As I haven’t submitted a ginger in a while, I thought you might appreciate this nice specimen. :D
// what’s more engaging, the bulge or the funky nips ? very good specimen though, 10/10
❝ I’ve never heard of that before. ❞
❝ Do you not receive many tidings of the Eldar and their kingdoms, then? ❞
People had been telling Fingon for decades not to drink coffee. It made him too energetic, they said; it wasn’t healthy to miss sleep for three days and survive solely off caffeine. Sound advice, perhaps, but if coffee explained his strange behaviors and sometimes-otherworldly vigor, then it was all the more reason to drink it. And it was a point in Manhattan’s favor that he could easily find Fair Trade, a cause that he felt warranted the extra money.
It was money that he in truth didn’t have to spend. The rent was costing him more than his salary brought in, and the promotions and job offers he’d expected were not thus far forthcoming. Of course, coming from working in a mechanic’s shop in St. Louis, he was lucky to have picked up this job at all; he’d bartended before, but anyone adding up the years would note that those positions couldn’t match the age on his ID, and the last thing he wanted was a federal investigation into his identity.
It was by merit of his looks that he got this far, Fingon suspected, even though he’d long since abandoned his long plaited hair for something short-cropped and ragged. The Ray-Bans weren’t masking his fine features as he picked his way through Central Park, and were perhaps out of place in the morning when the sun hadn’t even broken free of the skyscrapers; behind their cover, though, unnaturally keen eyes could pick out details from a great distance while he sipped at the oversized coffee-cup in his hand.
Today the detail was a shock of red hair ahead. It fell over shoulders that showed a posture that was anything but confident. A very long time ago, Fingon had known someone who walked like that. Shoulders he’d clung to, in joy and distress, in passion… those memories he could not quite get rid of. He’d thought after a hundred years they’d have grown hazy, replaced by the new ones of this world.
It seemed it was anything but. They were evidently vivid enough to place the picture before him of his old friend—scars and all, even. It looked exactly like Maedhros Fëanorion, and Fingon very deliberately blinked, closed his eyes, shook his head, reminded himself that it was another world and one he should not try to reclaim for himself. It was already worth admonishing himself for thinking of Maedhros at all; it was a dangerous line of thought, one that had historically brought him black moods and on occasion dark urges.
But the image didn’t evaporate, so instead Fingon found his lips moving almost of their own accord, while his hands turned cold with sweat and his heartbeat tripled in pace and his mind turned to static. “Maitimo?”
My dash right now:
[ from here ]
During the flow of battle, hope of the upper hand was gained and lost again just as quickly. The prince lost his horse, but the orcs failed to follow through with the slaughter, and now a thicket of spears surrounded their quarry.
Sauron scanned the unfolding damage from a hill, thronged by his wolves. He could send the wargs to charge the line, running under the elven longspears (nothing caused panic like being charged from below chest-height, while infantry attacked from above), but the animals would not willingly run head-long onto the points of lances, and many would die in the first wave. The situation did not yet warrant such wasteful tactics.
It was only a Noldo prince. One of a swarm, it seemed.
Fingon stood tall, shouting encouragement to his troops and rallying them into an impenetrable square formation, using their smaller numbers to achieve deadly effect: Spears on the out-guard, archers in the second and third lines, changing places to fire and nock, unleashing an endless projectile barrage.
The lieutenant’s lip wrinkled. This was taking too long. Orc bodies piled uselessly up around the perimeter, and the elves looked hopeful. When they began to cheer and chant, he decided it was enough.
The Maia took his hammer from his belt. Orders in the black tongue rang harsh over the field. The orcs rejoined and formed a wedge of shields, firing black-fletched barbs between the clanging iron shell. The with his wolves as runners and a wall of orc-flesh, Sauron rammed the picket of elves until they broke.
The Noldor cheering ceased— except for the prince, who’s confident, almost cheery cries in the face of carnage seemed to be the backbone of their remaining force. Their defense had broken but not their spirits.
”Still your tongue or I will still it for you." Gorthaur rumbled, looming dark and ogreish above the elven commander.
What an insolent boy. Growling, the Maia swung his hammer with one hand and a cruel, steel-tailed whip in the other. The whip he could use to blind, to trip, to wrap around shields, and to distract while the flat of Aulë’s hammer came down with the weight of a landslide to shatter armor and bone.
Maedhros and his cavalry would come to the prince’s rescue any moment, he knew, but there might be time to teach this arrogant, ribboned fop a lesson first.
It had been a gruff, ugly voice that challenged him. And similarly, the armour the monster wore seemed to make a mockery of elegance, with sharp, cutting edges. It looked sturdy; heavy, too, and with any luck it would slow him down as he fought. His initial assault was swift, however, which did not bode well—the Eldar had great resilience, but Fingon was not about to suppose it would outmatch a Maia’s.
The question was only where that armour would be weak, where a blade might pierce it to damaging effect.
Fingon had just enough time to react to the swinging hammer when it came in response to his challenge. He leaned back, letting it pass just shy of his breast, though the whip that flew past a moment later made him lose a few steps’ worth of ground. Not the most encouraging start, but those had the look of practice swings, without the full force of the captain’s fury behind them.
There was not much time to pause and strategise, but Fingon was not a stranger to fighting anymore. At this distance, Gorthaur could swing his hammer straight into Fingon’s chest before he could deal a single blow of his own, and that was not even taking the whip into account. But at a closer range—much closer, nearly atop him if he could manage it, neither could be used to their full effect without endangering Gorthaur’s own limbs. Unless he had very keen control, but thus far Fingon had not noted it to be the case with Morgoth’s servants.
A shield was not going to help him against that hammer, either. A shield would spare him from an orc’s axe, or a crossbow dart, but not a weapon that was nearly the size of him. So Fingon tossed his aside, drew the blade he wore at his right hip so that he had one in each hand, and rushed forward, seeking a weak spot at Gorthaur’s knee or ankle.
It was a risky move, certainly, but that had never stopped him before.
There was a sudden weight in his lap. A warm, hairy weight, which he would’ve found unsettling if the creature didn’t seem so content to be there. Fingon hesitated briefly, but then he set a hand on the cat’s head, tickling one of its ears while resigning himself to the fact that he’d have a hair-covered tunic for the rest of the day.
I’m just wondering, is it ever mentioned that they didn’t look for her? I mean maybe they did search for her, but just Tolkien didn’t elaborate :/ I’ve always had the headcanon that Fingon searched for her but hey that’s just my hc
It doesn’t say either way, no, so it is possible that they made an attempt. But I think it does say that Turgon’s people did? So you’d think then it would be easy enough to mention that Fingolfin sent people as well, though that undermines the idea of the secret city (so as much as I don’t want to play the “Turgon is an asshole and the disappointment of the family” card, I think most likely it was that he didn’t think it was worth mentioning to them).
… and I may have some bias in this, but I think if Fingon was looking—though it’d be extremely difficult for him to know where he was supposed to look, since he wasn’t aware of Gondolin’s location and therefore would have no idea where to start his search (it could be Nevrast, could be somewhere south of Doriath, could be way out in the east)—he wouldn’t have stopped until he found her.
Fingon and Turgon were … loath to abandon any task to which they had put their hands until the bitter end
Which doesn’t guarantee success, of course. But I can’t see him poking around in Nevrast for a few days, shrugging, and going home.
So maybe Turgon did say “Aredhel is gone, help me look” but refused to divulge exactly where to look in case that tipped people off to Gondolin’s general location. Which is still a dick move, but one that I guess makes sense given his questionable foreign policy?
I don’t know, the whole situation is really shady (no Nan Elmoth puns intended) and isn’t helped by Tolkien’s penchant to leave out details.