#elwing dioriel

[ladyofthestarlight]

Headcanon! What if Maedhros and Maglor found Elwing instead of E&E

She has a silmaril, but Maedhros is already regretful of the battle and her family’s deaths so he spares her and takes her (kidnaps). Found family and enemies to friends to family to enemies! They become like a dad and a daughter but Elwing holds a deep hatred for him. “You’re my father but you killed my father so i hate you”.

-my art

#my art #art #silmarillion #silm #fanart #tolkien #the silmarillion #Elwing #maedhros #maglor #Doriath #headcanon #maitimo #nelyafinwe #Elwing dioriel #second kinslaying #maedhros angst #maedhros art #Maglor art #elwing and Maedhros

[aniseandspearmint]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Maglor, Maglor & Sons of Fëanor (Tolkien), Finrod Felagund & Maglor, Eärendil/Elwing (Tolkien) Characters: Maglor (Tolkien), Elrond Peredhel, Sons of Fëanor, Finrod Felagund, Olwë (Tolkien), Finarfin (Tolkien), Elwing (Tolkien), Sam Gamgee Additional Tags: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crablor, Court Transcript, Fourth Age of Arda (Tolkien), Fluff Summary:

Maglor Fëanorion has returned to Valinor to be put on trial for his many crimes. Unfortunately for the judge, he is a crab.

#fic recs #this is FANTASTIC #the silmarillion #crablor #maglor feanorion #elrond peredhel #olwe #arafinwe #finarfin #samwise gamgee #elwing dioriel #maedhros feanorion #finrod felagund

[thepinkseat-askthemoonbunny]

Headcanon: Earendil wears those pirate/sailor sashes and Elwing made every single one of them (the rose and blue one with swans is his fave)

#elwing #Earendil #seabird #tolkien #jrr tolkien #ardamire #the silmarillion #Earendil the mariner #Elwing dioriel #headcanons #Elrond’s parents

[tanoraqui]

a fascinating, impactful thing about Elrond and Elros’s Choices to be Elf and Man respectively is that no way did they not start out Pretty Fucking Codependent. Since the age of 6, it’s been just the two of them surrounded by kinslayers, and then just the two of them surrounded by Gil-galad’s people and the Host of the West who don’t understand their many, many complicated feelings about the kinslayers. Like their parents before them, they are the only two half-elves alive in the world, completely alone but for each other. And their primary models for healthy relationships are Elwing “I will not let you suffer the wrath of the Valar alone” Dioriel, Eärendil “[I’m exhausted and want to leave but] My wife may Choose for both of us - immortality? Alright, babe” Tuorion, and Maglor “this is a terrible idea but I will not let you take further blood on your hands and Eternal Darkness on your soul alone” Fëanorion. There’s no way for them to have not been Pretty Fucking Codependent!

Yet still, still, for the love of boldness and fortitude and the mystery beyond the edge of the world, Elros chose to be a mortal Man; and for the love of wisdom and grace and the beauty of the world, Elrond chose to be an Elf forever in Arda; and as price, they both accepted that they would be sundered from one another until the end of all known time.

#elrond #elros #[softly but with fervor] i mean FUCK #the silmarillion #lotr #peredhil #obv reasons for choosing are written here for poetry more than character analysis BUT we do VERY MUCH in this house #hold to the idea that neither elrond nor elros chose out of anything like 'well my experience with elves has thus far sucked' #nor even 'i feel in love with someone' #but rather out of understanding eagerness and truly matched temperaments for their respective paths #we also hold that elrond made it like 5 years M A X I M U M in being-built lindon before gil-galad was like 'do you wanna just...go...' #and elrond was like 'YES THANK YOU it's not permanent if i don't go MORE west right?' and immediately built and sailed a boat to numenor #and in general split much of his time between the shores until elros's death and even after (though much less so) #was this supposed to be what they did? [wobbles hand] ehhhh... #was ulmo clearly tacitly endorsing it? yeah #elrond carefully never sailed off the western coast of the island it was fine. he was just visiting

[swanmaids]

heatherrr please write something with the prompt "i hope you die - i hope we both die" hehehehe 😁

The Great Golden Voice is ragged and sore-sounding - as well it might be, Maglor having just used his Song to cut his way through Sirion better than any blade - but it carries over the wind.

"Surrender, Dioriel. Sirion is lost, we have your children. Surrender, and be allowed to live".

The wind howls, buffeting them about the clifftop. Osse's wrath, perhaps, come too late to turn the tide. Elwing staggers backwards, sways, regains her footing, her back against the raging sea. Maglor forces a step towards her, the wind driving against him.

"Hear me, Elwing! Your sons we have taken- for the jewel only we will return them!"

Hear me, he calls, the herald of death and destruction, hear me. There is no way that she could not hear him. We have your children. My children! she thinks. Elrond, still so shy and fearful - he would be terrified. He would cry silently, too afraid to make a sound. If the enemy had not done something to silence him...Elros, braver, may try to comfort him- my children! They have my children!

When she first heard the shouting in the streets, she had pressed a sword into Inweth's hand's and told the nurse to take the twins and run. She imagines Inweth cut down, her insides turned out. Maglor's dented armour is splashed with red. His boots are clad in gore. My children!

In her mind's eye she can see two other little boys. Elured and Elurin were the same age. Where are they now?

The rain lashes down. The blood painting the streets of Sirion will be washed to sea before the sun comes up.

"Surrender, Dioriel!", the bloody minstrel cries once more, advancing.

If they have my children, why will he not bring them before me now?

There is a ripping, tearing sensation in her chest. A scream is building up inside her- if she lets it out, it will never end. It took nine months to bring life to those two perfect little boys- how many seconds did it take for the monsters from her nightmares to snuff it out?

Elwing has been a daughter without a mother. Now she is a mother without children. Now once more she is alone.

All is lost.

All but the jewel, and her.

A ragged sob bursts from her throat. Elwing gasps a breath, then with the last of her strength she spits onto the ground at Maglor's feet.

"May death take us both!", she cries.

She steps backwards into the bitter sea.

#my post #my fic #elwing #peredhil #third kinslaying #userlyndeth #tuserosie

[polutrope]

tagged by @lesbianhaleth, thank you!

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written fewer than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

Finrod leaned back on the dewey bed of clover, arms folded behind his head, and closed his eyes against the rays of Anar piercing the canopy. (x)

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. (x)

The door of the tower swung open, narrowly missing Maglor where he knelt upon the stoop. (x)

These had not been Macalaurë’s plans for Yule, not at all. (x)

Elwë watches the glimmering fires of their two villages across the bay – the Tatalië up in the hills and the Enellië down along the water’s edge. (x)

To the people of Sirion with especial greetings to the Lady Elwing Dioriel and the Lord Gaerdil, Turgon’s heir, from Maedhros Faenorion and his brothers. (x)

The night sky is darker here and the stars shine brighter against its deep indigo. (x)

Sunlight filters through the butterfly’s wings. (x)

Violence was rare in Doriath. (x)

The ship is lifted and released by a sudden swell and so, too, does the bed in the cabin below surge up and down beneath Ingo’s knees. (x)

if you want to play: @melestasflight @ettelene @cuarthol @i-did-not-mean-to @danmeiljie @imakemywings @jouissants @zealouswerewolfcollector and yes anyone else eager to do this. For real. Do it.

#so maglor and/or nature #with a dash of epistolary #unsurprising!

[imakemywings]

Let us taunt old care with a merry air / And sing in the face of ill

Fandom: Tolkien

Pairing: Earendil/Elwing

AN: De-anon from the kink meme for Earendil and Elwing’s developing relationship. Title is from the poem “In Summer" by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

__________________________________________________________          

        In the fall, Elwing is five, and she builds sandcastles in front of a strange ocean with a boy from a city she never saw, that doesn’t exist any longer, which makes them two of a kind. He grows the same way she does, in odd fits and starts, with no one sure where their milestones are supposed to be, or what their futures will look like. They skip through the wet sand and in the daylight forget the memories of burning trees and clashing blades and running, running, running in the joy of warm sunlight on their cheeks and cups of hot cider pressed into their hands by the adults. If his parents hover slightly, she doesn’t notice, any more than she notices the fretful, haunted eyes always watching her.

            In the winter, Elwing is fourteen, and she understands what she has lost. The howl of the inconsolable waves on the shore echoes the raging in her breast for everything that has been stolen from her; the memory of her brothers haunts the corners of her vision and she introduces herself as Dioriel. Eärendil does not begrudge her her wrath or her grief and sits beside her while she trembles as a storm-tossed sail, while she demands answers of ghosts and apparitions who cannot speak. The Silmaril is in a box in her room and there is bitter pleasure in opening it up to stare at the jewel that cost her family everything, and to know the monsters who did this to her will never have it. Eärendil asks her what she remembers of Doriath, and the resentment is so heavy on her tongue she can barely speak when she replies: Nothing.

            In the spring, Elwing is twenty-six, and she is tired of being angry. She takes long walks on the beach with Eärendil and his parents, and she does not begrudge him their company. Idril Celebrindal presses egg tarts into her hands and Tuor Ulmondil regales her with stories of his journey to Gondolin, and when Eärendil lays his head on her shoulder, she puts her arm around him and asks him what he remembers about Gondolin. Eärendil tells her of the splendid fountains, and of his grandfather Turgon, who would lift him up on his balcony to let him see the entirety of the city spread out at his feet, and of the sweet mountain air. While he speaks, she feels his joy, and not her own loss, and that is how she knows she loves him.

            In the summer, Elwing is thirty, and Eärendil wears a hair clasp emblazoned with the symbol of her house, and she can feel the stirring of life below her ribs. The Silmaril is heavy around her neck, but it shines like a star when it catches the light, and in the mornings when Eärendil is home, he gathers her thick dark hair away from her neck to clasp it on for her. Sometimes when he is away, she sleeps with it on, as if feeling the weight of it against her breast somehow keeps him close. They sit on the edge of the pier in front of a peach sky and discuss what they shall call the baby, and Elwing threatens to push Eärendil into the water when he suggests the name of his father’s favorite goat (who now lives in their own yard). The glorious radiance of the time they have together so outshines the pain of their separation that Elwing forgets what it feels like to say goodbye once Eärendil has come back to port.

            In the summer, Elwing is thirty, and she no longer thinks about “going home,” because she has created a new home for herself, and in this, she hopes the phantoms of her past will finally find peace.

#elwing #earendil #earendil x elwing #the silmarillion #tolkien tag #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #rocky writes #the silmarillion kink meme #case and point about g-rated requests on the kink meme #starwing

[fictionkinfessions]

happy father's day, ada!! I miss you so much, and I'm sorry I remember so little of you. I hope fate was kind to you, and the twins. all my love, elwing dioriel (silmarillionfictive, please!)

#fictionkinfessions #silmarillionfictive #elwingdiorielfictive #fictive #mod party cat #fathers day cw #holidays cw

[deadqueernoldor]

A scenario for Ranyatinwë I will never properly write but I could imagine nonetheless

Ranyatinwe barely glanced to her right where she knew Elwing stood, watching the spectacle like so many others.

Spectacle.

Apparently trying to decide what to do about the last child of Fëanor – not yet dead but certainly not willingly returned to Aman – was a social spectacle people needed to watch.

She pursed her lips at the silence. They waited for her answer.

"Yes, I am quite aware that the half-elf had a Silmaril," she said at last. "And still holds it to this day."

Her eyes were focused on Arafinwë, the uncle who'd never bothered to tell people to stop saying his niece would end up like her grandmother Míriel. Dead.

Beside him stood Eönwe, Manwë's herald who'd given her brothers the last chance to repent and stand trial, conveniently forgetting to offer her the same.

Both wore faces akin to masks.

"How could I not? My brother was quite clear on the outcome of the charge on Sirion." Her lips curled into a cold smile. "I do hope that Elwing and Eärendil enjoy the stolen heirloom of my family."

She turned to look at Elwing for the first time in her life. The smile was cold as a blade encrusted with blood and fury and repulsion. "You have that, and I have the memories of raising Elrond and Elros. That day you had the choice between being a good ruler and a good mother, and without me even having to try, you cast away both."

She laughed, cold and fey. "You may have thought you won, but in the end, I walked out with two treasures while you had only one. Indeed I hope the Silmaril was worth it, Dioriel."

#ocs that i play with like barbies #i mean i have yet to find a timeline where tinwe goes to aman again and what thay would cause #but if she were to stand trial no doubt she would rub it in elwings face shes just the kind of person who'd do that #tolkien #writing #listen mutuals give me so many ideas i cant possibly write chapters for all

[ao3feed-tolkien]

Friendship and Stern Demand

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/4bmMQ7Y

by polutropos

The letters exchanged between Maedhros Fëanorion and Elwing Dioriel, c. FA 534-537.

Words: 1868, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Elwing (Tolkien), Maedhros | Maitimo

Relationships: Elwing & Maedhros | Maitimo

Additional Tags: Epistolary, Letters, Politics, Canon Compliant, Sirion, Third Kinslaying (Tolkien)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/4bmMQ7Y

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Tolkien #JRR Tolkien #Tolkien works #ao3 #fan fiction

[mothdalf]

Inktober day 26: “Now boys, you run and you hide. Stay together and stay quiet. Don’t come out until I come to find you.”

#my art #tolkien #the silmarillion #noldor #first age antics #inktober #third kinslaying #elwing dioriel #Elrond #Elros #inktober day 26 #inktober hide #day 26 hide #inktober 2020

[ladyofthestarlight]

The Brightest Jewel of the Forest

Back again with the “Maedhros finds Elwing” headcannon :)

#Elwing #maedhros #Tolkien #lotr #escala #silmarillion #my art #art #silm #fanart #the silmarillion #son of feanor #nelyafinwe #maitimo #dioriel

[ceescedasticity]

Not a proper full fic

Elwing's Fourteen The Company of Elwing, or;

Desperate-Cornered-Queens-Falling-In-the-Sea Solidarity, or;

A True Tale of the Last Days of Númenor, as Never Recorded In Official Chronicles, Because While Some of the Valar Were Definitely Looking the Other Way or Even Aiding And Abetting, No One Thinks It Was All of Them, So the Truth Might Get Some People in Potentially a Lot of Trouble

Prologue: The Regrets of Elwing Dioriel

Elwing is not the first to admit she wasn't a good mother, because if she says it in almost anyone's hearing they hasten to assure her that of course she wasn't a bad mother (so they're ignorant, deluding themselves, or lying) or else that all things considered she shouldn't blame herself for it (which while possibly true is almost never the point). But she knows. She's known it almost all along -- of course childbirth and screaming babies would wear on anyone, but a few months in she looked at the peacefully sleeping twins and thought not "I am not alone" but "I wonder how they're going to die, and will I have to see it", and she knew she had made a mistake.

She tried very hard never to let on to the children that she regretted them. Or most of the other things she was feeling. To all appearances she was successful at concealing everything from everyone else around her, but especially in hindsight she thinks they might have just been willfully not noticing.

Eärendil had barely been there, barely knew the children, but that just meant he could look at them from Vingilot with pride and wistful hopes of meeting man to man someday, without any of Elwing's baggage. She willingly listened to his excited recounting of stories he'd heard and glimpses he'd stolen, and she smiled to see him happy and encouraged his schemes to meet Elros on the ocean once or twice, but her heart was numb. She sent no messages to Númenor herself.

(When she wouldn't let anyone other than Eärendil discuss the twins in her hearing, her people whispered that she was angered and grieved by the sons of Fëanor stealing their love. She did not correct them. Sometimes those who were not her people whispered that she was so withdrawn because she resented the passing of the Silmaril to Eärendil. She did not correct them either.)

Eventually the Silmaril became only a star and Vingilot's running lamp, not a horrible bright shadow over her mind. Eventually her own parents returned from Mandos, and she no longer had to stand as queen. Eventually she was able to speak honestly of the Havens of Sirion, and drain out all the ugly feelings that had been pooling long before blood was shed there.

Eventually she finds room in her heart for her sons, and long shame at how she failed them turns to a wish to make it up to them.

She's sure Elrond will come to Aman eventually -- hopefully he'll sail, but even if he comes by the short way she'll see him someday, and can ask what she can give him.

But she's taken too long, for Elros. He's gone. And his grandchildren and great-grandchildren seem to be doing splendidly on their own, and she always used to make Men uncomfortable, the rare occasions she met them; so perhaps she should let well enough alone.

[smash cut]

~~TWO THOUSAND YEARS LATER...~~

(AO3)

#other fic #tolkien #again i fail at not writing things #i am very sorry #sort of #elwings 14

[thepinkseat-askthemoonbunny]

Headcanon: Earendil wears those pirate/sailor sashes and Elwing made every single one of them (the rose and blue one with swans is his fave)

#elwing #Earendil #seabird #tolkien #jrr tolkien #ardamire #the silmarillion #Earendil the mariner #Elwing dioriel #headcanons #Elrond’s parents

[ardafashion]

A late-First Age Sindarin gown, typical of what was worn in the Havens of Sirion by Elwing Dioriel.

(Lilly Ibrahim F/W 18/19)

#fashion #arda fashion #silmarillion fashion #Elwing #First Age #Sindarin

[rise-above-the-grave]

vi: hellfire

Day 6 of my 30 Day Tolkien Challenge. The song is Hellfire by Barns Courtney.

Hellfire, hellfire Take my soul I'm waiting, waiting I'm ready to go

Mothers, children Lock your doors I'm waiting I'm ready to go

Burn in an alleyway Through a dead end street Murdering promises that I just can't keep

The streets ran red with blood.

The dead were everywhere: littering the streets, filling the gutters, lining the alleys. Men, women, and children alike—some few armed with spears or short swords, most of them dressed in sleep clothes and hastily donned boots and cloaks—lay hacked to pieces, arms and heads severed from their bodies, entrails spilled onto the cobblestones, throats gaping smiles of blood and bone.

Fire crawled up the edges of Maedhros’s vision, claiming building and air alike with demanding fingers and a vicious roar. Faint and dying screams of pain, of desperation, of the dead, echoed through the night, reaching for the stars and Ithil’s waning light. The smell of offal and fear permeated the fire-kissed heat, heady and heavy enough to coat the tongue and drench the throat.

Maedhros stalked between the firelit shadows, naked blade gleaming in the ruddy light and dripping scarlet wounds. His face was smeared with more blood, his hand dripping with it; the hems of his pants were drenched, his breastplate splattered. He was a vision of fire and death, his long, fiery hair hanging loose around his shoulders, the firelight accenting the furrows carved into his face and neck.

A shadow detached itself from an alleyway and approached at a smooth walk. He was darkness, he was night—black armor cloaked in black, with dark hair and glittering, silver eyes like stars. He was doom, Maedhros thought—he was death incarnate.

Maglor.

“Greetings, brother,” said the youngest remaining son of Fёanor. Amrod lay in a pool of his own blood on the docks, pierced a dozen times over by the swords of the city’s defendants, who Maedhros had slain in hatred and vengeance a moment after. Their bodies lay hewn in the waters of the sea, bobbing up and down with each undulation, their blood turning the waves crimson.

“Greetins,” said Maedhros. He stared around himself: at the fire, at the blood, at the death. A child lay at his feet, and it took a moment for him to realize he was treading on a stained, stuffed bear that the girl had undoubtedly been holding when she was murdered. His hand trembled—and then steadied.

They invited this upon themselves, he told himself, and looked once more at Maglor.

“The city is ours,” said Maglor. “Now all that remains is the Lord and Lady of the city’s house, which yet stands defended.”

“Then we go and breach their gates,” said Maedhros.

They found a pitched battle raging when they arrived at Lord Eärendil’s and Lady Elwing’s house. The lord and lady’s personal guards were fighting the Fёanorians with savage desperation at the gates and in the street, even as more and more of Maedhros’s and Maglor’s men arrived to aid their comrades. The fighting swelled, the clangor of metal against metal ringing through the fire and night, the shouts of the wounded and the shrieks of the dying punctuating the distant groan of buildings collapsing.

They joined the battle, throwing themselves onto the nearest Sinda guard with furious battle cries. The Sinda fell with head cloven in by a mighty swing of Maedhros’s sword, surprise and fear alike etched onto his face. Then the two brothers moved on, circling each other like flame and shadow, dealing death and damnation wherever they paused.

Then, abruptly, there was silence. The last of the guards lay dead in the center of the gate. It looked as if he had been trying to close the gates against the Fёanorians—though that would have only held them for so long.

Leading the way, Maedhros stepped over the guard’s corpse and into the courtyard beyond. It was eerily silent and absent of death, save for the curled, brown stalks of plants that had already died at autumn’s touch. His boots echoing on the flagstones, he crossed to the front doors, and pushed them open.

A flash of silver and a blaze of light caught Maedhros’s eye. He hurried forward, just in time to catch a woman’s voice cry, high and shrill, “Take your brother and hide!” And then more movement, and before Maedhros could even comprehend what his feet were doing, he was racing forward after the fleeing shadow of silver and light. Down a corridor, around a corner, through the kitchens, then out a side door and into the night once more he followed the shadow, a blast of cool, nearly-winter air striking his blood-stained cheeks.

“Halt!” he cried, leaping forward in a savage burst of speed. But the woman—Maedhros was certain it was an Elf-woman, by the slightness of her figure and the swiftness of her feet—ran faster still, dodging ahead of him down the garden path and then through a side gate and onto the cliffside beyond.

Behind him, Maedhros could feel more than hear Maglor following. His brother had always been nearly-silent when he ran, even armored—and all the more as the years of their Curse and Oath had eaten away at their sanity and nobility. Now he was as much shadow as he was Elf, as much death as he was alive.

“Halt!” Maedhros called again as he reached the gate and exploded onto the grassy clifftop beyond. He angled his footsteps to one side and sprinted forward, opening his stride on the open and straight ground. Behind him Maglor came on, blade drawn and dripping, ready to follow his elder brother’s lead.

The woman turned and fled the other way, Maedhros cutting off her first attempt at escape. But Maglor was there in an instant, hemming her in on the other side, pushing her toward the cliff and no escape.

Still she ran, this time straight for the edge of the sea. She slid to a halt—and turned, and Elwing Dioriel stared at them with hatred in her eyes and the Silmaril in her hand.

“Come no further,” she snarled, and her voice was far from the kind woman all the tales said she was. Her voice was that of a she-wolf cornered. “Come no further, or I will throw the Silmaril into the sea for it to be lost forever.”

“You do that,” Maglor said coldly, “and we will slay you where you stand.”

“No,” said Maedhros. “I think not, brother. I think that, if she does that, we should make her suffer for her crime first.”

Maglor turned and looked at his brother. “Oh?” he asked.

“We will find your sons,” said Maedhros, “I understand you have two, and we shall slay them in front of you—and only then, once you have screamed in your loss and your sorrow, will we take your life.”

“You would murder innocent babes?” Elwing asked, stricken.

Maedhros smiled cruelly. “You ask that as if we have not already, this very night. Now hand us the Silmaril, and we will allow you to go free.”

“You will not,” said Elwing. “I know you will not. You are murderers and thieves, Kinslayers and without honor. I have no proof that you will not kill me—or my sons—for trying to keep the Silmaril from you in the first place.”

“You have nothing but our word.”

“Your word means nothing.”

“Then what will you do, o Elwing the Fair?” Maedhros asked.

Elwing smiled, and took a step back. “I remove myself from the equation,” she said. “I take myself from the picture, in the hopes that you will find pity in your hearts for my sons, and my people, and leave those of us who remain alive. I die, so that you may not kill me—or my children.”

“What—” Maedhros began, even as Maglor shouted, “No!” and lunged forward.

But they were too late. Elwing took one last step back, away from them, and then turned and flung herself from the edge of the cliff.

She fell, fell, fell, her body crashing toward the waves and rocks below. Maedhros ran forward in a futile attempt to grab her, to pull her back, to snatch the Silmaril from her hand. He reached the edge of the cliff—and there, rising up from the waves, was a large, white bird, the holy gem they had so ardently sought bound to its breast.

They watched the bird fly away from them, disappearing into the darkness of the seaward horizon. Then, slowly, Maglor turned to Maedhros and whispered, “What have we done?”

#maedhros #maglor #elwing #sirion #third kinslaying #silmarillion #the silmarillion #30 day tolkien challenge #tw: graphic violence #tw: gore