![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
heartofoshun is a strange quibble featuring a possibly-crazy Maglor, a decidedly weird Maedhros, and a lifetime of memories that might explain why Maglor chose the fate that he did.
Evidence Of
“Macalaurë.”
My eyes are shut but I can see him. Maedhros. One thousand years together and I can never not see him.
“How did this happen?”
We might have been back in Tirion, still young. The way Nelyo used to laugh upon finding the remains of a party on the morning after, while I had rubbed my aching head in dismayed bewilderment. Evidence of a great life, he had called it, spreading his hands as though embracing the whole mess.
Maedhros does not do that now. Even had he hands, he would not embrace it.
“Macalaurë.” Insistent now, demanding answers.
“Do not call me that.” You will not let us call you Nelyo of the childhood lost or Maitimo of the beauty you no longer possess or even Nelyafinwë of the kingship you forsook, so Maedhros—that bitter name upon my tongue—do not call me that name I was given by my mother, that name I was called in love by my wife, the meaning of which is also lost.
But he ignores me: “How did this happen?”
So he had asked upon the docks of Sirion where Telvo—excuse me, Amras—had lain between us, sprawled over on his side and the rain and sea having washed his wounds to where, yes, it is as they say: He looked like he was sleeping. Amras who—we all used to complain—“took his half from the middle” and always flopped into one of us while we tried to sleep on hunting trips. Mumbled in our ears and kicked. I waited for the mumbling, but it never came, and here I am.
Still waiting.
I see Maedhros with my eyes closed. Imposing, yes, and still beautiful—but not if you knew when he was. Echoing, mocking me, for I’d asked him once: How did this happen? a great voice made frail by uncertainty in the hour following Atar’s death. How did we—of the great life—become orphans?
And Nelyo—Maedhros—had kicked a shower of dirt down the hill. Because it did! There is no reason! It is like those rocks—it tumbles where it will!
No, I’d always liked music where the score always led somewhere and there were rarely surprises.
Now he haunts me with it: “How did this happen?” Gesturing at the sand, I see, with his right hand. Or—where his right hand should be. In practice, he uses the left, but practice shall never erase instinct.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, but still I see. I would dig my eyes from my face, but still I’d see.
“Macalaurë?”
Footprints meandering down the sand. One set—no two! Three! Where we’d let them go. He wants to walk and erase them, as though erasing evidence of our loss will bring those lost back to us. I wait with eyes tightly shut.
But it never works. I open my eyes. His footprints now lie in their stead.
“How did this happen?”
And I am alone.
For my dear friend Jenni are three double-drabbles about her two favorite Elves. Jenni requested Fingon and Caranthir, together. Not in that way…unless I wanted that, of course. Jenni, being one of the few people who I will unequivocally agree has a dirtier mind than me, certainly would not mind.
Well, odd pairings are always a fun challenge, so I went for it. Hence, this is a slash story. Not a graphic slash story but slash all the same. Therefore, it is not advisable to read it if you object to slash.
Spent on Joy
I. Tirion
I had the most unlikely ally in my cousin Carnistir, whom few seemed to like and fewer to understand. But we would meet at the city gates and he would warn me of things.
“Your father,” he might say, “has just had tremendous row with my father. I suggest that you tidy your room.”
Or: “Your mother is arranging supper with the girl with the big teeth, so you and Turukáno might want to go to Alqualondë for a week.”
How he learned these things, I would never know. Carnistir was very good at sneaking and hiding, at melting into shadows and catching the faintest thread of conversation. Daily, I would descend to the gates and mill among the throng, where the meeting of two cousins would likely not be noticed much less regarded as suspicious.
I approached, always, with the thought that he would not be there. With the muscles in my chest held tight as though to buoy my heart, which felt like it plunked heavy as stone next to my stomach when I failed to find his dark head among the crowd. I found myself wondering why his friendship meant so much.
To both of us, apparently.
II. Mithrim
We met at the intersection of Ours and Theirs. Too wearied to devise names, this was what we called the two lands that met at the tip of the lake, in sight of both camps.
It was not planned. I wandered, he wandered—there we were, between Ours and Theirs. Standing and facing each other as though the intervening centuries of discord had not existed. “Findekáno,” he said without greeting, scraping his toe in the dirt, “Nelyo is gone.”
In life, we take actions, my father often said. I imagined in that moment the actions that I might take. The strange thought came to catch my cousin’s face in my hands and to kiss each of his eyes. I wondered at the feel of his eyelashes fluttering against my lips. Or the heat of his flushed cheeks against my palm.
For a moment, I thought hopefully, he might forget that Nelyo was gone.
But only for a moment. Then I would return to Ours and he would return to Theirs, and we would resume our private heartache, each staring at the imagined other across the water. This reconciliation—however brief—need never happen again.
Or maybe—there was another way?
III. Thargelion
When my father died, I rode forth from Hithlum. No one stopped me. They believed that I sought my brother and sister, long disappeared but suddenly desired at this time of terrible grief. Or perhaps solitude: my thoughts erased in a roar of wind and hoofbeats.
None would have believed that I sought the so-called Dark Son of Fëanor.
Yet there he was, loping towards me, dismounting before I had even stopped, and the childish words nearly formed on my lips: “What warnings do you bring today?”
But we’d long ago realized the futility of warnings here. His eyes spoke of them, and I felt a shiver of dread. His lips parted, and perhaps he would have spoken. Perhaps he would have warned me. Or perhaps he knew that I would seek my father’s murderer, no matter the cost.
As he had done.
Or perhaps he knew that fate would be what it was, and he could not change it. Not with fiery words or bright swords.
He caught my face in his hands. He kissed my eyes. Then my mouth.
Or perhaps he believed—as I did—that this last time we met: It should be spent on joy.
heartofoshun is a strange quibble featuring a possibly-crazy Maglor, a decidedly weird Maedhros, and a lifetime of memories that might explain why Maglor chose the fate that he did.Evidence Of
“Macalaurë.”
My eyes are shut but I can see him. Maedhros. One thousand years together and I can never not see him.
“How did this happen?”
We might have been back in Tirion, still young. The way Nelyo used to laugh upon finding the remains of a party on the morning after, while I had rubbed my aching head in dismayed bewilderment. Evidence of a great life, he had called it, spreading his hands as though embracing the whole mess.
Maedhros does not do that now. Even had he hands, he would not embrace it.
“Macalaurë.” Insistent now, demanding answers.
“Do not call me that.” You will not let us call you Nelyo of the childhood lost or Maitimo of the beauty you no longer possess or even Nelyafinwë of the kingship you forsook, so Maedhros—that bitter name upon my tongue—do not call me that name I was given by my mother, that name I was called in love by my wife, the meaning of which is also lost.
But he ignores me: “How did this happen?”
So he had asked upon the docks of Sirion where Telvo—excuse me, Amras—had lain between us, sprawled over on his side and the rain and sea having washed his wounds to where, yes, it is as they say: He looked like he was sleeping. Amras who—we all used to complain—“took his half from the middle” and always flopped into one of us while we tried to sleep on hunting trips. Mumbled in our ears and kicked. I waited for the mumbling, but it never came, and here I am.
Still waiting.
I see Maedhros with my eyes closed. Imposing, yes, and still beautiful—but not if you knew when he was. Echoing, mocking me, for I’d asked him once: How did this happen? a great voice made frail by uncertainty in the hour following Atar’s death. How did we—of the great life—become orphans?
And Nelyo—Maedhros—had kicked a shower of dirt down the hill. Because it did! There is no reason! It is like those rocks—it tumbles where it will!
No, I’d always liked music where the score always led somewhere and there were rarely surprises.
Now he haunts me with it: “How did this happen?” Gesturing at the sand, I see, with his right hand. Or—where his right hand should be. In practice, he uses the left, but practice shall never erase instinct.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, but still I see. I would dig my eyes from my face, but still I’d see.
“Macalaurë?”
Footprints meandering down the sand. One set—no two! Three! Where we’d let them go. He wants to walk and erase them, as though erasing evidence of our loss will bring those lost back to us. I wait with eyes tightly shut.
But it never works. I open my eyes. His footprints now lie in their stead.
“How did this happen?”
And I am alone.
For my dear friend Jenni are three double-drabbles about her two favorite Elves. Jenni requested Fingon and Caranthir, together. Not in that way…unless I wanted that, of course. Jenni, being one of the few people who I will unequivocally agree has a dirtier mind than me, certainly would not mind.
Well, odd pairings are always a fun challenge, so I went for it. Hence, this is a slash story. Not a graphic slash story but slash all the same. Therefore, it is not advisable to read it if you object to slash.
Spent on Joy
I. Tirion
I had the most unlikely ally in my cousin Carnistir, whom few seemed to like and fewer to understand. But we would meet at the city gates and he would warn me of things.
“Your father,” he might say, “has just had tremendous row with my father. I suggest that you tidy your room.”
Or: “Your mother is arranging supper with the girl with the big teeth, so you and Turukáno might want to go to Alqualondë for a week.”
How he learned these things, I would never know. Carnistir was very good at sneaking and hiding, at melting into shadows and catching the faintest thread of conversation. Daily, I would descend to the gates and mill among the throng, where the meeting of two cousins would likely not be noticed much less regarded as suspicious.
I approached, always, with the thought that he would not be there. With the muscles in my chest held tight as though to buoy my heart, which felt like it plunked heavy as stone next to my stomach when I failed to find his dark head among the crowd. I found myself wondering why his friendship meant so much.
To both of us, apparently.
II. Mithrim
We met at the intersection of Ours and Theirs. Too wearied to devise names, this was what we called the two lands that met at the tip of the lake, in sight of both camps.
It was not planned. I wandered, he wandered—there we were, between Ours and Theirs. Standing and facing each other as though the intervening centuries of discord had not existed. “Findekáno,” he said without greeting, scraping his toe in the dirt, “Nelyo is gone.”
In life, we take actions, my father often said. I imagined in that moment the actions that I might take. The strange thought came to catch my cousin’s face in my hands and to kiss each of his eyes. I wondered at the feel of his eyelashes fluttering against my lips. Or the heat of his flushed cheeks against my palm.
For a moment, I thought hopefully, he might forget that Nelyo was gone.
But only for a moment. Then I would return to Ours and he would return to Theirs, and we would resume our private heartache, each staring at the imagined other across the water. This reconciliation—however brief—need never happen again.
Or maybe—there was another way?
III. Thargelion
When my father died, I rode forth from Hithlum. No one stopped me. They believed that I sought my brother and sister, long disappeared but suddenly desired at this time of terrible grief. Or perhaps solitude: my thoughts erased in a roar of wind and hoofbeats.
None would have believed that I sought the so-called Dark Son of Fëanor.
Yet there he was, loping towards me, dismounting before I had even stopped, and the childish words nearly formed on my lips: “What warnings do you bring today?”
But we’d long ago realized the futility of warnings here. His eyes spoke of them, and I felt a shiver of dread. His lips parted, and perhaps he would have spoken. Perhaps he would have warned me. Or perhaps he knew that I would seek my father’s murderer, no matter the cost.
As he had done.
Or perhaps he knew that fate would be what it was, and he could not change it. Not with fiery words or bright swords.
He caught my face in his hands. He kissed my eyes. Then my mouth.
Or perhaps he believed—as I did—that this last time we met: It should be spent on joy.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Evidence Of
Date: 2006-12-28 03:47 am (UTC)"One thousand years together and I can never not see him."
Just kills me! (Can't promise I am articulate tonight.)
“Do not call me that.” You will not let us call you Nelyo of the childhood lost or Maitimo of the beauty you no longer possess or even Nelyafinwë of the kingship you forsook, so Maedhros—that bitter name upon my tongue—do not call me that name I was given by my mother, that name I was called in love by my wife, the meaning of which is also lost.
I can so completely believe this too.
"Imposing, yes, and still beautiful—but not if you knew when he was."
I actually had this thought run through my mind recently, though could never have put it this well...
"No, I’d always liked music where the score always led somewhere and there were rarely surprises."
Reminds me of Mozart--not a surprise to him perhaps, only a surprise to us mortals you can't believe how he does it and makes it feel like it nothing else could/should have ever been there. I would expect no less of Macalaurë.
The refrain of “How did this happen?” is also for me an echo the thoughts of those of us who love them so...
Of course, the memories of better days are more poignant than I can even articulate in tossed-off comment like this one. Amras looking asleep is another wonderful/terrible/heartbreaking image.
Such a beautiful piece. Thank you so much!
Oshun
P.S. "It is like those rocks—it tumbles where it will!" The piece I am working on now (Maitimo/Findekáno) uses an image of rocks tumbling, totally different context and don't even know yet if it works yet, but so strange to find one here. (Supposed to Twilight Zone theme music here....sorry about that.)
Re: Evidence Of
Date: 2007-01-04 03:04 am (UTC)Reminds me of Mozart--not a surprise to him perhaps, only a surprise to us mortals you can't believe how he does it and makes it feel like it nothing else could/should have ever been there. I would expect no less of Macalaurë.
That's exactly what I meant, and I'm glad that it came across! I was half-expecting some well-meaning individual to point out that music can be surprising. But from Macalaure's PoV....
I actually had this thought run through my mind recently, though could never have put it this well...
I think that you could have. You underestimate yourself! :)
P.S. "It is like those rocks—it tumbles where it will!" The piece I am working on now (Maitimo/Findekáno) uses an image of rocks tumbling, totally different context and don't even know yet if it works yet, but so strange to find one here. (Supposed to Twilight Zone theme music here....sorry about that.)
OME! You're totally right! I remember noting that line and thinking, "That's a cool image!" wondering if I had seen it somewhere before.... *facepalm* I forget my own stories, if you didn't know, so if you hadn't pointed out the coincidence then I would have admired your image without ever realizing that I'd used the same idea.
Great minds think alike! ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-28 04:14 am (UTC)At any rate, good job, as per usual. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-04 03:06 am (UTC)Finrod requested that I use this icon just for you, btw.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-05 03:56 am (UTC)Me? Dirty-minded? 0:)
Tell Finrod that I hope he's wearing pants.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-28 12:31 pm (UTC)There were tiny details and words in these drabbles that had me thinking: "Wow, after all this time, she can still surprise the daylights out of me." In a good way, of course. Like this, for instance: Telvo—excuse me, Amras. Or this: In practice, he uses the left, but practice shall never erase instinct. You've done a great job indicating Maglor's almost but not quite madness. Mae is definitely over the edge and I don't blame him. Honestly, I have no idea how the two of them managed to survive the death of their younger brothers. Maybe they were comforted by the thought that those who fell went to a better place than what Beleriand was at the time.
As for Carni&Findekano... I went all O_O when I saw that you'd taken it upon you to try this unusual pairing. I couldn't see it, but I was pretty sure that you'd pull it off in a most convincing manner. And you did. Now I shall have to ponder on this naughty idea some more, as well.
I loved the notion of "Ours" and "Theirs". Goes to show the level of disorientation that must have reigned over the opposite hosts.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-04 03:15 am (UTC)There were tiny details and words in these drabbles that had me thinking: "Wow, after all this time, she can still surprise the daylights out of me."
Lol! That's impressive because you're definitely one of those who has read the most of my fanfic. Actually, writing in general, since you've read my o-fic too.
Anyhoo, those tiny details make a drabble fun for me. You know me: I have to ramble, so drabbles are tough. That's one of the reasons I practice: to practice subtlety.
I'm glad that you liked Fin/Carni too! I told Jenni that these odd pairings I could write a novel about. In some instances, I have, as you know. ;) I really feel like this series is just a start, that it could be so much more. Maybe someday when I have fewer novels-in-progress, I will take on the challenge!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-04 09:17 am (UTC)Oh, if Finrod only knew the angst and drama he has caused in the house of Feanaro... My last RP with Tarion started with and about Mae and ended up with and angsty Carnistir almost breaking into tears after having a row with an equally angsty Feanaro. Gotta love those muses.
I have to ramble, so drabbles are tough. That's one of the reasons I practice: to practice subtlety.
Yep, I hear ya. That's why writing 100 words is sometimes harder than writing 1000!
I told Jenni that these odd pairings I could write a novel about.
I know what you mean. With a popular, obvious pairing, you almost don't need a background story anymore and they sort of fit together perfectly. But a rare pairing requires a lot of work into the how and why and when and so on. And by the time you have those things sorted out, you've got a novel. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-28 02:56 pm (UTC)And your warning for the Caranthir/Fingon made me laugh and I thought, you better put in some slashes ;) I always wonder, on a more personal note, why you call this so slashy. But then some trip over anything.
I enjoyed the passing of time and the moments you decided to write about this one. It leaves me wondering how much Caranthir saw in the shadow and how he perceived the Sundering in the Finwean house, it feels like he is taking that very hard and tries to make amends. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-02 01:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-04 03:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-04 03:20 am (UTC)My idea of Maedhros taking on the new name after his mutilation was not originally mine. Ithilwen, maybe? But it's always made such sense to me; in general, taking the Sindarin names seems a way to leave behind and keep safe the relatively innocent Elves who were born and lived and loved in Aman. I'm so glad that this seems to have come across so well in this drabble. :)
Happy 2007 to you! *hugs*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-31 11:29 pm (UTC)I also liked the names issue: it tells all their story in one sentence.
And just before 2006 is over, I wanted to wish you all the best for the next year.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-04 03:09 am (UTC)Happy 2007!
As Oshun mentioned in a comment above yours, I think that all we Feanorian fans have asked, "How did this happen?" as well. And some of us have written many hundreds of thousands of words trying to answer that question.... *innocent whistling*
The names have always intrigued me. Who chose what name, why they were named, how/why they were translated as they were...I'm just a big geek when it comes to words and their secret meanings!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-04 02:48 am (UTC)Anyway, it's just beautiful. I love the winsomeness of the memories, with just a touch of sadness and then the mention of joy at the end. Without being graphic it opens up the possibility for me to dream about what the encounters between these two must have been like. Two people not perceived to be the tender sort in any way, shape or form, but hardly anyone in private is the same in public anyway. So you have captured that aspect perfectly. Damn me! You've done a great job once more, Dawn.
Thank you so much for this wonderful present. And I have been such a shlub. I am so sorry.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-04 02:59 am (UTC)I'm glad that you liked your story. I tried to keep the gifts somewhat clean this year so that I wouldn't have to nudge up the rating on ff.net (selfish, I know, but I still have some left to write, so maybe I'll write that missing scene? *evil grin*) Mostly, I wanted to convey how this odd pairing might have evolved. It's one of those pairings like Alina's Erestor/Feanor that I could write a novel about. (Unfortunately, I'm writing two novels at the moment and soon to start a third, so I'll have to put that bunny on hold for the mo'. ;^P)
Okay, I'll stop rambling. Some things never change! *big hugs to you*