#I feel like Maglor and Elrond are two very different kinds of memory | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

feanorianethicsdepartment · 3 years

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‘today’s silm vocaloid song: clear sky engine (クリヤスカイ機関) by nyanyannya and hara ft. rin kagamine and zunko tohoku

this one’s about elrond, maglor, and the sudden non-ending of the world. you know that thing where you build an elaborate fandom video in your head for a completely unrelated song, but you don’t have the most basic art skills you’d need to make it a reality? yeah, i square that circle by writing them out. here, have an extremely long songfic/filk/commentary/thing

It was just another day, beneath a black sky

The bustle of camp churned on around me

I wasn’t paying attention to what my hands were doing

Dreaming of a shining star-lit sky

we open on elrond, living in a world about to die. the fëanorians were forced to abandon amon ereb years ago, and now the last of the host ekes out a precarious nomadic existence, raiding deserted villages for food and losing more people they can’t replace with each battle. they’re still doing better than everyone else on the mainland, though. their blades, at least, remain sharp

(the smoke from the fires of angband has risen to cover the whole continent in dark clouds. some of the sun’s warmth still gets through, and on good nights the star of high hope is still faintly visible, but the light-filled skies of old are little more than memory. all the survivors know that the end is near. it’s only a matter of time)

He’d broken a promise he’d made to us

So I was a little more annoyed at him than usual

He chatted with me while I worked to make up for it

And I made all my usual complaints

elrond and elros are at this point... i’d say very early teens? not that they had much of a childhood; the fëanorians are so short-staffed the twins have been doing odd jobs around camp pretty much since it became clear they weren’t going to run away. today elrond is taking stock of the medical supplies, less because he has any interest in the healing arts than because it’s a job that needs doing and everyone else is busy

maglor is hovering within talking distance, doing elrond-doesn’t-care-what. the twins’ relationship with maglor is extremely complicated to say the least, their mercurial hellbeast protector who scares the shit out of everyone else they’ve ever met and who has stood between them and the darkness for as long as they can remember. recently, he promised to stay with the twins while they did something difficult, but he failed to do so for a whole host of reasons, including getting into a two-hour shrieking match with maedhros at the last possible moment. elros shrugged it off, like elros shrugs everything off, but elrond is a simmering cauldron of adolescent rage at the best of times

which is why maglor’s checking on him, giving him an outlet for his anger before it can turn into despair. because what would be the point, in the end? they’re all going to die anyway. one of the reasons maglor’s resisted sending the kids to balar so hard is that no matter where they are, eventually morgoth will sweep down and destroy them all. there’s nowhere safe left, nothing they can do to protect them. none of this is even new, it’s a shadow that’s hung over them all since the twins grew old enough to understand this

so maglor and elrond chat, or rather elrond grumbles incessantly and maglor snarks as upliftingly as he can remember to. it’s a day like any other, nothing about it to distinguish it from the hundreds that came before or however many will come after. that is, until one of the lesser minions comes over, yelling, ‘boss! boss! you have to see this!’

elrond turns around. for the first time ever, he sees true hope on her face

“Have you finally grown tired of us?” I hissed

But in that moment excitement ran round the campsite

And someone cried out with joy

“The hour we thought would never be, the return of the light, has finally come to pass!”

far, far away, the hosts of the valar are landing on the shores of beleriand. disembarking from their luminous ships, clad in radiant armour and carrying blessed weapons, their brilliance pierces the dark fog that has settled over beleriand for so long. shining like the stars come to earth, the hallowed army of valinor begins its long march towards the gates of angband. far above, ships riding jets of light slice open the smog

this news - this unexpected, unbelievable, impossible miracle bestowed unto doomed beleriand, this chance that their enemy might actually fall - is the greatest thing anyone in camp’s heard all century. maybe in more prosperous times the host would have groused about the valar finally seeing fit to get off their asses, but in this world turned to ash any chance at victory is to be celebrated. the minions throw a massive impromptu party, of the kind they haven’t since before sirion. elros is right there with them, singing off-key and laughing as loud as anyone else. even maedhros cracks a tiny relieved smile

maglor watches the festivities from the outside, more genuinely optimistic than he thought he was still capable of. elrond joins him, brow furrowed as he tries to comprehend it all. they talk

“It feels like a dream I’ll never wake up from”

“What are you blabbering about now?”

elrond is voiced by zunko, maglor by rin. the song’s more of a dialogue than a duet, so i’ll be bolding maglor’s lines

The sheet of paper I held in my hands read

“The hosts of the West have come! Our world is saved!”

the letter’s from gil-galad, or at least his administrative apparatus. it’s not even that hostile; apparently the armies of the gods showing up out of nowhere to save them all from certain doom has him in a magnanimous mood. there’s some drivel about surrendering and eärendil and all wrongs being forgiven, but neither maglor nor elrond is paying attention to it

“Hey, do you remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Love and justice and valour and hope”

“I remember the sea of blood you drowned everything in for them”

elrond didn’t really have any formal schooling - nobody had the time - but he has managed to pick up a lot of stuff from the stories the people around them tell. that the fëanorians came to middle-earth for high noble ideals, and that it was trying to fulfil those ideals that led them into darkness, is something maglor told him once, when he was in a darkly honest mood

“Haha, that’s just details, everybody makes that kind of mistake when they’re young”

“Why are you like this?”

a mood maglor’s obviously not in at the moment, if he’s laughing off the kinslayings like this; elrond knows this isn’t how he actually feels about them. normally elrond would just roll his eyes and move on with his life, but things are different today

The camp was full of laughter, as if everyone had lost their minds

elrond’s not used to happiness. not full, unironic happiness, untainted by the shadow of their inevitable death, not from the fëanorians. the sheer jubliation suffusing camp is fundamentally alien to him, a child of a world about to end. he doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge that maybe they won’t all get eaten by dragons. he doesn’t know what to do with the hope in everyone’s eyes

so instead, when maglor wanders away from the party, elrond catches him with a song

“What if for one more year, ten more years, a hundred more years, the shadow still reigns?”

“Then ten thousand years, a hundred thousand years, a million years later, we’ll see it fall! For certain”

“What if I lay out all one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-eight of the fears I carry?”

“Then there’s one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-nine songs I can give to you”

maglor’s been teaching elrond how to do this, how to snatch someone into a world of music and throw your voice at them until one of you can’t take it any more. maglor wins this one, as usual; even if his song is incapable of anything but violence he’s got centuries of experience on elrond, enough to turn the sharp edges of his voice into blades in elrond’s hands. and that is what he’s doing, clumsy and harsh as he is; he’s trying to give elrond a reason to hope

elrond is the one who breaks the spell, dropping the melody, letting the music dissolve into the air. maglor flashes him a grin and walks off, humming merrily. elrond just stands there, still unable to understand

I’ve heard it before, it’s all anyone can talk about, even if I try to avoid it it stabs into my ears

cut past a decade or so, to well into the war of wrath. elrond and elros are in their mid-teens now. they’re still with the fëanorians, but these days the fëanorian warband is effectively an auxiliary unit to the amanyar army, skirting around the edges of that much larger force. for the first time in a long while, elrond and elros have regular-ish contact with people outside the fëanorian sphere of influence, mostly peripheral edain and the sindar who run messages between the camps. it’s different, talking to new people

(the sky is still covered with smog, but it’s gloomy grey, not oppressive black. the sun is faintly visible through it, most of the time. the rain is much less poisonous than it used to be, and on good nights you can almost see the moon. the closer they get to angband, the darker the clouds grow)

“It is as the gods have decreed, soon the darkness will be swept away and the Enemy will be cast down

And after the war in the purified world, we will all live happily together

Building new homes in a land unmarred by evil”

the people outside the host are much more optimistic about the future, for one. the fëanorian minions are happy morgoth is getting trounced but they don’t really talk about what comes after that, like they can’t imagine a world without war. the sindar, and especially the edain, on the other hand, have all these plans about the cities they’ll build, the arts they’ll perfect, the children they’ll raise in a world without danger. elros is super into this; he barely spends time with the fëanorians any more, he’s so busy going between different edain camps, making friends, planning for the future. elrond, though...

Even my twin knows what future to reach out for...

elrond doesn’t know what to do with any of this. the very concept that someday the war will end and the sky will clear and he’ll have a bright future is still something he doesn’t fully understand. even more, he’s defined himself for so long as not-a-fëanorian, now he’s regularly interacting with people who doubtlessly aren’t he’s having trouble figuring out what else he is. he’s stuck between people who are lowkey hoping they’ll die gloriously in battle and people who have been dreaming about what they’d do in a world without darkness all their lives, and he doesn’t know what he even wants, not really, not yet

so he keeps on living, just like he always has. he’s been promoted to sick tent dogsbody and is learning how to heal with song from the last minion who can kind of still do it. he acts as a proxy between the fëanorians and the more timid outsiders they keep running into. when he goes (or elros drags him) exploring in other camps, he keeps track of every new detail he comes across, in case it’s somehow useful later

and he keeps talking to maglor, with anger and spite and sarcasm and whatever other emotion he’s covering his uncertainties with today. maglor always listens, usually offers to help, and sometimes elrond even lets him. the fëanorian camp settles into a rhythm of buildup-fight-recovery-buildup-fight-recovery, so regular it lulls elrond into complacency. he takes the future he still doesn’t quite believe in one day at a time, until suddenly the ground crumbles beneath his feet

You say it’s to ‘fulfill our ideals’ but what you mean by that is ‘to sate our bloodlust’, I know

With their blades and teeth sharpened for battle, the kinslayers broke away from the light and disappeared into the shadows

there’s a whole mountain of reasons why, as they draw near to angband, the dregs of the fëanorian host abruptly peel off from the valinorean army and vanish into the night. they know they're more effective as a stealthy shock ambush unit, they’re somewhat concerned the amanyar will turn on them the second morgoth is no longer a problem, they're making one last desperate rush for the silmarils, all that and more. it’s not the first time they’ve suddenly packed up and left before their enemies can react, probably not even the first time they’ve done it to the hosts of valinor. there’s just one little difference

Leaving us behind? Leaving you behind

they’re not taking the twins. said twins only find out about this, like, the day before they decamp. maedhros’ justification is something about them not being able to support noncombatants on the march, but the twins believe that about as much as they believe that the fëanorians are doing this for any kind of hope. elros, of course, was half-planning on leaving anyway, going off to chase his own ambitions with his new edain posse. he copes with it pretty well, relatively

but elrond’s mind goes blank. once he thought the day they let them go would be the best day of his life, but now it’s come it feels so wrong, and this horrible coldness is seeping into him. in a flash of what feels like foresight, he suddenly knows the people who raised him will never come back. how dare - why - he can’t -

with a sharp desperate burst of sound that’s a surprise to even himself, elrond lashes out a song to catch maglor

“For ten more minutes, one more week, half a year, please, let me stay with you!”

“In a year’s time, ten years’ time, a hundred years’ time, we’ll see the starlit sky together”

“What if one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-eight times I begged you not to go?”

“Then there’s one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-nine of your other wishes I’ll hear”

and elrond just stops. he lets the song trail off, staring at maglor. he’s in an incredibly weird mood, with something that could almost be compassion in his eyes

there’s only one way he can find out what’s happening, elrond realises

“In that case - !”

maglor was never really demonstratively affectionate with the twins. it would never have come off as real on his part, and they wouldn’t have believed it in any case. still, he supported them. he let them trail behind them, all but cling to the backs of his legs, in those first horrible weeks when they were terrified of absolutely everything. he taught them to ride and he taught them to read, how to reinforce a blade with nothing but song and close a wound with needle and thread. on the darkest nights, when all the world was filled by the howling beasts of morgoth and the wailing of the unhallowed dead, he held them tight and flared his own fires high, a warm smoky bonfire between them and the void. he answered their questions, and told them stories

and sometimes, he tried to be kind

“Sing me a lullaby like the flat of a blade”

“Which one would you like?”

“I want to see a flower that will still bloom”

“I know just the one”

“I don’t care what kind of monster you are! Just please stay with me, for even one more tomorrow...”

“...I’m sorry”

“What do you mean?”

“You were given your name because your parents wanted you to see the stars someday”

it was easy for maglor to justify keeping the twins when they didn’t have a future. the shadow of death blotted out the sky, so why not hold them close for whatever little time they had left? no matter where they were, the void would soon claim them all

except it didn’t. in the end they were not forsaken. the sacred light came out of the west to burn away the darkness and finish the war he once thought they could never win. the hosts of the valar have gotten farther in decades than the noldor did in centuries, and soon enough they’ll cast the enemy down and release the world from his terrible maw. and then the future the free peoples dreamed of will stretch out before them, full of possibilities beyond measure

and that’s why maglor has to let them go. the magnificent people that elrond and elros are already becoming will only wither among hopeless kinslayers who have nothing left but the sword. to flourish into their full glorious selves, they need to be with people who dream, who can travel towards the future alongside the twins with light hearts and songs on their lips. maglor refuses to let his own darkness drown the last people in the world he does not hate. elrond deserves so, so much better than maglor is capable of giving him. he deserves to see the stars

hearing all that, there’s only one thing elrond can say

“You can’t even keep one miserable promise! Don’t pretend like you’re my father, kinslayer!”

and that’s the last elrond sees of maglor. the fëanorians vanish in the middle of the night, leaving elrond and elros (and about half a dozen minions who are taking their last possible chance to get out) behind. elros takes up with his edain buddies and starts making contacts and forging alliances. elrond winds up in gil-galad’s orbit, surrounded by people who are very understanding about how awful his childhood was, which just pisses him off more. he doesn’t throw tantrums or refuse to work, those aren’t luxuries he was raised with, but he spends a fair bit of time spurning every bit of sympathy and aid he’s offered and trying not to cry himself to sleep

with time, though, he finds a place. it starts with círdan, the first person who believes elrond about what his time with the fëanorians was like. then he befriends erestor, and then gil-galad starts actually respecting the way elrond feels, and then he gets officially taken on as an apprentice healer. he starts learning about his own ancestors and their peoples, and reaching out for stories he never knew could be his. as the final battle of the iron hells begins, elrond is doing... better

and soon, the hope that no one in beleriand once dreamed would be fulfilled becomes a reality

And then, as if it had never held power, the darkness was cast down...

they win the war. the armies of angband are crushed. the peaks of thangorodrim are torn down. the prisoners of the deepest pits of the iron hells are freed. the forces of evil are scattered to the four winds. morgoth, the fallen vala himself, is defeated and captured and bound with great chains, unable to ever hurt anyone again. the precious remnants of the light of the trees, the remaining two silmarils, are recovered. the dark clouds evaporate, and for the first time elrond can remember, the sky is perfectly clear. the war of the jewels is finally over

elrond has grown so much since the day he first heard that the hosts of the west had come. he still can’t quite believe it

They held a great celebration beneath a star-speckled sky I’d never seen before

“The world is saved and we are freed! Evil has been vanquished forevermore”

The triumphant voices of the generals poured out over the victory feast while the stars shone true above the happy ending

the soldiers of valinor and the people of beleriand (what’s left of them) throw a truly massive party. it’s still tinged with their grief over everything they’ve lost, but the atmosphere is primarily one of ecstatic relief. they’re alive, and they’ve come out the other side. dwarvish tailors dance with high maiar, humans who don’t remember the moon get drunk with elves who remember cuiviénen. even after the official festivities die down and people start hashing out what they want to do next, the general mood remains buoyant and cheerful. at long last, they live in a world without danger

none of it feels real to elrond. gil-galad’s talking about building a kingdom on the other side of the blue mountains, elros and his grand edain alliance are trying to bully the maiar into letting them set up on tol eressëa, and elrond feels so disconnected from it all, like he’s watching someone else’s life. he’s happy the enemy has been overcome, of course he is, but he’s not feeling the overwhelming joy everyone else is. he can’t let his guard down yet, something is still wrong -

Except he hasn’t come back, they haven’t come back, where did they go, what have they done?

The word raced around as fast as the wind, giving me an answer I never wanted to hear -

where is maglor? the fëanorians broke off to fight the war their own way, but the war is over now, where are they? they were so happy to hear that the amanyar had arrived, he can’t imagine them not thrilled to see the enemy they hated more than anything else fall. in the warm afterglow of victory, it feels like even their sins might be forgiven, and they could finally go home. they have nothing else left; why wouldn’t they take that outstretched hand?

but nobody’s so much as glimpsed their flag since some time before the final battle. elrond quietly assumes, perhaps even hopes, that they all died fighting, and yet he can’t shake the cold dread crawling up his spine

elrond has mixed feelings about the silmarils, and doesn’t particularly care to be near them. by the time the news of their theft reaches him, maedhros and maglor have already fled into the night

Still driven on by their oath, they turned their blades on their kin one last time

“And stole away the hallowed light”

Yes, that light which sank all of our lands beneath a deep dark layer of corpses and ash

all elrond sees is the aftermath, the blood sinking into the ground. it’s far from the first time he’s seen people killed, but somehow now it’s all hitting him, all at once. he sees the bodies and it knocks the breath out of him. all he can see is the dead, from finwë on down, the rotting carcasses of every last person who was slaughtered for these gems, a whole continent bleached with death. they call the silmarils the most beautiful things in the world, jewels shining with the very light of creation, but elrond can’t see it for the blood they’re dripping with

that’s the immediate thing that has his hands shaking and his breath running cold. by morning it’s had a chance to sink in a little, and -

He lied he lied he lied he lied

maglor regretted the kinslayings! elrond knows he did! it was never even something he actually said, it was obvious from the way he talked about them. every single one was a complete disaster, nothing the fëanorians ever got out of them was worth what they lost in the process, and afterwards things always got worse in ways they never expected. and maglor hated the person the kinslayings had turned him into, elrond spent enough time around him to pick up on that much! surely he’d do anything to not have to commit another one?

apparently not! apparently all that regret, all that loss, the arguments and the nightmares and the coldly determined efforts to stop them following his path, it all meant nothing! he still gave in to despair or maedhros or whatever, killed yet more people, stole from the army whose return he said was like a dream come to life, spat in the face of his last chance to go home, and vanished! gil-galad’s people were right! he really is nothing more than a monster!

the shock of it all makes something snap in elrond, whatever fragile optimism he absorbed from the people around him draining away until he feels completely hollow. hundreds of years of suffering and death, and for what?

Smeared with the blood of untold hundreds, untold thousands, untold millions of people

Did they buy us peace for even half a year, even a week, even ten minutes?

Noooooooo!

Even the very land we lived on crumbled and drowned

What was the point?! What was the point?! What was the point?!

I feel like I’m going insaaaaaaane

morgoth may have fallen, but beleriand is dead! nothing remains, not the lush green lands of the stories, or even the dessicated forests of his childhood, just desolate earth and the devouring sea. almost everywhere he’s ever known, almost everyone who lived and fought and dreamed there, are lost forever. nothing was saved, everything was destroyed, what good is a clear blue sky when there’s nothing beneath it?! how can they call this a happy ending?!

elrond can’t see any light here, all the great battles and heroic deeds seem absolutely pointless in the face of everyone and everything immolated in the endless grasping for these gems. the hosts of valinor leave the continent they shattered, the remnants of gil-galad’s people escape the raging forces of nature, and the survivors bicker and fight over resources just like the fëanorian minions elrond grew up around. the world is never going to get better, he realises. the dream of a paradise will never come true

and then one night, running a message down the craggy still-turbulent coastline, he hears a snatch of a distant, familiar voice

I can hear a voice whittled away to a weapon singing what could almost be a lullaby -

elrond leaps off the ridge and onto the rocky beach, scrambling over the uneven ground. he’s heard the rumours about where maedhros and/or maglor went - all of them, there’s dozens of them, he didn’t pay any particular heed to the ones where maglor wandered the coast, but if they were right, if he’s here -

his own voice has grown strong over the years, solid and forceful and mature. elrond screams his song into the emptiness, hoping against hope it will be heard

“What if for one more year, ten more years, a hundred more years, the shadow still reigns?”

“Then ten thousand years, a hundred thousand years, a million years later, we’ll see it fall! Isn’t that so?!”

“What if I lay out all one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-eight of the griefs I carry?”

“Then there’s one billion eight hundred million three thousand and sixty-nine days for you to live!”

“That must be it...”

the impression of a hand touching his cheek, the ghost of a smile. for a moment someone else’s voice slips into the ebb and flow of his song, a shadow reaches out to wipe the tears off his face. live, it whispers. you who i held dearest last, live

elrond’s breath catches in his throat, and the song, and the shadow, vanish. it’s just him on a forsaken beach, the only sounds the waves crashing and the gulls calling. the sky is completely overcast, the clouds dull and grey. he watches them drift along for a while, as his pulse slows down and his airways clear up. live, the word echoes in his mind

he waits until his breathing is back to normal and the churning emotions inside him have settled into a form he can handle. then he wipes his face and clambers back onto the ridge

(life. it’s not much, but it’s enough. it has to be. his home is destroyed, but he is alive; his family is broken, but he is alive. he is alive, and they want him to live, as much as he can while he still has a chance. the world he lives in will never be perfect, but he knows how to work with that)

(and besides - elros, círdan, gil-galad, erestor, the other healers, the small knot of elves of all stripes who seem determined to follow his banner. he hasn’t lost everything, not yet, and he won’t let the world take away what he has left. he’ll never abandon those he loves)

the clouds are lightening. soon the stars will be out. elrond takes a deep breath, and starts running towards his future and the person he’s going to be -

thousands of years later, a memory resurfaces

“Two million, two hundred and forty-one thousand, five hundred and thirty-nine days... Ah, yes. I know I forgot to say it earlier, but you did a very good job”

a smattering of notes are lifted by the ocean breeze. they travel inland, across the worn-down mountains, around the weathered hills, above the tangled forests, up the untamed rivers, and finally into the hidden valley

in the gardens of imladris, lord elrond hears a voice he hasn’t for millennia. a watering can slips out of his hands, and suddenly he can’t breathe

It was just another day, beneath a dark sky

The ocean and the wind roared on all around me

I wasn’t paying attention to how my tears were falling

Trying to remember a clear star-lit sky

that youthful dream of a world free from evil never came true. the shadow came back, and it kept coming back, taking his people, his friends, his family, his wife. everything they built after the defeat of morgoth has been reduced to dust by the weight of time, and every year more of it slips through his fingers. elrond doesn’t know how much more of it he can endure. he doesn’t know how much more he can lose

he chases that scrap of music all the way to the seashore

I ran down the path between the rocks and the spray following that voice I never knew why I loved

But in the end I could only stand weeping

elrond searches up and down the coast, scouring the shoreline for clues, asking the locals, listening. sometimes he hears whispers of song, long wailing lamentations that make his heart ache all the more now that he understands how that despair feels. occasionally it’s loud or consistent enough he can track it, trying to pinpoint the singer’s location in the intense storms of bitterness and grief

but he never finds anything

“You fool, he’s already gone. Like he was never there at all...”

all that’s left is a voice on the wind

15 notes · View notes

mai-sau · 4 years

Note

prompt 2 with kidnap dads?

thank u so much for prompting!! i hope u like it!

i am so weak for kidnap fam i love them so much... i picture this taking place like maybe 2-3 years into living together. like, long enough that there’s genuine bonds that have grown between them, but still also relatively close to the kinslaying (also i may or may not have referenced the first russingon prompt i did no need for context though!! just gotta... slide in those beloved interpersonal relationships)

i am also. so sorry, this ended up being, almost 2k words, im so sowwy, i hope u enjoy this uninterrupted bout of kidnap fam self indulgence

Prompt: “Please don’t hide from me.”

As any other night since they had arrived, the halls of Amon Ereb were nestled in shadow and silence. At times, Maglor preferred the sorely needed serenity. And at others - like tonight - he found himself staring at his own dull ceiling, echoes and whispers suffocating his very mind as the muggy summer heat did the same to his lungs. What might have been, what already was, what frightfully will be... Silence was, unfortunately, a gifted listener.

Mostly, it was fine: he would just make it through until morning, and the lingering exhaustion would put him to sleep the next night. It was fine.

A shriek pierced the air.

Maglor could not help it - every muscle in his body tensed. Memories buffeted him like a frozen hail, every vein turning to ice; dozens of shrieks, screams, cries joined the echoes in miserable cacophony. This only lasted a moment; a lifetime of battle (murder) sprung him into action quickly enough.

Kicking off the sheets sticking to his legs, Maglor raced towards the door. He threw on his boots, grabbed his sword, and was dashing through the hall in the blink of an eye. As he careened full tilt through the halls - where did it come from, who was hurt, who was bleeding, who was dying - he heard Maedhros’ door slam open as well. Maglor did not need to check to see if he followed; an instinct forged through years of battle together, he could feel his brother’s presence at his side, knew the nimble footfalls that trailed his.

Another cry sounded from the dark - this one sounding more like a wail, than anything else. Maglor froze. “That sounded like-” he gasped.

“-the twins’ room.” Maedhros confirmed, eyes grim. If anything, Maglor could see him grip his blade tighter. He felt too sick to think on it.

Without another word, they took off. They reached the twins’ door, and with a single glance between them, threw it open. Each held their blade at the ready.

The room was dark, like the rest of the fortress. From what moonlight streamed through the window, Maglor could make out a tiny figure huddled up on one of the beds. The other was empty. As he slowly came closer, he could make out the wide-eyed face of Elrond.

Lowering - but not putting away - his sword, Maglor eased into the gentlest voice he could despite the panic pumping through his veins. “Elrond,” he beckoned. “Sweetheart, where’s Elros? Are you two alright?”

Elrond merely sniffled and rubbed a little fist through his weeping face.

Maglor felt Maedhros pass him. His brother kneeled down in front of Elrond, and lowered his sword to the floor. Maglor knew him well enough to sense that he should not do the same.

“Elrond,” Maedhros said. “You are not in trouble. We’re just worried about you and your brother, and want to make sure you’re safe. Is that alright?”

Shakily, Elrond nodded.

“Okay,” Maedhros continued. “Are you hurt?”

Elrond shook his head. His body was still trembling all over.

“That’s good,” Maedhros said. “Is Elros hurt?”

Elrond burst into a fresh wave of sobs.

Maedhros shot Maglor a panicked glance. Maglor walked up and took his brother’s place by the bed, Maedhros seamlessly rising to his feet to switch out. At this distance, Maglor could see Elrond’s face clearly in the moonlight: ruddy and wet with tears. Maglor’s chest clenched. Elrond raised fearful eyes to meet Maglor’s and - oh. He could hardly bear it. He longed to run away from the bed, away from the proof of their failures, away from the echoes building to a crescendo in his skull. His heart felt sick.

But - no. No.

He cannot run. He must face this, he must face them. And they are more than echoes. They are the two wonderful boys who came into his life, two of the last lights left in it. By Eru, he would see them cherished and cared for, though he did not deserve that privilege with all the wrongs he’s done.

My wrongs do not matter, Maglor chastised himself. Only their wounds.

“Sweetheart,” Maglor murmured. “If Elros is hurt, we want to take care of him. We’ll heal him, whatever may be the problem. I…” He trailed off, before meeting Elrond’s tear-stricken eyes. “I promise.”

Elrond regarded him for a moment. Gradually, his tremors calmed, and he reached a small hand out to grasp Maglor’s, resting on the bedside. “He’s in the dresser.”

Maglor blinked. “The dresser?”

Elrond nodded. “He woke up screaming.”

It was Maedhros, not Maglor, who spoke first. “I see,” Maedhros said. “Thank you for telling us, Elrond.”

Maglor watched his brother walk over to the dresser, and now listening closely he could hear the barest of muffled whimpers come from its direction. He stayed by the bed and squeezed Elrond’s hand.

Maedhros knelt down in front of the dresser. He put down his sword, both brothers’ blades now on the stone floor. “Elros,” he called softly to the wooden doors. “Elros, you are in Amon Ereb. You are safe. You are loved.” He swallowed thickly before continuing in the same steady tone. “You may come out whenever you wish, though I will stay right here if you need me.”

“Is it alright if I talk with you? I’ll stay out here.” Maedhros asked gently.

“...okay,” the dresser answered.

“You know,” Maedhros started. “I used to wake up in the middle of the night all the time too. I still do, sometimes. My dreams scared me so much, and even when I was awake and knew it was all a dream, I was still very upset.” He closed his eyes, breathed once, twice, and continued. “I had someone who helped me calm down, though. For me, even if it didn’t make everything alright again, the help made me feel a lot better.”

“It… it did?” the dresser asked.

“Yes, it did.” Maedhros assured. “I can’t promise it’ll be the same, but if you would like, I can try my best to help.”

There was a beat of silence, before the dresser answered in a small voice, “Okay.”

“Would you like to open the door? It’s okay if you would rather it stay closed.”

The dresser creaked open and a tiny halfelven face, streaked with tears, peeked out the crack. “Only this much,” Elros said, voice uncertain as if he wasn’t sure whether his warning would be heeded. His little fingers shook around their grip on the door.

“Only that much,” Maedhros assented.

“Okay. Good.” Elros muttered. His hand retreated into the dresser.

“Would you like to talk about your dream at all? If you don’t want to, we can talk about something else.”

There was a long pause. Maedhros patiently waited on the floor, while Maglor marveled at his brother’s demeanor. It was like - it was like when Maedhros comforted Tyelko over a scraped knee, or Curufin over a burned finger, but slightly different. Sadder, and yet somehow kinder.

“You’ll get mad,” Elros finally whimpered.

“I won’t judge you, Elros,” Maedhros said. “I won’t be mad at you.”

There was another long pause, long enough that Maglor expected Maedhros to switch angles any moment now, until -

“It was about our home. Ada and Nana’s. There was lots of screaming. A lot of people on the floor. And we were hiding, but they found us, and there was a - a sword at my neck, and Elrond’s too, and Nana jumped, and the sword it - my neck -” Elros broke off, gasping out the words. “Sorry, I don’t - I know you’re good, so why am I so scared?”

Maglor couldn’t help it: even comforting Elrond, who had gone quiet by now, he sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth. Maedhros, too, looked similarly stunned. Eventually, though, his posture relaxed again, though his eyes shone with tears. Raising his left hand, he steadily wiped them away.

“You have every right to feel that way, Elros,” Maedhros told him, voice no less kind. “And it’s perfectly normal. We did an - an unspeakable thing that day, and hurt you two in the process. Though I am -” Maedhros paused, grasping for the right words, “- endeared, that you think well of us, we also did awful things, and that is a part of us too.”

“Though Maglor and I would never want to hurt you, and we will do everything in our power to keep you both safe and happy, you’re allowed to not like us too.” Maedhros rubbed at his stump, absentmindedly smoothing over the sleeve. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“But I don’t,” Elros said softly. “I don’t not like you.” He fell silent for a moment. “I love you,” he confessed, voice barely a whisper. “It’s just that I have these dreams, and I get scared. And sometimes I’m mad.”

“That’s okay too,” Maedhros assured him. “If you ever want to talk to us, we will be right here. And if you - either of you - ever want me and Maglor to go, if you would feel more comfortable if we gave you space, you are more than allowed to ask. We would love you all the same. Even if you need the space because you are angry with us, or upset, that’s okay. We would rather you get what you need instead of trying to hide it.” Maedhros pleaded. “Please don’t hide from us.”

A heavy silence sat in the air. “Would you like us to go, dear?” Maglor asked, finally finding his voice.

The door shot open. A tiny, sniffling elfling jumped out. Elros wrapped his arms firmly around Maedhros, and squeezed as tight as he could. “Please stay,” he begged, voice muffled by Maedhros’ nightshirt.

Maedhros’ eyes softened as he wrapped his arms around Elros. Gently, he smoothed over Elros’ sweat-matted hair with his left hand. “Of course,” he said. “If that is what you want.”

Face still pressed into the nightshirt, Elros nodded.

Maglor turned back to Elrond. “What about you, darling? Anything you want.”

Elrond released his hand. And promptly tackled him with a hug as well. “Can you stay?” He asked. “Can you stay with us for tonight? Even though… I think I might ask to be alone sometimes,” He added.

“That’s perfectly alright, dear,” Maglor said, picking up and placing him on his hip as he rose. “Maedhros, are there any spare blankets?”

“Yes,” Maedhros huffed with a small grin. “If the Dresser Guardian shall let me pass, that is,” he teased. Elros giggled, standing aside. He still held on to Maedhros’ hand.

Maedhros fished out the blankets and laid them on the floor. Soon enough, he and Maglor were nestled in their makeshift beddings alongside the beds, which the twins were tucked into with a murmured “I love you,” and kiss pressed to each of their heads.

Maglor laid on top of his blankets, surrounded once again by nothing but the warm summer air. As he gazed at the moonlight spilling across the ceiling, his eyelids grew heavy, before closing.

All was silent.

#kidnap dads #maglor #maedhros #elrond #elros #silmarillion #writing prompts #jaz-the-bard #my writing #fun fact: i almost wrote ‘or amras with a burned finger’ until i went oh. oh #and changed it msksksksksksmss #im sure curufin got burned practicing his jewelcrafting akskskskwehj

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

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Things That Can and Can’t be Fixed

Sorry I’ve been gone for a while! I was hard at work on some original stuff, and then when I tried to turn back to this, the piece I wanted to write just wasn’t working. So I finally decided to write this instead.

The original plan is for Curufin, Celegorm, and Caranthir to stick together in the attack on Doriath. Celegorm and Curufin work well together, and Caranthir’s much larger forces will bolster their own.

Maedhros concedes all of those points, and then sticks Maglor with Celegorm and Caranthir and keeps Curufin by him. His official reason has something to do with strategy, but Curufin’s pretty sure that Maglor’s snide comment about Nargothrond is far closer to the true.

Curufin grits his teeth and agrees to the plan. As long as the plan works, he doesn’t care how it does.

The plan does not work.

When the battle’s over, he walks into the throne room and sees three of his brothers lying dead on the floor, insufficiently protected by the armor he’d made them.

It is some comfort to see that Dior and Nimloth lie dead too. It’s not enough.

So when Celegorm’s servants confess what has become of two of Luthien’s grandchildren, Curufin snarls and says, “Good.”

He can’t help remembering, though, how a lifetime ago in Aman Celebrimbor had gotten lost in the forest on a hunting trip Celegorm had talked Curufin into. He’d been so young then. So small. He’d been curled up under a tree and weeping when Curufin had finally found him, and then his son’s whole face had lit up like it contained all the light of the Trees combined.

He thinks of his brothers when he says good.

He thinks of his son when he stalks after the furious Maedhros to find them, cursing himself as he goes.

By the time he finds the children, they are far past either weeping or hope.

He thinks of them when two of Caranthir’s old people cautiously present him with the two ash covered elflings they’ve found. He thinks of them, and he thinks of the Ambarussa, the only two of his brothers that he ever got to hold.

His improvements to their armor had still not been enough.

“They’ll make good hostages,” he says shortly and goes off to tell Maedhros. His brother can be the one to handle things from here. Curufin has no patience for dealing with anyone descended from Luthien’s brat.

Maedhros just keeps staring bleakly into the funeral pyres when Curufin tells him. His brother has been fracturing fast since Doriath, and none of the tools Curufin knows how to wield can possibly meld him back together.

That still doesn’t make this Curufin’s problem. Someone else can deal with it.

That’s the line he holds to until their shock wears off and they both start wailing as the remaining forces march away from the city. Curufin waits with growing impatience for someone else to deal with it before finally turning his horse around and riding hard back to the wagon they’re being kept in. The guards look at him helplessly when he arrives. Does no one else know how to deal with children?

He sings them a soothing lullaby to get them to shut up and because despite what their parents probably told them, he’s not a complete monster.

He sings it in Quenya because that’s the tongue he once sang to Celebrimbor in, and because they’re descended from Thingol, and Curufin’s never claimed to be without spite.

If Maglor had lived, he probably would have trained them to sing, but Maglor had never seen Luthien’s power honed into a weapon. The twins can sing well enough on their own; Curufin’s not about to hand hostages a weapon he can’t just as easily take away from them.

Instead, he teaches them how to use the forge.

The one he has in their last remaining fortress is small and poorly supplied, but he makes do. More and better weapons are always needed, as is more and better armor. Making new things is difficult with the limited materials, but there’s always room to improve the old.

Maedhros’s armor is the best it’s ever been.

Teaching them brings back unwelcome memories of times long gone. Of his own father teaching him how to create wonders. Of in his own turn teaching his son.

His son who now hates him. He hast at least that advantage when dealing with these children: They already hate him, so he can hardly make that relationship worse.

He continues with that assumption until he sees Elros practically glow when he grudgingly praises his latest effort.

Apparently, with Maedhros still all but ignoring them, they’ve latched onto him like magnets to iron.

Curufin doesn’t want Luthien’s third generation brats to latch onto him. He wants his own family back.

But this is what he has, and he has to admit, if only to himself, that it’s nice to hear small feet moving through the workshop again.

He manages to find enough scrap metal to melt down to make them their own armor and finds ways to adjust it as they grow.

When Maedhros decrees that the children are to be sent to Gil-Galad, Curufin considers arguing with him, but Maedhros has turned into too brittle a metal to be worked with, and his brother’s faith in him is fragile enough without him seeming to challenge the elder’s power.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, and tries to convince himself of it as he brings down his hammer again and again.

Their armor has to be perfect before they leave.

The night before they go, Elrond lingers in the forge and asks him, “If we see Celebrimbor, should we tell him - “

“Tell him anything you like,” Curufin interrupts. “I don’t care.”

Or, rather, Celebrimbor wouldn’t.

His father’s work burns his hand, and Curufin doesn’t care. Fire and his father are inextricably bound together. Of course it burns. Curufin had often been burned as he learned his father’s craft until he mastered it at last. Devouring heat is just one last opportunity to learn.

Maedhros sees things differently.

Maedhros -

The armor was never built to withstand that kind of fall.

He rounds up what followers they have left and finds them a place deep in woods he’s never walked before. They build again, one last time, a small place, but one he thinks they can hold.

The Silmaril he sets on the wall of his workshop, never minding the light’s faint burn.

News comes slowly to them and late.

By the time he hears of Elros’s choice, there is nothing he can do. No metal made by even his hands can save a mortal from age.

By the time he hears of Celebrimbor, it’s probably too late too, but he and all his people ride out anyway.

The city is just visible in the distance when for the first time in an Age, his son’s mind reaches out and touches his own.

Celebrimbor doesn’t speak.

He screams.

When the agony, far beyond any lullaby’s ability to soothe away , ends at last, there is a finality to it that there has never been before.

Curufin turns his horse, but not for home.

Gil-Galad dislikes wearing two of Celebrimbor’s rings at once. The power tugs at him in ways that feel dangerous, so instead he keeps one locked in his desk.

He regrets that choice when he walks into his study to see an elf examining it. He regrets it more when the elf looks up and he realizes who it is.

“Curufin Feanorian.”

The last of Feanor’s line ignores him. “I see how he did it now,” he says softly, probably to himself. “Very clever, Tyelpe. But I think I may yet be able to do you one better if Atar’s work allows.”

“What are you doing?” Gil-Galad demands, and this time Curufin answers.

“Studying the workmanship,” he says, and his voice turns dark with rage. “If it’s rings Sauron wants, then rings he will have. If it takes every drop of my fea and breaking the Silmaril itself, I will make such rings as to make him regret ever having heard of a forge.”

Looking at the light like dragon flame in his eyes, Gil-Galad believes him.

#curufin #alternate universe #canon divergence #silmarillion #celebrimbor #elrond #elros #maedhros #gil-galad #character death #fic #in which curufin's love language is better armor

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jane-ways · 6 years

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The Love of Small Things, Chapter Three

In which Maglor is his mother’s son; or, the difference between kindness and weakness, justice and prudence.

A point of clarification: in my headcanon, I see Maedhros and Maglor essentially co-adopting the boys—or at least, that’s how it works out in the end, trepidation on both the twins’ and Maedhros’s part being eventually overcome. I think Elrond was perhaps closer to Maglor, and so calls him “Ada,” the Sindarin diminutive for father (like “Dad” or “Papa”), whereas Maedhros he calls “Atar,” the Quenya for the more formal “Father.” It’s reflective of his relationship with each, but it’s also a simple way to distinguish between the two.

Read it on SWG and AO3!

—And all I get is an, “Oh, by the way?” Really, brother? What did you expect the poor lad to do, casually drop it into conversation—"Oh yes, Ada, I did very much enjoy that book you lent me, oh and by the way, Atar has adopted the High King, who, by the way, is actually one of Dior’s sons, whom Atar saved and never told you about, just so you know?” Ilúvatar above, Maedhros, I’m happy for you—beyond happy! overjoyed! bursting with emotion! I have a new nephew!—but you might have written me and saved your poor son the trouble.

As it so happened, Elrond and Gil-galad had come to see Maglor together. A hesitant knock, followed by an, “Ada? Are you busy just now?” had preceded what Maglor considered possibly the most awkward encounter of his life—certainly, of this age. They had all sat together in the small area he kept for visitors, discomfort radiating off Elrond and Gil-galad as though they were small children caught in the act of something they weren’t supposed to be doing. There had been much “um”ing and “uhh”ing, much fidgeting, much hedging—but very little coherent speech. Maglor had always thought Elrond tended towards silence when nervous, and that day his son had sat unnaturally straight, tugging at his sleeves and studiously avoiding eye contact. Gil-galad, usually unruffled even in the most trying of circumstances, had seemed utterly lost, starting and stopping and starting over in the search for the right words. Finally, in desperation, Elrond had all but thrown a letter at him, hurriedly making an excuse for why they had to be off, before the two of them flew out of Maglor’s room in a most undignified manner.

Maglor smiled to himself as he turned the memories over in his mind. ‘No matter how old you are, your parents can still make you feel like a naughty child,’ he thought to himself. He was a son of Fëanor and Nerdanel; he knew that feeling well. He thought of his mother, then, and tried to imagine her reaction to all this. Not unlike his own, he ventured to guess. Unimaginable joy and unfathomable rage, neither tempering the other but swirling together like oil and vinegar, an emotion with a unique flavor Maglor couldn’t quite name. He was unsure if he cared for the taste of it.

Brother, I am not upset by the action itself—I think, all things considered, it was not unwise to remove the boy in haste and secrecy—but it is beyond my comprehension why you did not think at least to tell me. Surely you did not think me capable of such barbarism, to make war on a child? Or such indiscretion as to let slip the truth and send soldiers running in pursuit?

Maglor paused, his breathing quick and shallow. Putting words to paper had helped steady his emotions—it always did, the physical movement and linear nature of writing forcing a distillation of the roiling feelings within. As he sat with his thoughts, a new one rose to the surface—

—No, worse; once you made up your mind—I will spare you the “without consulting me,” for I would have agreed with you in that instance—you thought if you told me, I would be imprudent enough to insist on keeping him for the sake of morality, unnecessarily endangering a child who had already had one attempt on his life.

You shock me, brother. I thought of all people, you were among the few who had never mistaken my kindness for weakness.

Maglor thought then of Sirion aflame and two small, scared faces, their fear mirrored for the briefest moment in Maedhros’s. He had wondered about that, thinking, perhaps, that in that flicker of distress across his brother’s face, he was witnessing a moment of regret, acknowledging the horror of what they had become. Maglor’s kindness had not been weakness then—but Sirion was not Doriath. In the back of his mind, Maglor repressed the uncomfortable thought that without the hard-learned lesson of Dior’s children, the discovery of Elwing’s sons might have seemed a very different situation to some of his and his brothers’ followers. Elros and Elrond were by blood Gil-galad’s—Eluréd’s—nephews, Maglor remembered dimly.

Maglor realized what he had seen then in his brother’s eyes was not only fear but memory: the anxiety that in reaching out to hold these children, Maedhros would only hurt them; the unspeakable sight of history regurgitating itself in front of him, offering a terrible glimpse of all the possibilities could have been and could come to be. The fear, he realized, had been Maedhros’s own fear of himself, but not in the way he had believed. No, this was worse, this was intimate. Had Maedhros, every time he thought of his sons, thought also of a small boy, lost in the forest?

The anger in Maglor’s stomach cooled to pity. Whatever the circumstances, he had a new nephew—Maglor had the fleeting thought that, speaking of nephews, someone really ought to tell Celebrimbor about all this—and both Gil-galad and Maedhros would need his support in the years that followed.

Picking up his quill again, he continued:

I have often though that kindness is often justice as it is weakness. We are all of us capable of things we never thought we would be capable of, both good and ill. Yes, good, even if history remembers only the ill—for we have sons, and they will remember the good for us.

Now, brother, on the subject of sons, let me tell you of yours—

#the love of small things #maglor #maedhros #elrond #gil-galad #tolkien #tolkien fic #the silmarillion #silmarillion #silm fic #my fic #maglor is a good brother #and a good dad #and a good uncle #he's just good ok

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elvesofnoldor · 5 years

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i do have to say maglor as a character is weirdly inspiring for fanfic/ fan comic ideas cause i literally have, like, three versions of who or what he becomes after supposedly throwing the simarli into the sea and wander the shores for centuries to come

version one: the ghost bound to the shore

(in this version, maglor has faded from grief so much that he essentially became a living ghost. His own guilt over the bad deeds he has committed and allowed, effect of unfulfilled oath aka “everlasting darkness” and doom/curse of Mandos that came with it trapped him on the shore and a state between life and death. it is implied that his dead brothers did not go to the halls of mandos and were drawn to the last living member of the dead house. )

Despite his complicated feelings toward his surrogate father figure, Maglor, he looked for him. And towards the end of second age, Elrond actually found him by the exact spot where he has supposedly thrown the simarli gem into the sea, and Elrond pleaded with him to come back and fight on the behalf of his kins to redeem himself of the crimes he committed. “cleanse your soul of guilt so that you may come home”, Elrond said. Maglor responded with a sad smile and said that it would not be possible. He said that whatever he does, he would not be able to wipe the blood from his hands; he said that he is damned and that eternal exile is the fate of his lot. Elrond didn’t understand him for he has not heard the cursed spoken by Mandos himself, and in much frustration, he left Maglor by the shore.

Then third age came and war of the ring passed, and Elrond knew it was time to go home. He has seen too much, and lost too much, his heart was weary and he only wanted to bring his family home. So he made another effort to search for Maglor, only to find him by the exact spot where he left him ages ago. This time, it was maglor’s singing that led Elrond to him in a seaside cave where maglor made a small home out of. He lit a fire inside the makeshift fireplace, yet the air remains cold and stale inside the cave. Elrond pleaded with him again--this time he pleaded maglor to come home with him to the west. Yet again, maglor said no to his request. “My brothers are here, this is home for me now.” Maglor said. But Elrond is at the end of his patience and he would not have the cryptic response for an answer, so he dragged Maglor by the sleeve in an attempt to get him to come with. Frightened, maglor cried out, “I told you--i CAN’T leave!” then elrond suddenly understood why maglor refused to leave the shores all these centuries, why he always found him in the same spot on the same shore, and why the air is cold and stale inside the cave he “lives” in. Then the fire went out and Maglor tearfully said his goodbye--the final goodbye--to the child that was not his. When Elrond, in great sorrow, finally mastered the strength to turn around and walk out of there, he swears that he saw, at the corner of his eyes, the six other sons of feanor--with blood streaming down their faces--standing in a circle around the poor maglor.

version two: the legend, the “mad witch”, basically inspired by a post i reblogged yesterday

(basically the same idea as above, except that maglor is almost definitely dead--by drowning or completely faded from grief--and has become “as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after” according to the doom of mandos. In this version, elrond never found maglor in his search and this version is supposed to highlight how maglor came to love the twins--to make up for being responsible for their abandonment in the first place, and to take care of their family, even if they are just distant relatives. It was out of his desire to take care of his family and also out of his guilt over what he has done, this should not be rocket science lol. I shouldn’t think it’d be too hard to use your brain cells and understand maglor’s motivation instead of downright demonizing him and think it makes no sense that maglor loved the twins lol like can some of you not understand basic texts?)

The remote towns near the shore all know of an urban legend. Fathers and mothers warned against their children--especially the twins with dark hair--to be wary of the mad witch that led away from their parents. legend has it that a ghost of a tall and slender woman with long raven dark hair haunts the shores in white frayed robe, carrying nothing with her but a lute. She sings in a strange tongue nobody recognizes, and with her beautiful yet sorrowful songs, she is capable of bewitching the hearts of children. They say the mad witch has either killed her own two children or has unintentionally led them to meet their untimely deaths, and after she drowned himself, her spirit is doomed to wander the shores in grief, desperate for her children to be back to her side. Some says they once saw the mad witch by the sea or by rivers and ponds near the sea, and flee at her terrifying and desperate cries as she tries to wash the blood on her hands that she can not wash away. Every once a while, the mad witch would come near the nearest seaside town. There, with her fair songs and even fairer voice, she’d lure to her side a pair of young twins with raven dark hair as black as hers. She would then disappear to raise the children as her own until they come of age, and by then the grown children would, without fail, miraculously re-appear at their parents’ doorsteps--unharmed and healthy yet they can only speak a strange dead tongue which no one knows the origin of, possessing knowledge they should not know of and old tales long forgotten by most and unheard of to mankind. When they were re-taught the modern tongue of men, the now grown children would claim they have no memories of where they have been--saved the sounds of a gentle voice and the many sweet songs it sings.

Men’s Imagination weaved a haunting tale of the mad witch, but nothing about the tale came close to the truth behind it all. While the mad witch is neither witch or woman, the ghost is real and has indeed perished on the very shores it wandered. The name Macalaurë--as the ghost was once called--belonged to an elven prince from a time long gone, he was once known as the greatest singer among the clan of noldor elves. Like his kind, he once bodied the light of the two trees. However, that light died within him a long time ago and his heart was sick and broken by the oath long before he perished. Gentle he may be in spirit, he was not strong-will enough to defy the desire of his brothers, and he was just as lost as all of them. In desperation to fulfill their dreadful oath and avoid the consequences in the breaking of the oath, they have damned all of their souls. Three kinslayings, with the last one being the worst of it all, and Macalaurë had a hand in all of them. He closed his heart to his would be victims and shut out his guilt to do what he thought must be done. Some’d call it cowardice, some’d call weakness, either way his soul is stained and his heart made wary. In the last kinslaying, Macalaurë found two children--a pair of twin from the house of fingolfin, abandoned by their mother. There was blood, so much blood on his armour, his clothes, even in his hair. He watched his brother cut down unarmed elves one by one and worst of all--he helped him. Maedhros was filled with rage as he committed the crime while Macalaurë simply lied to himself as he always does. “It has to be done, they asked for it, we have to fulfill the oath and they should have been smarter than to refuse us that” Macalaurë thought to himself, “they killed our brothers and called upon our oath, so death they shall have to accept.” When both of them came to their senses again--when he came to his senses again--Macalaurë saw two of their kins shivering in fear at the sight of them. Macalaurë thought to himself, no more, no more blood, no more senseless tragedies, and he took them in.

At first they were leverages, bargaining chips, defences against rightful anger from gil-galad. Then they...become his children. Was it because they reminded him so much of the twin brothers he lost? Was it because the guilt of being responsible for their abandonment eat him from the inside? Or was it out of desire to make up for even a fraction of his crimes? Was it the children woke the part of him that longed to be someone’s parent, someone’s guardian? Or maybe it was all of them at once? Either way, the elven prince with a sick heart raised them and loved them--and he still does, and that much he was sure of. There was so much blood and he could not wash them away, and part of him thought maybe in loving the children--he could. Even in death, as he was trapped in a purgatory where time itself bleeds into each other and the past becomes the present and the future at once, he still believed that raising the twins can wash away his sins and regrets. So he repeated the act of redemption, over and over again, even when the twins he raised are never the twins he raised he loved and raised thousands of years ago--it did not matter to him.

Stories are always simpler than the truth, and perhaps it was better that the men of seaside towns know of the ghost...simply as the mad witch who mourned for her lost children.

version three, the happier version: The wandering Bard. only partially inspired by the post i reblogged yesterday

(maglor is alive and relatively well, he’s forsaken his identity and lives as a bard that moves from taverns in one seaside town to taverns in another. in this one, he evaded elrond’s searches for he could not face him at rivendell. this version emphasizes on maglor’s role as a poet and storyteller. in this version, he has written the manuscript he’d later title Silmarillion and he’d given that manuscript to Sam when he encounter the hobbit after he could not find Elrond at a now abandon rivendell )

Later on in the ages of middle earth, the drunks of tavern would speak of a strange young bard with raven dark hair and a pair of eyes darker than the blackest night. Like all bards, he sings of past deeds of kings and princes, lords and ladies; different than other bards, this one sings of events so distant in the past that they become barely believable. He sings of the tragic fates of kings and princes of elven king, and a land in which fae-like beings live among Gods, as well as two mighty trees that shine before there was even sun and moon. “Tall tales of fairies,” the loud mouth patrons’d say, “you make them up just for a laugh, lad, anybody can tell!” The young bard only laughs at the accusation and offers no defence. Sometimes he would amusingly rebut that he is no lad, and when the patrons asks of his age, he’d smile and simply say that he is “old enough.”. The young bard is embodiment of walking contradictions--he is both mischievous and cheerful, yet wistful and weary; his eyes are the windows to a bottomless storm, at the same time, they are the colour of gentle cool summer nights. some says that he is an old soul wearing the face of a youth, little did they know, they weren’t so much further from the truth.

However, only the ones that threaten his well being would be able to see his true identity--the face of an elven prince who has killed in too many battle and a taste of the wrath of elvenkind. Bandits often gamble at the tables and the clever bard’d always manage to win the rounds and takes their coins--even when they are sure that the game is rigged to their favours. So the crude men would ask for their money back, thinking that he was but an unarmed lone traveller who would fall to their knees and gave them all that they are owned and more. They were wrong, of course, when the bard struck a chord on his lute and sent them flying, when he moved like a snake on the ground and evaded their clumsy attacks with ease and used their weapons against them. Dead man tell no tales, or those who can hear what they’d say would be terrify of the strange young bard. But if you hear it from the bard, he’d only say that it’s regrettable business--he shed too much blood and he wishes that he could stop doing so.

The bard fathered no children, and took no wives, but he has taken sindar lovers of many kind through his life. After all, his voice isn’t the only thing that is fair about him. Some were women--mostly those that tend to him at the taverns and steal shy glances at him as he sings his songs, and most were men--mostly rangers and sellswords that pass through the towns for a gig or two. Men were short-lived beings whose hearts are filled with yearn for violent and filthy delights, yet ironically, their simplicity let them forgive him in ways his kins can never do. There once was a sellsword with hairy chest and tanned muscles, who killed men for a living and once helped him to dispatch a gang of bandits. When he told him about his true identity--under the guise of “lie”, of course--the man only laughed, “kinslaying was your greatest crime? if that was the case, I have killed my kins for a living and i don’t see the big deal in that.” The bard does not how to respond to someone who could not even understand his sins, and their ignorance is a bliss and relief to him at the same time. it was not hard to captivate the hearts of men with his beauty, but it was hard when he has to say no to those who wanted more from him than one or few nights of passion. The same sellsword has accompanied him for a while, and when he asked why the man has taken such interest in him, the sellsword simply said that he wish to protect him. Maglor is no wise prince but even he could tell that the man wanted to be with him, that the man has fallen in love. “you life is too finite to waste on someone like me,” Maglor had told him. “your life isn’t?” The man threw the statement back at him and it ached Maglor that he could not tell him the truth.

#yolanda talks #god if i dont draw a maglor + ghost theme comic before the end of the mouth for inkotoper then i will just have to perish

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