeccable taste as always, and uh. I might’ve gotten carried away! Chances are I’ll clean this up and slam it on AO3. We’ll see.

The forges still burn beneath his skin, the flames lending him a confidence he had not had before- and one that he does not normally lack, though the one he seeks has the strange, fascinating ability to strike it from his very soul. Feanaro feels the rasp of the bellows in his lungs, and the copper bracelet in his soot-stained palms is barely cool enough to wear. It too thrums with life.

He makes his way through Mahtan’s halls, expansive as they are beneath the mountains where Aule’s hammer rings as the ticking of a clock. He knows where she is, as she always knows where he is; they two are dedicated to their crafts beyond all else. Feanaro is to be found in his forge or thinking of it, and Nerdanel is to be found in her studio or thinking of it. It is only together, when the words trip over his tongue to impress her, when she slants a smile at him whose curve he has yet to plot out entirely, that they focus on anything else.

So it is to the studio he goes, his hand gripping the bracelet tight. She usually forsakes such adornments, Nerdanel does; she had laughed when he’d asked why she wore no rings, nor bracelets, nor beads in her hair. They had been in her studio, and she’d gestured down at herself with elegant, work-strong hands. ‘I am covered with clay, renowned Prince, I should not need to tell you that. I would lose rings to my work the moment I put them on, and to get grit out of filigree daily is a task I’ve no desire to put my mind to.’

As such, the bracelet in his hand is smooth, easily slid on and off when she wishes it.

As such, he hopes-

Well. She will. Nerdanel, at the very least, has always appreciated something cunningly wrought, regardless of the meaning behind it. She has the way of separating art from the artist, technique from emotion, and yet once more combining them in her work.

He is in front of the studio’s entrance; he swallows dryly. Feanaro knocks once upon the door, and at her response, he enters.

It is a well-lit, airy space, higher up within the mountain, with one side completely carved out for a long, wide window. The afternoon gold of Laurelin mingles in the red of her hair, kissing it with fire. Feanaro burns too. She is dressed in a tunic, stained with dust, her hands busy at work. There is a half-finished bust of a weeping elleth in front of her, tear tracks exquisitely traced along the high cheeks.

“Nerdanel,” he says, announcing himself.

“Ah,” she answers. “It’s you. Come again to pester me with your questions, Feanaro?”

Such irreverence to the crown prince of the Noldor; from any other, he would not tolerate the disrespect, and indeed, her blunt manner had not earned her any favors with him when they first met. She had turned an assessing, cool brown gaze his way, said ‘so, this is the prince,’  and sketched out the most perfunctory of bows. and promptly left as soon as she’d been able to.

But Feanaro has learned that she had not cared to earn any of his favors, and still does not. Yet she has won them regardless.

“You always answer them,” he points out, stepping closer. “Can you truly protest when you are happy to tell me of your work? Meta-cognition is a valuable tool, and I would help with it in whichever way I can.”

“Again with your silver-tongue and your trickery,” Nerdanel says, but it is not unkind. “So you are right. Your questions prove most informative, and it is always pleasant to have a reminder that you do not know as much as you seem to. But if I may pose a question to you- what brings you here so early in the day?”

She turns to face him now as she says it. One eyebrow arches; there is a smear of clay there, flaking. Feanaro fights the urge to wipe it off.

“Direct as ever,” he observes instead. “But, I come with a gift.”

“Surely not the gift of your presence. I’m saturated with that as is.”

“Two gifts, then,” Feanaro amends, just to see her smile. “One, my presence, and the second. I thought you might like this.”

He holds the bracelet out, and as he does, his breath catches too. He has not been this nervous, he reflects, since he presented his father with the first fair work of his hands. Yet his father is kind, if nothing else, and had praised him. Nerdanel is not one to blunt the sharpness of her tongue to save his ego. It is his fourth favorite thing about her.

Her expression is serious, though, and he cannot read it, not even as she stands to pluck the bracelet from his hands.

“I remember telling you that I rarely waste time for such fripperies,” she says, plainly.

“Yes,” he answers. “You said they were impractical. This is not. It is easy to clean, and may be adjusted to slide further up your arm, and-,”

Feanaro does not finish the sentence- there are strong hands in the front of his shirt, and then he’s being pulled ever so slightly up, a mouth fitted to his own for a long moment.

And then she pulls away, looking all-too-satisfied, and hands him the bracelet.

“You will, I think, need to put in on me,” Nerdanel says, extending one arm. “My hands are too slippery for the task at present.”

16. Do you research for your fics? If so, how deep of a rabbit hole have you gone down by accident when researching?

oh god, listen... so I wrote this original short thing that was like, handsome renaissance knight/blacksmith forging his new tourney armour. this was for a smut exchange. like the other person only wanted to see a knight and a blacksmith going at it, that’s all they wanted.

I came out from this fic knowing how to make coal for a forge. how to take measurements to make 15th century tourney armour. what the noble line of the french comtes d’armagnac et de rodez were up to in a specific time period. how to work metal to do armour fluting and etching. only so that these two could fuck.

I’m not even getting into watching multiple videos of deer field dressing to write hunting scenes, plus some videos of hunting in general, many minutes of my life spent watching dudes talk about this buck they’ve been tailing and how much it’d mean to their pa who couldn’t come because he’s too old (I’m not even joking.) rinse and repeat for every single thing I write and don’t know about.

23. What’s your absolute favorite trope to write?

I have a number of stuff I really love but... probably rivalries is one of the biggest ones. 

Simple questions that are hard to answer! but thank you!!

3. favorite character?

I refuse to/cannot pick one, but probably Maedhros (the whole eldest sibling trio really, so Fingon and Finrod too), and then my niche favorites Nimloth and Rían, who I’ve inexplicably adopted

8. otp?

This is what I get for going a bit feral on Twitter one (1) time v.v

But for you? Aralas. Boy I hope this comes out okay.

-

18. things you said when you were scared.

The night is long, and yet the day seems to draw ever closer, as the darkness lightens to the faintest shades of grey. Legolas does not know if it is visible to the eyes of Men- those that remain awake to see it, that is; around them, the camp is quiet with inactivity. The only sounds are of those on this last watch, not that it is needed. The Black Gates loom in the distance, watchful and taunting.

He is not afraid, he thinks. He cannot be. Yet he is aware of every breath this body takes, the rasp of cloth against his skin, even the stiffness that should not come from sitting for such a short time. And yet, the Gates await them.

There are footsteps near him, the sound familiar enough to soothe.

“Aragorn,” he greets his truest friend. He does not stand; the Man is settling himself down on the ground next to him, and Legolas resists the urge to tell him not to. It is cold, uncomfortable. The jagged rocks make it impossible to find a smooth patch of earth to sit on. 

“I know you do not need to rest, but I thought you might try to, tonight,” Aragorn says. He, too, has not yet rested. The hollows under his eyes are more pronounced, even as his armor gleams. He is not wearing it now, though. Instead, he is clad in simple clothes, the kind a Ranger might wear. The kind that Legolas is used to seeing him in (and out of). 

“The land here is cold and dead,” Legolas tells him in return. “There are no trees, no green, only this desolation. But perhaps there could be.”

“And two Hobbits, in the midst of it. If they succeed, there will be life here yet,” Aragorn completes the thought. His voice is heavy with regrets, and yet- what is there to be sorrowful of? Neither of them could have carried the Ring without falling to its charm. Legolas thinks of the cry of gulls and inexorable crashing waves, a voice calling him homewards, Westwards, to lands he has never been to. It took all his strength to resist it, and yet he knows, even now, that he will go. He cannot imagine the Ring’s sinuous whisper into his ear, day and night. He does not want to imagine Sauron’s hands closing around Frodo and Sam. And yet, they will fight, and hope that it is not so.

Legolas knows what his father would say. But it cannot be so.

“I fear for them,” Aragorn says. Unnecessarily. Legolas reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder. Warm, strong fingers clasp his forearm. 

He looks, of course; if they are to die tomorrow, then he will die with the memory of the scant moonlight catching in his hair, the strength of his hands, the warmth of his spirit. His breath catches in his throat, his heart thrums in his chest.

@thishour​ Always a risk with these!

(For this ask game)

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

I came to the conclusion a while back that I’m not going to take guilt in what I like reading and writing! Or take any guilt in what I don’t like. (I’m not sure what others would consider guilty pleasures, otherwise I’d say which of those I do like.)

O: How do you begin a story–with the plot, or the characters?

Oh plot, my nemesis, definitely not plot. But not quite characters either? I tend to get an idea in my head and go from there. Sometimes that idea is a meta one (both my Elwing fics I think of as meta in fic form, and likewise a Turgon piece), sometimes it’s more a daydream-inspired story - which, that might actually mean it begins with the characters? But once the basic germ of the idea is there, it’s then driven by the characters, especially on a line by line level.

thank you!! <3

17. a song you would sing a duet with on karaoke

Probably something with high energy and clear cues to know when to sing, maybe a Rise Against song? If it means a song for a karaoke duet with someone else, then if anyone would sing Finrod rock opera songs with me, I would be forever down for that

26. a song that makes you want to fall in love