Since in canon hobbits are good at hiding and finding things, and their home is generally considered a paradise to other races for its peace and prosperity, I think it would be a fun little thing if for some reason Maglor ended up just being hidden in the Shire and accepted there despite being Unfortunately Tall and allowed to heal
Like maybe, when the Shire was being settled a group of Hobbits continued westward just to scope out how safe their land would be, and happen upon the shores enjoying the sound of distant singing. They set up camp and unfortunately didn't realize the tide was coming in until it was too late and are all scrambling and crying out for help as one of their party gets washed away to sea.
Maglor, who was nearby but didn't notice these tiny sneaks until the screaming started, rushes up and in a panic and sees what he thinks are a group of children (with pointed ears, he can't see their large feet under the water and sand, and thinks they're Elven) alone and Drowning and thinks "not again" and dives in to save them
Which he does, but he's had 4 thousand years of malnutrition, lack of care for his body and mind, and has his wounded hand that is black and scarred, which he had to use to pull these young ones to shore. Once everyone is saved he collapses to the ground, exhausted and unconscious.
The Hobbits, of course, can't just let their savior stay on the beach like this where he could also drown or be swept off to sea, and they MUST thank him for the life debt, so they carry him to their pony cart and head back to the Shire where they can give him a proper thank you
Maglor is out cold for weeks though, long enough to be brought back to the Shire and situated in one of the guest rooms in the newly built Great Smial of the Took Clan. They clean him, bandage and heal his wounds, put him in some hastily made Tall Folk clothes made out of bedsheets, and wait for him to wake.
When he does, he's in a panic and then confused, for he's never seen hobbits before, and under the fear and dread he's a little amused. All throughout the First and Second ages he's managed to avoid others and has never been kidnapped, yet here he is, at the mercy of folk that look like children.
Some things get lost in translation between Hobbitish, Westeron, and Sindarin, and Maglor thinks that he's now a prisoner to these small people, and the Hobbits think that they are going to care for him and have him be a guest of theirs for as long as he likes. Maglor, who hasnt had great mental health for the past 2 ages, agrees to be their prisoner, for honestly, he believes he deserves it.
So he heals, and once he heals (minus the blackened hand which gets medicated and wrapped and secured under a leather glove which reminds him of his eldest brother and he grieves) they put him to work. Or well, they allow him to help in their gardens, to sing songs of the sun, of joy and family and all things Hobbit. They let him help in the kitchen, where he shares recipes long since lost to the sands of time, and he helps them build a forge and how to do basic metal working, for even if his craft is one of voice and song, he is still his father's son and a Prince of the Noldor- he knows how to use a forge.
And time moves on. They build him his own smial, one that suits his height, and Maglor heals, both in mind and in body, and he goes from not wanting to escape his captors because he deserves enslavement to finding a second family amongst these folk. He gets adopted into the Took Clan, and the Hobbits all affectionately call him "Old Maggie Took" or "Songbird" or if his singing is particularly a little to loud a little too early in the morning "that damned Rooster"
He helped protect the Hobbits, weaving Songs of illusion around their home, fighting Goblins and Orcs off with Bandobras Took, making daggers and leather gear for Belladonna Took as she travels the world, and trying his best to fight off the wolves during the Fell Winter. Not as many Hobbits die to fang and claw that winter, but they did to cold and starvation and sickness.
After Belladonna and her husband died that winter, her young son Bilbo often spent time with him (mostly to escape the well wishers and their looks of pity) and so Maglor taught him things to keep his mind from loss. Taught him Quenya, and Sindarin, all about the Noldor, about Elves and Men of old, what little he knew of Dwarves from Maedhros and Caranthir, and when Bilbo asks in a quite voice, how it feels to be the only one of his family members left
He, and the whole of the Shire really, also play a very fun game of Keep Away with Gandalf whenever he visits, and while he knows Something Is Up with the Shire, he never found out about Maglor (even though he has heard about Maggie Took, and all her apparent namesakes)
While Maglor wasn't there to see Bilbo off on his own adventure he was able to make sure that when he came home it was to a home at all, even if some silverware did go missing. And when he sensed something fowl lingering in Bagend after his return, Maglor just brushed it off as something tainted from a dragon horde (later he weeps for how wrong he was and all the lives lost that he could have prevented if he investigated more)
And when Bilbo goes off to Rivendell, old and grey, all those years later guided by his dwarves, he has a silent, nervous, elven companion with him.
And its not the first or last time Elrond was grateful for the nature of Hobbits, but he wept tears of joy as he hugged his father nonetheless
Forget Me Not
Characters: Etho, Tango, Bdubs by association (no screen time but he might as well be there, he takes up more than enough space ;-;)
Tags: Ow. Yeah that’s about it
“How long have you been here,” Tango asked softly.
Etho made no reply.
“I...I wanted to let you know, it wasn’t me.”
“I know.” Etho’s communicator still lay where it had fallen beside him. He would have seen the death message in chat, Tango knew.
The kill message.
Read it on Ao3
(The Way Back and Déjà Vu are not prerequisites but do connect)
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“You shouldn’t either.”
Tango tucked his hands under his arms against the cold and stared across the muddied courtyard, not willing to move any closer. The man kneeling in the center of the wreckage didn’t look like he was capable of attacking, but, well...after today, he wasn’t going to take any chances.
“I thought this place was abandoned. Thought you’d gone off with the rest of the green names.”
“I did. They sent me back here to get potions.” Etho’s voice was strangely calm, given the circumstances. He was turned away, so Tango couldn’t see his face, but his back moved back and forth slowly, almost like a dance. He seemed to be holding something in his hands.
Cautiously, Tango moved closer. His boots crunched on the snow and frozen blood that lined the hollowed-out remains of their old fortress. Etho showed no signs of noticing him as he came around. He just kept swaying gently back and forth, leaning forward to scoop up a pile of crystalized snow and ice from the ground, then leaning back. Pressing it hard together between his palms and watching as the dry flakes separated and sifted back down through his fingers. Staring for a moment at his hands, left empty, before he started again.
“How long have you been here,” Tango asked softly.
Etho made no reply.
“I...I wanted to let you know, it wasn’t me.”
“I know.” Etho’s communicator still lay where it had fallen beside him. He would have seen the death message in chat, Tango knew. The kill message.
“You saw. It was Grian. I tried to stop him -”
“That’s a lie.” Etho let out a sharp, choked noise, a laugh that barely qualified. “Two lies. You didn’t try to stop him. And it was me.”
Tango opened his mouth, but no words came.
“I sent him to his death. I sent him to kill Lizzie. I told him that to get a life from me he’d have to prove himself, as if he hadn’t already fought a god with me, as if the moment he turned red he didn’t run away just so he wouldn’t have to hurt me…”
“He knew he couldn’t kill you anyway. It was only self-defense.”
“So you’re willing to lie to me, but you won’t let me lie to myself in peace.”
His voice had the tone of bone scraped bare. He picked up another handful of snow.
A long, hollow silence passed. The bitter wind sent spruce needles skittering across the shattered boards of the walkways, slipping between the cracks and bouncing to rest in the churned-up mud from the battle. The sky stretched blank and grey-white overhead, seeming almost too wide without the proud snow towers standing to break it up.
Tango almost told Etho that he wished he’d helped fight the Wither, but he didn’t want to tell another lie. He had only one life to lose, after all, and now more than ever it was clear how little that loss could take. So instead, he just stood, watching his former ally gaze out into the distance with flat, unfocused eyes.
Vaguely, he noticed that Etho wasn’t wearing any armour.
His hand brushed the hilt of his sword...then fell back to his side. Red though he was, any trace of bloodlust had left him the moment he watched Bdubs fall. Yes, he had fired his own shots - it was true that he didn’t try to stop it - but none of them had landed. In retrospect, he told himself that it was more than his bad aim. He told himself that the rage that still pushed through his veins as he shot had been forced, not genuine. He told himself he had never wanted this, so it would hurt less now, now that it was far too late to turn back the clock.
The wind stung his already reddened eyes. He pulled his shield closer to his side, blocking it.
He said the only thing he could say now that wouldn’t be a lie.
At last, Etho looked over to him. Tango was startled to see that his mask was pulled down, and tears flowed freely down his scarred cheeks. It felt wrong to see him without the covering, too much like reading a mind, too much of his soul laid out bare and bloody for whoever cared to look.
“I wish it had been you. If it had been you, I could kill you right now and pretend that made it better, I could -” He punched a fist down into the frozen ground and buried his head in his arms. The sudden movement made Tango flinch.
“He said we could burn the world together.” The words came out muffled and saturated with all the pain that his earlier numbness must have kept at bay. “The world is burning, Tango. Why aren’t we together?”
Tango had no answer. There never truly is.
No answer, but he knew what he had to do. Etho didn’t raise his head as he walked past him, climbing the ruins of the staircase towards what used to be their storage room and bedroom. Tango lifted the door from where it leaned haphazardly against the wall and swung it back on its remaining hinge, blocking out a little of the cold and his sight of the broken figure in the courtyard. He looked around.
Surprisingly, given the number of explosions today, this room had remained largely unscathed. The bed still stood in the corner, and all the chests seemed to be in order. Tango walked over to the crafting table. His heart twisted a little as he moved aside the piles of loose papers cluttering the surface, a “We’re out of regen. Make more?” note from Skizz, a “Left wall trapped, do NOT break the cobble” warning from himself...a “Back soon. - B” that he pretended not to see. He pushed a mug of cold tea out of the way with his arm and -
“Ow!” He hissed in pain as something stung his hand.
A single, wilting wither rose drooped over the lip of the mug. He hadn’t noticed it at first, until one of its thin petals had fallen and grazed his hand, but there it was. Dangerous, deadly, dying. The tea in the battered “Base Buddies” mug already starting to freeze around its stem. This world was simply too cold for it to live. Tango knew that. The person who put it here must have known that, too.
Ignoring the pain, he pulled the rose from the mug and pinched it between his fingers. With the black sap from its stem, he wrote one final note on the back of the “Back soon. - B.” Finally, he dug his blistered fingers into his pocket and wrapped them around the now-targetless piece of magic he’d kept with him this whole time, the only thing he had left to give.
When Etho decides to stand up and continue - as all things must, come death or love or pain in the ever-turning wheel that is life - he will walk to the storage room to get those potions. And he will find a shriveled, fragile little flower, sitting beside a bright green crystal that hums with all the contained rage and fury that he still has buried beneath his grief - and a note that says: “You need this more than I do.”
As a fan of Niki I love her section of Techno’s will.
“Tell Ranboo &Niki that they’re stronger than they know.”
So much of Niki’s story is about what it means to make an impact, what it means to belong. Does making the best choice you can matter if no one knows or cares either way? Does kindness make a difference if people don’t accept it? Does it matter if you fight if you don’t succeed?
Niki frequently feels invisible. It’s why she ultimately left L’manburg, she went there for her best friend and was promised that no one fights alone, where was that promise when she was left standing alone against Schlatt? Even once they reclaimed the country she felt like there was no family for her there, so she left.
Niki struggled to make the choice to join the Syndicate because she wasn’t sure what she wanted, she had unfinished business she wanted to sort out first. The deciding factor was that she wanted a place to belong.
By having Philza pass her this message if he dies, Techno doesn’t only assure her that he sees her, she’s one of the only four people he mentioned by name (aside from pets), he values her friendship, he also makes sure Philza will reach out to her if he’s gone. He makes sure she won’t be left alone and that belonging won’t be gone with him.
And Techno uses these couple of words to tell her how strong she is.
After all those sleepless nights in an uncomfortable, small room in her underground city, surrounded only by her doubts and fearful thoughts, don’t you think that would mean the world?
Now - do not ask me how he acquires it because I do not know. Maybe the hospital staff swap them out every so often or something. But for some reason I have a very clear mental image of Martin, in S4 and the time leading up to it, wearing Jon’s hospital bracelet.
It’s a bit tight - Jon has the skinniest wrists Martin has ever seen, much in contrast to his own, but he’s able to loosen it a little. He doesn’t know what possesses him to pick it up and slip it on, just that he does, and now he carries it with him everywhere. Through the flesh attack and his mother’s funeral, through his initial deal with Peter, in neat nurses handwriting he has Jon’s name encircling his wrist.
Maybe some part of him, the romantic, the poet, draws a connection to soulmates and a name on your sleeve. He probably doesn’t think about it that deeply, as distracted as he is. He’s working for Peter now, he doesn’t have time to think about Jon, can’t think about Jon, because he’s doing this for Jon and that’s why he has to stay away.
Peter never mentions it. When Martin does let his eyes drift to it, almost having forgotten it’s there, it’s just another pang at his heart, a sharp reminder of what he’s lost and what he’s losing, but he can’t bring himself to snap it off.
In his worst moment, when the fog clings close in the Lonely, he turns his wrist as if checking a watch. A clear plastic band shines back at him, clean and white, without a mark.
When Jon loops their hands together on the way to the train, his fingers catch on it.
“What’s this? Does that- is that a hospital band? For me?”
He nods sheepishly, chill of the fog keeping his face from flushing entirely. “I just- I don’t even know what I wanted it for. Weird memento mori? Or- memento coma? I think I was just... trying to keep a piece of you with me.”
“Well,” Jon the took Martin’s fingers in one hand, and drawing them to the other wrist. “I’m right here,” he said, placing them against his wrist. A solid pulse point beat beneath them.
“Right. Right.” Martin stammered. He snapped the bracelet off at its buttons. “Do you want to-“ he said, offering it towards Jon.
He took it, but looked at it sceptically. “Honestly I think my wrist is still a little raw from the other ones,” he said, neatly depositing it in a bin as they walked.
Martin swallowed. “Right. Right.” But suddenly there was a hand in his again, warm and solid and real. And maybe he’d be okay without a reminder like that. Maybe he had a better one.