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polutrope · 11 months

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maglor, daeron, and 11! (romantic or platonic)

Hey, I finally managed to write some humour-fluff with one of these prompts!

Post-canon Aman, Daeron/Maglor featuring Fëanor, with a special guest appearance by Nerdanel. 2.7k words (!!). Rated T. On AO3.

For the prompt "because he is the son of his father".

* * *

To Canafinwë Macalaurë (Maglor), esteemed colleague, from Daeron, chief minstrel of the Eldar and loremaster of Alqualondë, greetings.

Let me begin by expressing my regret that I have not attempted to reach you sooner. My time has been so full since coming to the Blessed Realm, you would not believe! There is simply so much to discover here, so many extraordinary people to meet, so much to learn. But I have been primarily occupied with gathering the lore and wisdom of my people—I still cannot comprehend how the Teleri of Aman kept no written records for five ages.

I have recently returned from a journey to the Telerin fisher villages along the northern coast where some of the more reclusive of my folk reside, and it brought you to mind. Have you been? I think you would like it. Though perhaps you are quite sick of the sea, I do not know.

In any event, I would say that we two are long overdue for a visit. Do not worry—I will come to you. I have been meaning to make the journey to the country around Formenos and this is an excellent excuse. So, it is likely that I will already be on my way (on foot, as usual) by the time you receive this letter, but I thought it would be rude to show up unannounced. I do not wish to intrude on the privacy of your family, especially at this time.

I will be staying at the inn in the village and will send a messenger when I’ve arrived. I look forward to seeing you there.

For the third time that afternoon, Maglor flipped the parchment face down and dragged a thumb along his jawline.

“What is so strange about it?” asked Nerdanel. “You have a great deal in common. Minstrelsy. Arrogance. Legendary self-pity.”

Maglor glared. Without averting her gaze from the vase taking shape on her pottery wheel, Nerdanel smiled smugly. Then, twisting up her features, she asked, “But what did he mean by that bit about ‘especially at this time’?”

“I assume he means Father’s return.”

It had been over a year since Námo had dismissed Fëanor without the slightest fanfare or warning, not even to his family; but it had been done so quietly that others were only beginning to hear of it. Fëanor, who was greatly enjoying being alive again and did not wish to have any drama spoil it, was keeping his existence as private as possible.

Nerdanel bit her lower lip. “I suppose that’s considerate of him.” She sighed. “I am surprised you have not corresponded at all before this. How long since he sailed to Aman?”

“I have no idea,” said Maglor, throwing up his hands. As a matter of fact, it had been one hundred forty-five years and seven months that Maglor had held off on being the first to reach out, but he did not tell his mother this.

“You were acquainted in Beleriand, were you not?”

“Yes,” Maglor hissed impatiently. “We met, once.”

“Only once? Endor is large but I would think in several millennia of wandering you might have run into each other, no?”

Maglor glared, again. ”No. Only once.” Nerdanel gave him that gentle but withering glance every mother everywhere gives when she knows her child is lying to her. “All right,” he admitted. “Yes, we crossed paths a handful of times.”

“I see,” said Nerdanel. “You slept with him.”

“What!” Maglor slammed the desk and whipped his neck round to face her.

“Please, Lauro, you may be thousands of years older than you were when I first learned to recognise the meaning of that blush on the tips of your ears, but it is as obvious as ever.” She flicked her eyes at him again. “You really ought to grow out your hair again. You have such nice hair. Well, did you last part with Daeron on good terms?”

Maglor bit down on the flesh of his cheek. Sneaking off before sunrise was impolite, certainly, but it could have been worse. It also could have been better.

“Neutral terms,” Maglor answered, and sighed. What was the use of discussing it? He could not very well refuse an invitation from the minstrel of the Eldar and loremaster of Alqualondë, and Daeron’s tone made it clear that he knew as much.

It was Maglor’s suggestion that they meet in the morning. To have it over and done with, but also because he was less likely to make a regrettable decision by the light of day.

After glancing longingly over the list of the sparkling wines, Maglor settled on black tea. Daeron ordered the same, and a tray of scones.

“How long until you are allowed back in Eldamar?” asked Daeron, marking the end of meaningless pleasantries and the beginning of awkward unpleasantries.

“What?” said Maglor. Tea sploshed from the spout of the teapot as he set it down. “I am not banned from Eldamar. It is my choice to live here.”

“Oh, my mistake. I suppose I assumed since you made the decision to sail here that you yourself deemed the term of your exile ended.”

Maglor huffed. “I live here because I like living here. Besides, I didn’t—” he started to say. “Never mind.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I chose to sail.”

“So she did find you!” Daeron laughed that bright, musical laugh that had never left Maglor’s memories. It sent a rush of warmth through him, momentarily distracting him from the realisation that—

“Wait. You told her where to find me?”

Daeron winked. “I figured if anyone could force you to board a ship West it was Galadriel. She was right, you know. It’s not really up to us to decide how we ought to atone for our mistakes, is it? Anyway, what was the judgement of the Valar?”

“That my self-imposed exile was more than sufficient punishment and I am forgiven.”

“Hah!” Daeron clapped his hands. “She must have hated that!”

“She did,” Maglor said. “And she hated the subsequent release of the rest of my family even more. She’s convinced that was my doing, and she is not alone.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the rumour. That you sang before Mandos. I never believed it. Not even you could sing a song like that.” At the allusion to Lúthien, Daeron’s eyes clouded like one who is far-off, walking in wistful memories. To Maglor’s surprise and embarrassment, he felt a prickle of jealousy.

“Yes,” said Maglor, “and that is another reason I don’t visit Tirion—let alone the other cities of Eldamar. People do not like me there.”

“The Valar do seem more willing to forgive than our own kind, don’t they? Your father for example! That was a surprise!”

“Mm, yes.” Maglor brushed a few crumbs of scone from the tabletop.

“How is he?” asked Daeron.

“What?”

“The great Curufinwë Fëanaro. How is he since his re-embodiment?”

Exuberant, thought Maglor. Delighting in life, more brilliant than he ever was, inspired, and positively overflowing with the most eloquent and heartfelt apologies.

“He is well.”

“Really? Wonderful news. Will he return to Tirion, do you think?”

“I do not think so, no.” (What Fëanor actually said was, “Oh no! Not this time. This time I am staying well away from it all! With all due respect to our noble kindred, I have no interest in getting myself entangled in that marble-domed, gem-encrusted pit of vipers.”)

“A shame,” said Daeron. “Though I can understand the impulse. It must all be a bit tedious for a brilliant mind like his. I find it a bit tedious myself, but well. My talents were needed in Alqualondë. And then the High Kings approached me about my newest position, and I am sure you of all people understand that one does not simply refuse an invitation to become the official minstrel of the Eldar.”

“No,” said Maglor, swirling his tepid cup of tea. “No, that is not a title someone simply refuses.”

“In any case, I was wondering— Well, I’ve become familiar with his works since coming here— It is difficult not to when half the library of Tirion consists of his works and those building upon them— What a relief none of it was destroyed! It is fortunate that the Noldor value lore and wisdom as highly as they do— I think I would have made a good Noldo, you know— Funny, you would have made a good Teler—”

“Daeron,” Maglor interrupted. “What are you getting at?”

“Sorry.” Daeron knit his excitedly fluttering hands on the table in front of him, then looked into Maglor’s eyes. “I’d like to meet him. Your father.”

The first elf Maglor had courted had been a gorgeous, silver-haired Teler. In addition to being one of the most talented flautists in Alqualondë, Halorniel was charismatic, clever, and had an excellent sense of humour. It was with great pride that he had brought her to dinner with his family for the first time.

It was with burning envy that he had watched her held thrall by his perfect, brilliant, and captivating father through the entire evening. Halorniel was the first, but not the last; just as Maglor was the first, but not the only of his brothers to suffer this indignity.

Maglor had all but forgotten about this consequence of being a son of Fëanor when Fëanor himself was alive and available for comparison. Until Daeron had expressed his enthusiasm to meet Fëanor.

Maglor also realised that, despite setting the early morning date, he had held out hope of reigniting something with Daeron. How foolish, to imagine the loremaster of Alqualondë and chief minstrel of the Eldar had had any interest in him, the Noldor's notorious hermit-bard.

Not even an intellectual or artistic interest, it seemed. Maglor was not sure that Daeron or Fëanor had noticed when he rose and left them together in the sitting room several hours ago, having been left out of the conversation for at least a half-hour before that.

He had spent some time walking in the gardens, and accepted Maedhros’ invitation to help with pruning the grape vines to distract himself. But, incapable of focusing of the task, he kept cutting back too far, and had been somewhat brusquely dismissed. So he found himself back at the house and listening outside the window to the excited exchange of ideas between his father and Daeron.

“It is extraordinary,” said Daeron, “I could find no commonalities, no relation to any other linguistic grouping in Arda. It is almost as though the whole people came from outside.” Daeron laughed. “Which is of course impossible.”

“You think so?” said Fëanor. “I am not so convinced that Arda is the only place in Eä with speaking peoples.”

“What do you mean?” said Daeron, a charming tone of wonder in his voice.

Maglor could practically hear his father’s self-satisfied smile. “I have created an instrument that can allow one to see across great distances in the heavens—well, my grandson invented it, but I have improved upon it—and I have discovered that there are other bodies like to Arda throughout Eä.” He lowered his tone conspiratorially. “I have not told anyone besides Telperinquar, lest the rest of the family think I have gone mad, but I do not believe the Quendi and Atani are the only Children of Ilúvatar. I believe there are many—dozens! hundreds!—of other peoples, with their own cultures and traditions and languages.”

Daeron gasped. “Do you think they know of us?”

“Perhaps,” said Fëanor. “Perhaps. I intend to find out. I am devising a language based on the principles of music, since music is after all the language of Creation and underlies all things, that could be reduced to simple waves of sound capable of travelling across the vast distances required to— Say! You might be just the person to help me!”

Maglor punched the side of the house. They both fell silent.

“Did you hear that?” asked Daeron.

“Yes.” Fëanor paused a moment. “Probably nothing. But what do you think? I know you must be terribly occupied with your various roles, but your expertise would be invaluable.”

Maglor did not hear Daeron’s answer, for he was trudging through the garden, away from the house, with his fists clenched at his sides. When he reached the river, he kicked the bank and let out a petulant cry of frustration.

“So I am going to stay in Formenos!” said Daeron, beaming. “To help your father with a project.”

Maglor grunted and did not look up from his book. “That’s nice.”

“You are not pleased.”

“Very clever observation,” said Maglor, and flipped a page.

Daeron sat down on the bench beside him, his hands folded over his knees. “Hm. Have I offended you?”

This got Maglor to look up. He shut the book. “Yes, actually. You have.”

“How?” Daeron’s thick silver-grey brows beetled over his deep-set black eyes and sharp nose. His pink lips gathered in a little pout.

“You are arrogant, presumptuous, and a shameless abuser of friendship.”

“Abuser of friendship?” asked Daeron. His laughter was disarmingly nervous. “I admit I can be the first two, but what friendship have I abused?”

“Ours!” Maglor cried, and came close to hitting him on the head with his book. “You used me to befriend my father, and now you are—” Maglor gestured helplessly. What? Claiming his father’s attention? Taking Maglor’s place? That sounded absurd, when he actually considered it. “I know what your project is. I heard you. You are going to help him devise a language. A language of music. Hah! It is as if he has forgotten—” Maglor broke off, suddenly aware of the tremor in his voice.

“What!” Daeron seemed genuinely taken aback. “You clearly did not hear all. I told your father you would be better for the task. He’s afraid to ask for your help. He does not think you have forgiven him.”

Maglor felt as if he’d been struck in the chest with a hammer. “Oh.”

“Have you?” asked Daeron.

“What?”

“Forgiven him?"

There was a long pause. Maglor rested his chin in his palm and considered. He had. Or he had thought he had, a long time ago, when it was just him and his musings and the sea, and forgiveness seemed easy. But he’d never expected Fëanor to live again. He’d never expected to see him again, thriving and well. He resented him for it. He resented all of his family, he realised, for the healing he’d never received. The healing of which he’d deprived himself.

“No,” he said at last. “I haven’t.”

“There, you see,” said Daeron, and he took Maglor’s hand. Maglor’s fingers naturally fell into place between his. “I see how it looks that way. That I abused our friendship, as you say. I think I actually used your father’s re-embodiment as an excuse to finally write to you, and to pretend it wasn’t because of you. For that I have deserved your accusation of arrogance—or pride, at least. I did want to meet him, and I am glad I have, but…” Daeron sighed. “I know how it is. To have had no rest. Our situations are obviously different, so I won’t presume,” he looked at Maglor and a smile played at the corners of his lips, “I won’t presume to know what it is like for you, but I think it is much harder to start over when you’ve just kept on living and living without pause. I hoped that coming here would help you. That’s why I told Galadriel where to find you. But I suppose—well, I know now—that it’s not simply a matter of being whisked away on the Straight Road and having all your pain trail behind—mmph!”

The end of Daeron’s sentence was trapped in his throat, for Maglor had grabbed his face in both hands and planted a kiss firmly over his mouth. The utterance of surprise turned to a honeyed whimper of delight as Daeron graciously received the kiss.

Maglor pulled back, smiling. “I’m glad you’re staying." He patted Daeron's pinkened cheek. "Though you may find my father no longer requires your assistance.”

Daeron shrugged. “I think I’ll stay awhile anyway, if that’s all right with you.”

“I’ll allow it,” said Maglor, and kissed him again.

On AO3

I should mention the idea of the 'Telerin fisher villages' comes from this beloved Fingon/Maglor fic by mangacrack.

#maglor #daeron #feanor #daeron x maglor #daemags #prompts #silm phrase prompts #my fic

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sofyawiththelves · 4 months

Video

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Maglor Canafinwë Macalaurë

I’m in love !

#youtube #Maglor

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fabulous-feanorians · 1 year

Text

Let’s settle this once and for all.

Canafinwë or Kanafinwë?

Macalaurë or Makalaurë?

#fight fight fight #which is correct?#it will always be k for me idec #tolkien #silmarillion #lotr #the silmarillion #silm elves #the silm fandom #lord of the rings #maglor

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light-of-the-damned-stars · 1 year

Text

https://ficbook.net/readfic/6544987

The Light of the Damned Stars

Checking everything for the hundredth time, Findekáno started to convince himself that he was right when he had chosen a daytime for the campaign for fortress of Morgoth. What is the possibility for enemies to have adapted to light? Or here, under cover of darkness there wasn’t time difference, was there?

There was rising rage. The son of Ñolofinwë didn’t want to think about Fëanorians badly. However, remembering desperate and ashamed Macalaurë, he couldn’t force himself to calm down. There was chest pain caused by wish to scream curses, to throw stones and everything that came to hand, to grab the sword and… To kill.

Why? Why had those Findekáno loved turned out to be so… So…

The brothers even didn’t agree to go with Nelyafinwë for talks! Were they really scared?!

The prince of the Second House of the Noldor was not able to accept what he had heard and thought about. He saw that mountains were already close enough and that large rocks, behind which it was possible to hide cart and horses, were over. He dismounted, checked equipment and everything in waist bag again, nodded silently to brothers, and ran to crags covered over with darkness.

***

Music became heard at the foot of the cliffs, when Ňoldo had come to the steep slopes to the distance of the arrow’s flight. It was one of theme of Music of the Ainur that sounded, there was no doubt. Findekáno decided he would prefer never to hear that song, but he quickly stopped thinking about it.

“Nelyafinwë, where are you?” — elf answered mentally, becoming confused with the labyrinth of his memories and emotions.

Mountains, mountains, mountains … Darkness…

There was mutilated corpse on the coast and desperate Canafinwë, who had lost hope…

Why, Eru?!

Mountains … they were all the same!

No, they didn’t look alike. They were not similar to one another. It is just music out of the ground that didn’t allow to focus. It created, but it was The Creation in the name of The Destruction! Here, in the bowels of the earth life was born with only one reason. It is to sow death.

Why was everything so?!

“Where are you, Nelyafinwë? Maybe, all in vain. Maybe, you are already dead… No. Morgoth didn’t parade you in order to kill you. He likes to see and to feel suffering of others. But the cursed enemy didn’t consider one fact that I don’t like it!”

Findekáno tried to calm down leaning against the surprisingly warm rock, which had been marked on the map by Macalaurë. The enemies didn’t see him because of disguise. However, time was against him! How long would he run here, along the ridge and search?

But also, to scream was a bad idea.

Having focused, Ňoldo reproduced in his memory the face of Nelyafinwë. There was a flame against the background of darkness. It was burning dead trees near to the royal palace at Alqualondë. Maitimo was looking toward the gateway, which were lost among the elegantly carved columns. At the feet there was riddled shield, on the left there was bloodstained armor. Nelyafinwë took off his helmet one-handed.

“I’m not Fëanáro”, — The words were sounded.

“Yes, Nelyafinwë, you’re not Fëanáro. And you never will be. No one can do it. But you are my brother. And even if you weren’t my relative, it wouldn’t matter! I will not let Morgoth to do that to elves, to ever one of us! Nelyafinwë … Hear me, please!”

Findekáno closed his eyes. If he used Ósanwë, he would betray himself. But spells of music worked differently!

A song sounded in his head, reminding about youth and the first riot against the father suddenly. It was just one of many songs.

Lips whispered the words, and it seemed to Findekáno, that the music of the depth lost her pace.

***

— I vow, — Maitimo hardly whispered, forbidding himself to think about brothers and to choose his words for everything events, which had happened, — to haunt forever… by fire and sword, — elf understood, if he tried to analyze or to justify the brother’s actions, it would get worse. Even if it seemed that it couldn’t get worse. — By my rage… everyone. Be it Vala or…

Collecting bit by bit his remaining forces, the son of Fëanáro tried to forget the terrible memories of Morgoth’s touching his head. These thoughts took him back unwittingly because of mention of enemy.

— Maia, elf, — Maitimo sighed as calmly as he could, — or another creature of Eru…

No, he shouldn’t remember his family! The family… and friends. The former friends...

—That, who already live or will be born… later… great or minor, kind or evil…

Rhythmical screeching of metal inside the mountain lost the beat suddenly. It was like two vortices had met and disrupt the rotations of each other.

Or luine menel ná

I arta laurea,

Calasse ando látina

Ar elen taurea.

Maitimo thought that he did hallucinate the brother’s voice, that even The Oath of Feanor wouldn’t save him from pain and despair, and that, nevertheless, the enemy had broken him down, when indifference of relatives had been all to clearly demonstrated.

“You think, your brothers are like you. You think, they are heroes. You are measuring them by your efforts. You are about to be disappointed, the son of the great Fëanáro Curufinwë. It will be only disappointment and revelation”.

— Who possesses or tries to possess… The Silmarillion, — Maitimo whispered with fear that wind increased. He tried to block the words of the enemy, which turned out to be too true and prophetic, — He will keep it…

Artasse — aldeon

Salquissen lóteo,

Entasse vantar vanime

Celvar ú nóteo.

— …or he will prevent the reconquering of…

Ve tulca minya nárefinda rá

Ar tatya — mundo, quanta henduo,

Nelya — sorno laurea menelya,

Eryar hendu calime úquétime.

— The Shrine of Fëanáro Curufinwë’s family… — Maitimo wanted just to last as long as possible and to not flinch because of bitter cold. Another way, sharp pain shot through his body. Despite, that pain was unavoidable, he wanted that was delayed just a moment later. — May The immortal darkness fall upon me…

Menelde látina

Min elen tintina.

Ta elya ná, a Vanima,

Tennoio elya ná!

Nelyafinwë, feeling the pain in the flesh, gritted his teeth and groaned. He unwittingly listened to simple melody, which was so dear to the heart. It drowned out the song of the fiery depths. There were spasms and cramp of crippled joints. Fëanorian wanted to continue telling The Vow despite the groans. But the charms of the music made him to succumb to them and to continue the song:

I mele — melima…

I faina — air’elen,

Nai tulya elenelya le

Artanna tienen.

***

— Nelyafinwë … You’re alive!

Hearing the answer Findekáno bounced off the rock and rushed to where singing seemed to him.

The peaks of three volcanoes with absolute cheer cliffs drowned in darkness beginning somewhere behind the ridge.

— Nelyafinwë! — the son of Ñolofinwë cried absolutely jumping stones in dirty under the feet and forgetting everything including safety. — Nelyafinwë!

The rising wind brought grey heavy clouds covering the daylight.

— Nelyafinwë! It is me! Findekáno! I will save you!

***

Maitimo looked down shaking with pain and cold. Numb lips pressed together slightly smiled.

— Fingon, — the son of Fëanáro sighed.

And he suddenly understood that willpower, existing all that time and helping to keep himself at the edge, was leaving him. Awareness that HELP was here, that now there was someone near, who wouldn’t leave him, that torments, tortures, and suffering were over, crushed him. There were not anymore reasons and wish in his soul to fight, to resist, to withstand. Path of another’s willpower was disrupted. There were sound of broken glass. It sank into eyes and throat. The last conscious words of Maitimo were a desperate request:

— Kill me, please! I can’t anymore!

He shouted it and then started to convulse and to cry without tears.

***

— That’s not why I’m here! Are you hearing me?! — Findekáno cried out and felt rising angry again. It seemed to the son of Ñolofinwë that he hated absolutely everyone and everything. Ňoldo raised the bow by shaking hands and cried feeling bad: — Not one arrow reaches you! Isn’t it obvious?!

Fingon absolutely didn’t understand how silly he looked like now. He got a closer look to find where he could hook to start rising. He suddenly fixed his eyes on person, who he came to save.

— Eru … How did you let it happen?

Findekáno couldn’t remember when there was last time of his crying. But he was absolutely sure that his tears would turn into nightmare forever.

At that moment the earth slipping away from under his feet. His mind refused to accept things he saw: Maitimo, who the son of Fingolfin knew as bright, strong and neat Ňoldo with a proud posture had turned into crooked and shaking skeleton covered by dust with the nest of grey hair. Findekáno hardly hid his bow, put his hand on the rock gasping for air and started to wipe the teas frantically.

Gust of icy wind hit him. There was groaning hoarse voice, which couldn’t belong to the son of Fëanáro! Maybe, it was really better to kill him?

— No, — Findekáno handled himself, — never! Maitimo must live! Contrary to this nightmare! To spite enemy! To spite all these pathetic cowards, who had betrayed him!

Hand putting on the rock moved toward the ledge. The surface wasn’t such smooth as it seemed!

— Hold on, Nelyafinwë! — The son of Ñolofinwë cried again for some reason. — I will save you!

— No, — wind wheezed, — Kill me. Have mercy on me.

Findekáno throwing hook again and again cursed Morgoth, rock, inability of seeing where he was going, and constantly repeated Nelyafinwë’s prayer to stop his torture. These words took breath away.

— Don’t you dare ask me to do it! — the eldest son of Ñolofinwë could not resist hearing “Kill me” once again. — Hold your tongue! You will be alive, whether you like it or not!

These words, oddly enough, acted. The slope of Thangorodrim became silent.

***

The hook caught something invisible, but it was fixed well. So, Findekáno, having checked was it safe, hiked. Hands and legs hardly found prop; pickaxe cut stone badly. But there were hundred miles of crossing ice, of moving through slippery high blocks, which crumbled because of strikes of metal edge. It trained in a lot of things. In addition, to grab his hands for warm stones was much more comfortable than for ice floes, which tore gloves, burnt

hands, and stuck to the skin.

The hand, feeling stone, fell into a square hole with perfectly smooth edges. However, Findekáno was unable to analyze, what is it. But he didn’t care. It’s like to call a spade a spade. It didn’t matter. There was only one guess: it was suitable to hold on to such “holes”.

Earth moved rather away, the goal became closer and closer. The prince of the Second House understood that he shouldn’t hurry because it was danger of slipping and falling. He dismissed involuntary thoughts that every moment he stood there is eternal time for suffering Nelyafinwë.

“Hold on. It will be over soon”, — the son of Ñolofinwë thought. He didn’t say it out loud to avoid hearing cursed phrase “Kill me” as an answer.

Higher, higher …

“It may be caves above Nelyafinwë, — Ňoldo thought trying to hook blindly again, —Otherwise how did they hang him there?”

Pickaxe was stuck in crack. Fingon hardly pulled it out to move forward. He took a deep breath. Almost got there. Now the main thing was not to fall with person, who he wanted to save.

Maitimo didn’t look his way. The son of Fëanáro was shaking and breathing heavily through clenched teeth. His skin was terribly wrinkled and thinned. It was stretched around his skull, calling which the face – the language didn’t turn.

“Don’t hurry, don’t hurry!” — Findekáno told himself feeling his hand were shaking again.

Fixing the safety rope with the help of something invisible above Maitimo’s head, the son of Ñolofinwë found ground to stand and moved to his brother.

— I’m asking you…, — dry bloody cracked lips said quietly.

Findekáno decided to say nothing. He stood on something, which might be reliable. Then he cuddled up to the rock and picked up the brother under the chest. Ňoldo lifted his brother a little to reduce the pressure on the shoulder. The lean body turned out to be totally relaxed and unable to bear his own weight. It was shaking. The head was tilted back. Exhausted Maitimo cried. It seemed to Fingon that his cousin passed out for a moment, but then regained consciousness immediately.

Cursing his imprudence, the son of Fingolfin still managed to sit his brother on his knee and to put the brother’s head on his hand.

Ňoldo took out a little bottle from his bag. He had to use his teeth to open this bottle. Then he held it to bloody lips.

— No need to…, — the son of Fëanáro sighed, — It is useless.

— Drink it, Nelyafinwë! — Findekáno’s hand faltered. — It will remove the pain.

The empty faded eyes looked at the son of Ñolofinwë. These eyes had nothing of the earlier view. Everything was dead, there was only pain.

— It’s for the pain, Nelyafinwë, — Fingon repeated in a cold sweat of horror.

The dead stare came alive for a moment, barely noticeable echo of gratitude came into the eyes.

When the bottle became empty, the son of Ñolofinwë through it down, took the flask with water and helped his brother to drink until the medicine worked. Maitimo started to fall asleep.

Findekáno saw that the brother’s chest became to move up and down evenly without seizure. The chest was skewed and covered by scars, which were seen even through the layer of black dust. Fingon fastened his brother with two wide safety belts very carefully and covered him by that dirty rag, which was on the bony shoulders. It seemed; it had cloak been before. The prince didn’t touch the left hand, which were sewn to the hip with metal ring, to avoid new torture of the brother. Fingon made sure that the belts were securely fastened. Then he reached for the steel ring, which kept Nelyafinwë’s wrist on the rock.

***

Just from touching the metal Findekáno understood immediately that situation was very bad. It seemed that steel was the part of the arm but not the shackle. To turn the wrist or to break it did not work. It was like cursed metal grew from the bone. The son of Ñolofinwë tried to grab the cuff to unclench it. He felt brother’s hand shaking. The gnarled bony fingers with long fingernails, contrary to logic, were moving a bit, when they were touched accidentally. The veins and cores were seen through the transparent skin. It was terrible sight.

The steel didn’t boil. Findekáno decided to try to pull the ring out of the rock. He started to pull on the shackle. It was useless.

Trying to unclench enchanted metal again, elf felt that Maitimo started to shake: whether medicine stopped to help, or the son of Fingolfin pulled too rapidly and unsettled crippled joints of the brother.

— In the name of… The Creator… — the son of Fëanáro whispered breathing hardly. — Eru … take The Oath… and call upon…

Findekáno pulled on the shackle, and Maitimo groaned constrained.

— As witness of my words… — he said in a hoarse voice by force. — The Lord…

New dash was sharper. The exhausted body was shaken.

— Fingon, — Fëanorian barely audible whispered, — I’m begging, stop. It is useless, see it? — half-dead captive took a deep breath and groaned. — Don’t torture me anymore, please. You are able to kill, I know.

Findekáno knew it too, but he wasn’t going to do it. Not now! He understood that there was no other way out. And he hated himself for failing in unclenching the shackle, hated Morgoth for his violence, hated Nelyafinwë for the prayer for death, hated everyone else for not having helped earlier. And that hate deprived the ability to think clearly. The son of Ñolofinwë took another short belt from the waist bag.

— Fingon, — Maitimo whispered again with groan, — go on. One attack… Please!

“How to make him keep silence?!” — Findekáno exclaimed mentally.

The answer came in an unexpected way, when the horrible music out of the ground was heard louder suddenly.

The son of Fingolfin pulled the brother’s hand very slowly and carefully, and then he started to sing quietly like he lulled the baby:

— Beneath the azure skies,

A golden city lies.

The city gates transparent are

And there’s a brilliant star.

Maitimo stopped talking. The breathing had improved.

— It has a garden, where

Grows grass and flowers there;

And all-around stroll animals

Of unseen beauty fair.

His hand was tightened, and swollen veins became pinched.

— And in those azure skies,

A brilliant star burns there.

It is your star, my angel eyes –

Forever yours, my fair.

Findekáno, continued singing. He very slowly and silently scraped his short sword from his scabbards. It was perfectly sharpened.

One who is loved, does love.

Who shines, must saintly be.

Let way be lit by star above

To garden, that’s for thee.

Swing. Strike. Blood spurted. Maitimo’s hand, getting out unnaturally, dropped. The arm remained in the same place being handcuffed to the rock. Fingers were shaking and then fell slowly.

The son of Fëanáro stood still. He desperately hoped that Nelyafinwë didn’t die. The prince dropped the sword down, checked the safety net subconsciously and started to abseil as fast as he could.

Nelyafinwë groaned. Firstly, it was quietly. But then, former captive of Morgoth started to shake more and more and to cry intermittently with drawing air loudly and convulsively.

— Hold on, Nelyafinwë! — Findekáno’s words sounded like the order to rush into battle. — Hold on! You can do this! You are able to do this!

With no memory how the son of Ñolofinwë had appeared on the ground, he took off the rope and left it to hang on the rock. He ran to the cart as fast as he could, leaving a blood trail. He even didn’ worry about safety already. He could only think of one: to reach the cart, to safe gasping Maitimo, to bandage a stump of the hand, to give the “patient” more the elixirs from pain. And to take him to healers as soon as possible!

***

There were two escorting elves waiting near the big stone. The son of Fingolfin didn’t care about where were others. He cut off the belts, which connected him with his brother. Ňoldo carefully laid crippled passed out elf on the blankets and cried to brethren to go fast. Their faces were contorted in terror at the sight of the son of Fëanáro.

Findekáno sat down near to the herbalist and brother, who being unconscious curved toward the left and whose hand didn’t drop. Ňoldo wiped the dirty off of the brother’s face with wet towel, the fabric clung to the bronze capital inserted under the skin of the head. And then he saw that there was a strange blackness under the Maitimo’s eyes, that forehead and lips were turning blue, and that breathing had become too weak.

“I will not take Nelyafinwë to his brothers, — he felt bitter awareness, — It is too far away”.

— Thirio! — Findekáno cried to the elf, who ruled the cart. — To my father! Faster! Go to the camp of Ñolofinwë!

Notes:

The song “Beneath the azure skies” (Words Anry Volohonsky. Translated from the Russian for singing by ©John Pedio).

Translation into Elvish language — M' Aquillius Arthoron

Art by Håndwerk

Thanks for translation Daru Markelova

#fanfic #silmarillion #elves #the silmarillion #noldor #jrr tolkien #digital illustration #maedhros #fingon

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sauroff · 3 years

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Using Maglor to experiment with SAI2. I told my self that I wouldn’t use too much texture...I lied.

#maglor #Macalaurë #canafinwë #the silmarillion #silmarillion #feanorians #my doodles #that's definitely not a lute

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pyrochilles · 3 years

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Maglor🌊

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artificialentgrove · 6 years

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You always thought that he'd be there, to tell you to hold on.

You never dreamt they would all die, to leave you all alone.

#have a sad maglor #macalaurë #canafinwë #silmarillion #tolkien #elves #inktober #inktober2018

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elesianne · 7 years

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Fëanorian mother-names: Makalaurë (minific)

Here’s the second one in my series of minifics exploring how the Fëanorions got their mother-names.

[Others in the series: Maitimo, Tyelkormo, Carnistir, Atarinkë, the twins.]

UPDATE in April: I’ve posted all of these in edited, slightly improved form on AO3.

Makalaurë

Canafinwë* has to wait a few years longer than Maitimo, for while Nerdanel realises early that his name must have something to do with his very early manifested love and talent for music, she is not certain exactly what the name should be. Simple names like eager singer or beautiful verse sound so prosaic, and that would not be right for her little minstrel.

The right name comes to her the first time his music makes her cry. Canafinwë is giving an impromptu home concert to his parents and his two brothers, his face scrunched up in concentration as he sits at his new harp in the airy, light-filled room that has quickly become known as Cáno's music room. The harp is twice his size and the sight of it should be funny, but the music he creates with his nimble fingers and his strong voice is far from silly.

It is a sad song, the first very sad song Canafinwë's tutor has taught him. The sorrow of it should be incomprehensible for someone as young as Nerdanel and Fëanáro's second son, but somehow he seems to understand it and convey it to his small audience. Even baby Turkafinwë listens quietly for once.

It feels like she can see the music, Nerdanel thinks, strands of gold detaching themselves from the strings of Cáno's harp and twirling in the air, beautiful in their brilliance and sad in their transience, for they fade away just as Nerdanel's eye has begun to follow their twisting trail.

Canafinwë finishes his song and looks to his family for applause, but his face falls when he looks at his mother. He jumps down from his stool and runs to her. 'What is wrong, mother, why are you crying?' he asks, confused and alarmed, and suddenly her little boy again instead of the masterful musician he was just a moment ago. Nerdanel hugs him close.

'Because it was beautiful.' Cáno still looks hesitant. 'Do you remember, I told you a while ago that sometimes beauty makes you smile and sometimes it makes you cry? Well, these are good tears, my little Makalaurë.'

'Makalaurë?' he asks, testing the sound of the name on his tongue. Cleaver of gold. 'Makalaurë', he repeats with a smile.

* I refuse to spell it Kanafinwë because that means 'chicken Finwë' in my native language and it hurts me to type that.

#maglor #canafinwë #makalaurë #nerdanel #silmarillion #tolkien #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion headcanon #elf names #kanafinwë #tolkien meta #fluff #kid fëanorions #series: fëanorion mothernames #my fics #elesianne's fics

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dreamychaos · 6 years

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I have been accosted by a Very Needy Boi

#cats #hes so snuggly and sweet #canafinwë (the cat)#hes very loud thats why we named him that

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tanoraqui · 2 years

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real talk I wasn't going to actually write this, or not tonight at least, but then literally while I was daydreaming it the first lines, spotify dropped this song into my radio for the first time, because I guess spotify reads minds now. It's not 100% right, but obviously I had to write the fic (while listening to the song on loop)

At night, Maglor sang to the Silmaril.

By day, he sang to whatever he wanted - the sea, the sand, the stony cliffs. His own self; his brothers' memories; his brothers', father's, uncle's, countless cousins' ghosts...more often, the ghosts of his kinslain victims, of loyal followers, of should-have-been-protected innocents whom he'd failed... Worst of all, ghosts he hadn't realized he hadn't realized were ghosts yet: little Celebrimbor all grown up; Gil-galad, who'd seemed like a decent king from afar; Elrond with teenage, halfling awkwardness exchanged for the grace of a pure Elf and Elros with the square jaw and broad shoulders of a Man...

Most of all, he sang to passing Men, though he stayed out of sight, What good was a cautionary tale if nobody heard it?

But each night, his gaze was drawn up to the shining star in the West, and so were his songs. This was the last deed the Oath demanded, as its dull burn gnawed on the bare bones of its lonely last remaining prey. Canafinwë he'd been called once, and he watched the last Silmaril impossibly out of reach among the stars and sang until its light seemed to pulse in time with his song.

Exhausted, he sang longing to it - for relief, for respite, for return of the stone, that he and his kin might be saved from the Darkness at the very last. For return of just the kin - just his father, or Maedhros, or just one of the twins. For return to the days when the light was not a single speck out of reach but flowing freely from bright trees, and Canafinwë's songs were bright, gay things that knew nothing of pain. He begged in song.

With his last dregs of fire, he sang fury to it - Is this what we fought for? Is this what they died for, one by one? A distant shining speck; a burn that wouldn't heal; another burn that did heal but he wished it hadn't, from reaching for Maedhros as he fell and catching only burning rock -

Mostly, he sang the Noldolantë to it, as he sang it to everyone and everything else. The song was much expanded now - the Fall of the Noldor had gone on for so very, very long. Its epilogue was a singer on the shore. Sometimes the memories reminded him of something new to add; other times the ghosts did. (Sometimes he thought the ghosts were probably just memories as well, or hallucinations. It didn't really matter.)

Why did it pulse? he wondered in one of his more lucid moments, after a rare meal of a particularly slow rabbit. (He knew simple songs to lure in prey. But he had more important things to sing about.) Curufin's ghost, his companion at the lack-of-fire this anniversary of the fall of Nargothrond, agreed - no, Curufin would never agree that their father's work might have a fault. Celebrimbor? No, Maglor did not want Celebrimbor to have a ghost at his lack of fire. Please no.

He resumed singing as he walked down to the sea to wash the blood from his hands. Metaphorically, he didn't deserve it, but practically, he was far too used to surviving to let himself die of something as petty as an infected burn. If a hallowed burn could even be infected. If it could, it probably would have by now. He washed his hands in the stinging water anyway.

Nargothrond fell today, once upon a time, but Curufin ghost might've been here, so instead he sang of Doriath - the way the darkness under the trees had once been rich with Melian's power, he'd heard. The way it'd just been dark when the Sons of Fëanor fell on Menegroth, and then rich only with the scents of blood and fire...

You had to sing to ghosts (probably ghosts) of their deaths, he'd found, or they'd forget how they'd died and appear even bloodier. Or even more burned, or both or neither - mangled by wolves instead (except for Finrod, for whom that was normal); frozen on the Ice (Elenwë), wasting away from impossible mortal diseases or an orc blade jutting from their chest or turned impossibly dark and mad with a shining, iron-wrought crown of their own...

He sang to his ghosts and to the Silmaril in the sky, even as clouds grew until its light was hidden. Maglor, Oath wrapped around the base of his heart like a dragon around a tree, still knew how to face it.

No, it really is flickering, Fëanor himself whispered a few days later (or a month, or a century). His father frowned. It shouldn't do that. It can't do that. What's wrong?

The sky was perfectly clear. Maglor had slept recently; his eyes were steady and his throat was barely bleeding at all. Fëanor alone had suspected Morgoth's treachery from the start, though not the Darkness that came with it.

The Spider had been banished until the End of Days - had it been so long? Surely it had only been a few hundred years. Surely the world was not all being scrapped and remade already. Elrond had good foresight, would he know...?

Maglor shook his head and began the Noldolantë again from the start. That was his place in the Song, he knew now: not glory but remembrance, lest all their mistakes be made again.

He sang to sea and spirits and the Star above. He sang of cracks in the House of Finwë, how blood on the steps of Formenos seemed to heal them but in truth only drove them deeper. He sang of how the Oath seemed to set them all alight in the Darkness, hope even when the fire swept out to consume Alqualondë. He sang two melodies back and forth, for he'd learned the rest of the story for just this: the storms at sea and the Ice. The first landing, triumphant battle and shining salvation to the beset Moriquendi, and the Ice. He sang of ship-burning fire, shadow and fire, blinding screaming Father! fire, and the Ice.

He sang of treachery and loss and a crown that he'd hated, hated hated hated. He sang of new arrivals and the rising sun, heroic deeds and rescue, relief, so unexpected it was almost another death blow. He sang of cracks patched with joy and of alliance, new-forged swords, Glorious Battle and hesitant peace, fortresses stretching across the northern marches in an unbroken wall from west to east. From steady Barad Eithel to rich Thargelion the watch-fires had gleamed, and in between the singing riders of the plains; cold, dauntless Himring; Aglon Pass where they always had the strongest arms and best-hunted stores -

The watch-fires, Maglor thought suddenly. The watch-fires and the Falathrim naval lantern codes they'd all used, because Círdan's sailors were the only one's who'd consistently talk to everyone. They'd expanded on them (linguists to the last, Father) and used them almost frivolously in the Long Peace, blinking fortress to fortress to ask after orc incursions and storms from the North but also horse trades, new songs from the peaceful south, Orodreth's baby was born! It's a girl, named Finduilas! He hasn't slept in a week!

He kept singing because that was his duty, he knew as deep as the smoldering Oath. Deeper. He was the last one left so he had to keep their memories alive; he had to warn everyone off from doing any of the same things. He coughed up blood but he had been Canafinwë once; he sang to the Silmaril and watched it more intently than ever.

It didn't truly flicker, not like a real star. The others proved that. The variations were so slight that no Man could have seen them, and probably no Elf whose spirit was not bound by fateful Oath to that distant, glorious, never-again-reachable light. But they were regular - though not, he remembered vaguely, night to night. Different nights, different patterns. Most nights it was completely steady.

S H U T U P A B O U T Y O U R F U C K I N G F A M I L Y D R A M A, the Silmaril blinked like a ship's lantern, in the most basic old letter-code. GIVE ME NEWS (OF) [phase] M Y S O N S (two extra, rapid blinks after each letter for emphasis).

Oh, right.

#the silmarillion #maglor #earendil #you too should listen to this song to be clear #my fic #fanfiction #you should probably read the tag ramble after the fic #actually my favorite character in this is earendil #but it's not from his pov bc i'm less interested in his relationship to feanorians and more in how he seems like one of the few people #in middle earth who'd really be happiest rust running off (sailing off) to explore forever #the others are probably finrod and galadriel #in an ideal modern au those 2 would have a yearly brother-sister camping trip and/or exotic vacation to somewhere bizarre #and they'd be so excited to finally have someone eager to join them (instead of various siblings and cousins brought along with #varying degrees of willingness)#oh wait you know what celegorm and maybe aredhel...but their vibes are different. celegorm at least is like. climbing mountains #for the Challenge(TM). ...ok so maybe so is galadriel #finrod and earendil are alone in being chill about this #god i'd read a fic about assorted finweans on camping trips whether they like it or not #this is particularly tangential bu ti shan't apologize bc it's my tags #earendil in this fic is an old man yelling at hte kid playing wonderwall to get off his lawn #he's been doing this morse code for like a century probably #he long since stopped expecting anyone including maglor to notice #but he's kind of bored up there sometimes so

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skyeventide · 3 years

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I posted some time ago these translations of the father-names of the sons of Fëanor in Sindarin (plus Curufin’s mother-name), specifying that I wasn’t the biggest expert. but now! I return to you with the revised and corrected translations, after much help received by people (elaran if you see this thank you) on discord who know way more than I do of the language.

so, here we go again

nelyafinwë > nelfin / neilfin[u] / neliafin[u]. the shortest version drops the diphthong by reverting to the root form √NEL. the derivative might well eliminate it regardless (neljafinwe > neliafinwe > nelifinw > ? nelfin[u])

canafinwë > cónafin / cephin / confin. the formation is caun + fin[u], but there’s no examples of non-clustered n followed by f, nor can the au diphthong remain, so preserving the vowel after n is a way to make it sound nice. cephin / ceffin is what the name would probably become if it followed all phonetic transformations to their final conclusion, though cánafinwë with long á could yield confin as well (rules are debated here).

turcafinwë > turfin / truifin[u]. the great Fëanor vs Fingolfin name-off strikes again, because yes, it’s the same √TURUnK root as turgon. I cannot recall if trunc (S. for “great stake” apparently) + fin could yield trungfin with an acceptable ngf cluster, but truifin is an acceptable transformation and turfin by far the easiest and least headachey.

morifinwë > morfin. incredibly easy, god bless.

atarincë > adarig / adareg, also very easy. there’s an attested cognate from lepincë which is lebig, though there’s more forms that attest -eg, so that is a possible alternative.

pityafinwë > nibefin / niphin / neiphin[u]. going from the alternative Q. name nityafinwë, there’s no known example of the sort of cluster that would result in sindarin interacting with a fricative, so it moves to similar rules as the petty dwarves, S. niben-nog / Q. pitya-nauco. √NIK(W) > NIP (possible ancient telerin variant) may produce niphin / niffin.

telufinwë > telfin / telephin / tel(u/o?)fin. from a primitive elvish √TEL root with al its due transformations.

all these may add -u as a final suffix.

#feanorianweek #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #amras #amrod #quenya

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polutrope · 1 year

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A Gift

a @silmkinkmeme fill for @maedhrosmaglorweek Day 1: Aman

Rating: G | No warnings Words: 900 Relationship: Maedhros & Maglor

Summary: Maglor was born without sight and a unique gift for Song. Maedhros helps him understand his gift; years later, Maglor returns the favour.

Also on AO3

Macalaurë carefully runs his hands over the harp’s frame - a begetting day gift from Grandfather Finwë - and Maitimo watches the movement behind his half-lidded eyes as his brother creates a picture of it in his mind.

How worried they had been when little Canafinwë came into the world sightless. There were rumours of Elves being born without sight in the darkness of Cuiviénen, and there were those who returned blinded from the torments of the Shadow, but never had one been born thus into the bliss of Aman. And how Cáno screamed in fear and cried in pain and shouted in anger! Surely, it was his marring that caused him such distress.

Marring. That is what they called it. Of course Fëanáro’s secondborn was celebrated, loved, accepted – but ever did others watch him nervously and speak to him with pity, as if to a wounded creature and not to a prince of the House of Finwë. Grandfather himself more than any of them. Maitimo wondered if Finwë thought of Míriel when he looked upon his grandson. Feared that from her griefs some thread of Arda Marred had passed into his eldest son’s line. But Maitimo knows Macalaurë is not marred.

A bright scale on the harp returns Maitimo’s attention to his little brother. Macalaurë smiles, plucks out a lilting melody. His child’s fingers dance over the strings with the deftness of a master.

He raises his voice in song, and Maitimo is transported. He is carried from Finwë’s gardens, carried beyond the golden edges of Valinor; he soars above the dark Sea specked with foaming wave caps. Sight subsides, and he hears, all around him, Music. A symphony of viols and organs and pipes gathering around the gentle notes of his brother’s harp, voices raised in harmony with his singing.

So must the World have seemed when the Ainur sang it into being: a blur of light and colour, sight that melts into sound. Sound like water, sound with substance that threatens to overflow the spirit.

When Maitimo finds himself back on the firm ground again, he sways as if he might topple over under the weight of so much sensation.

But Macalaurë’s face has fallen, his brows furrowed. His small hands rest, palms open, at his sides.

“Cáno?” Maitimo says softly, not wanting to frighten him.

Macalaurë doesn’t startle, but he does sniff and wipe his nose on his sleeve.

“Cáno, why are you crying?” Maitimo sits down beside him on the bench and instinctively wraps his arms around his shoulders.

“You saw,” Macalaurë says. “There was nothing! I try to sing a story and it is just sounds. No pictures. I cannot see them, Nelyo!” He balls his hands into fists and strikes his thighs in frustration. “I don’t know how to show you mountains and rivers and birds because I have never seen them. I will never be able to tell stories like Elemmírë or Hyamindë or Elvion.”

“Shh, shh,” Maitimo cradles his brother’s head against his chest. He wants to protest, exclaim in disbelief, tell him he must be mad not to think his unique skill for music a gift – but he has seen how this makes Macalaurë cry even more. Maitimo cannot understand, not really, but remembers being a child and how frightening it was to be marked as extraordinary when all you wanted was to belong. So he holds little Macalaurë and waits for his breaths to settle.

“Cáno,” Maitimo says after a while, when his brother has stilled. “I know it is difficult to believe now, but the stories that you tell with the power of your voice and music will be greater than any bard with ordinary sight could ever imagine. You will be one of the greatest singers to live.”

Macalaurë inhales deeply and stretches an arm around Maitimo’s torso. “Do you think?” he asks.

“I am certain,” says Maitimo.

~ ~ ~

Standing opposite him, Maglor’s hands make their way down the length of Maedhros’ right arm, feeling out the new shape of him. When he comes to the blunted end of his wrist, finally grown over with a thick layer of scarred flesh, his eyes dart furiously behind his lids. He winces.

“Awful, isn’t it?” Maedhros asks.

“No,” Maglor says. “I was just thinking how it must hurt.”

“Not anymore. In fact, I can scarcely feel your hands on it.”

“I don’t mean physical pain, Nelyo,” Maglor scolds. Still holding the end of his arm, he sets his other hand on Maedhros’ chest and tilts his chin up. “It must hurt to be missing something that meant so much to who you were.”

Maedhros swallows the knot in his throat. No matter how many walls he erects around himself, he will always be transparent to Maglor. Well before they left Valinor, Maedhros had perfected the art of swordsmanship. He had set aside all other pursuits to become the warrior his father wanted him to be. Now Fëanor is gone, and Maedhros may as well be gone. What vengeance can a maimed and defenceless son possibly exact for his father’s death?

“Yes,” Maedhros admits. “It hurts.”

Maglor embraces him, presses the side of his face against Maedhros’ heart. “You will wield a sword with your left hand more skillfully than any warrior has ever fought with his right.”

Maedhros huffs, dulling the edges of his grief with wry amusement. “You think so?”

“I am sure of it,” says Maglor.

#maedhros #maglor #my fic #just a little angsty fluff I got inspired to whip up #maedhrosmaglorweek #silmkinkmeme

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