#maglor fanfiction

[ruiniel]

A @tolkienrsb​ fic by @aprilertuileviresse /Aprilertuile on AO3, with art by @ruiniel

Artwork Rating: G | Fic rating: G | Warnings: No archive warnings apply, arranged marriage with all that implies nothing graphically described though | Relationship: Berúthiel/Maglor | Characters: Maglor, Berúthiel, Tarannon Falastur | Word count: 13k 

SUMMARY:

Beruthiel is set to wed the king of Gondor in an arranged marriage to ensure the safety of her people. Unhappy and alone in the city of her husband, she meets Maglor, also exiled from his own people. 

READ ON AO3: He taught me to love the sea

VIEW THE ART on Tumblr

#tolkien fanfiction #beruthiel #maglor #beruthiel x maglor #tolkien #beruthiel fanfiction #aprilertuile #maglor fanfiction #makalaure #trsb #trsb23 #maglor x beruthiel

[leucisticpuffin]

breakdown/mending

“I cannot do this,” says Makalaurë, breaking his own stilted attempt at a formal greeting, and crumples like a cloth doll at my bedside. 

It is the first time he has come alone. He slipped into the tent early this morning, hollow-eyed in the grey light; now he screams into my blankets, and the medicine-bottles tremble upon the low table. 

(Of all my brothers, Makalaurë was ever the quickest to tears. He wept for lost toys and stories, for quarrels between brothers and grievances not his own, for beautiful songs and unexpected gifts – but not like this. Not over me.)

“Káno, Káno,” I say, the nickname strange and rough in my mouth. “Why come here, if the sight of me upsets thee so?” 

It is meant as a joke, but I know at once it is wrong: it is too near the truth. Angamando, I am told, has warped my sense of humour.

 “I am sorry,” Makalaurë sobs, straining for control of his voice. “This is not – I did not come to thee for this–”

His hands twist in the tangle of his hair, pulling at his scalp as he used to when he was very small and upset. “Stop, Káno, you will hurt yourself,” I tell him – but I am too harsh, and he flinches.

I knew how to calm him, once. Remembering is like looking through poorly-made glass, smoke-tainted and full of imperfections; but I know there was once a bright-haired, handsome child who held his little brother tight and stroked his hair while he cried. 

That child, I think, would know what to do. 

Even slow and halting movement jars my shoulder painfully. Still I reach for Makalaurë, thinking to take his hand – but I cannot do it. Touch is hateful to me now, the healers’ ministrations all my fragile skin can bear. A glancing touch, and against my will my hand draws back – my fingers shake, bone-white and too thin – I dare not try again. 

It would not do any good. My scars are the cause of my brother’s distress: he looks at me as if he had cut every mark himself. How, then, could I be a comfort to him?

This is how I know myself changed: Makalaurë weeps before me, and I cannot console him. 

@maedhrosmaglorweek, Day Two: Trust/Distrust

#this one got away from me a bit #maedhrosmaglorweek #maedhros #maglor #post-thangorodrim #silm art #silm fic #silmarillion art #tolkien art #silmarillion fanfiction

[solmarillion]

so i found out that ao3 is changing the tag names for silm characters and. they got rid of the quenya names even though people USE THEM. i am heartbroken

oh well at least celebrimbor is safe

NOOOOOOO THEY GOT RID OF MAIRON?!?!?!? WHYYYYYYYY 😭

#ao3 tags #silmarillion #silmarillion fandom #silm fandom #silmarillion fanfiction #fingon #maglor #celebrimbor #sauron #mairon #soleil.txt

[echo-bleu]

Noldor Hair Headcanons (3/4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3

Some lighter Kidnap Fam content, after the downhill freefall that was the last chapter. With a dash of Finrod in Valinor.

Elrond and Elros have never had their hair braided when they end up with Maedhros and Maglor.

They don’t realize what they’re asking when Elros grabs a hairbrush and puts it in Maglor’s hand.

Maglor understands that, but decides that the twins need parental care, even though he has no right. He brushes their hair and leaves it loose at first.

But the twins have watched Maglor braid Maedhros’s hair and they soon start asking for more interesting hairstyles.

Eventually Maglor explains to them that it can only be done by family.

The twins have a whole silent conversation.

“What does it take to be family?” Elros asks eventually.

Well, braiding an unrelated child’s hair is pretty close to informal adoption.

Elros forces the brush into Maglor’s hand again.

Maglor stares.

Elrond shakes his head and runs out.

Of course, Elrond must hate them. He has every right. Sure, Elros has started to warm up to them, but that’s just because he’s affection-starved, probably. They’re still kidnappers.

Maglor is about to put down the brush and try to refuse when Elrond comes back.

He’s holding a second hairbrush.

He hands it to Maedhros expectantly.

Maedhros cries.

Maglor cries.

The twins’ hair really doesn’t hold braids very well, and they’re still kids who run around and play, but damn them if Maglor and Maedhros aren’t going to do their best.

Now all of their people can see that the twins are well-loved.

Maedhros and Maglor also proudly sport a few clumsy, wonky braids each.

They’re less wonky with time, and eventually the twins are doing their fathers’ (kidnappers’) hair as often as not.

Finrod is reembodied shortly before Eärendil and Elwing gets to Valinor. It’s too early and he’s Not Doing Well. While in Middle Earth, he was the one who let basically every one of his friends braid his hair, now he can’t stand the thought of someone touching him that way.

But Beleriandic battle braids feel wrong in Tirion. And he’s desperately trying to reckon with his trauma, with Sauron defeating him by singing about the kinslaying, so he can’t leave his hair loose like the Teleri.

And he can’t quite get the sight of Edrahil’s bloody braids spat out by a werewolf out of his head.

He wears nothing but the very strange-looking (to Amanyar) Mourning Braids he designed after Dagor Bragollach for a couple of years.

Then after an episode of really bad depression and nearly fading, he cuts his hair short.

No-braiding-possible kind of short.

While not unheard of in Beleriand (sometimes former thralls keep their hair very short, like Rog), it’s unthinkable in Valinor, especially for the Crown Prince of the Noldor.

He is stared at a lot, his reputation goes down the drain, but to Finrod it’s liberating.

He does let his hair grow out again eventually, but only when other Exiles start coming back and choose to keep the Beleriandic braid styles, and it becomes a fashion statement rather than a mark of shame.

Finarfin is Very Shocked arriving in Beleriand when he finds his (single remaining) child with her hair loose and everyone else with weird self-braided battle hairstyles.

After a battle or three where he ends up with his hair matted with blood and mud, he caves and gets Galadriel to give him battle braids.

By the end of the war he’s even learned to do them himself! Let it not be said that King Arafinwë Ñoldóran didn’t rise to his calling.

The night before sending the Elrond and Elros to Gil-galad, Maedhros and Maglor undo all of their braids. Everyone cries.

Maedhros and Maglor meant this to minimize the ‘taint’ their names would put on the twins, by making it look like they were still hostages to the end, but the twins stop on the way to do each other’s hair because one does not meet a king with their hair loose, they have manners (which the Fëanorians taught them, so they’re Very Specific Manners), so the effect is lost. Gil-galad has Questions. The twins refuse to lie.

Then, before going to steal the Silmarils, Maedhros and Maglor do each other’s hair, in a style of their father’s that they haven’t worn since the Oath.

Maglor braids a single golden ribbon into Maedhros’s hair.

They have very few pieces of hair jewellery left of their brothers’, but they use all of them.

They both know it’s the last time.

To be continued

I did some sketches for visual reference of a few of the hairstyles mentioned here, if you want to see what I'm imagining!

#noldor hair headcanons #if i am to braid my mystic crown #noldor #maedhros #maglor #elrond #elros #finrod #kidnap fam #silmarillion #silm fic #tolkien #tolkien fanfiction #echo's fanfiction

[searchingforserendipity25]

Trials By Fire (After).

Maglor afire post-Bragollach, for @maedhrosmaglorweek. Also on AO3.

Part 2 of this installment, with no need to read it first.

-

It does not seem possible that Maglor may survive the year.

So Maedhros wrote to the king - his new king, Fingon, along with his vows of fealty and the full promise to avenge Fingolfin, written and sealed in his own blood.

Maglor nearly followed his half-uncle. His flesh burned with a terrible fever. The whites of his eyes were fully red with smoke; he kept weeping, not with grief, but the poisonous grit that had become the fertile plains of the East.

He had refused to wash the last of the ash that had been his land; and barely permitted the healers to attend to him. He nearly went back to the Gap - would have gone without warning, if Maedhros had allowed it.

"Let go, release me," Maglor demanded.

Maedhros stood before him, between the landing and the gate. He had risen with a cold clarity of premonition, the sudden certainty - One whom you love is to die.

His voice broke and broke, until blood shone on his teeth. The power in it was a monstruous thing, filling the tall, tall stone halls of Himring.

He had been out of the healer's room and nearly down the staircases, enough beastly might in the ugly scrap of his throat to make ruthless warriors turn into peons, opening doors and gates for his passed.

Maedhros wielded in his hand his sheathed sword, the one he slept with like a lover beside him.

Release me, Maglor ordered with the fury of his mind, all his spirit warring against Maedhros; outraged, and betrayed truly to be held hostage.

Maedhros expelled his followers from the room - an effort of will, his dominion fighting against his brother's, and their own awareness flickering at the corner of his mind with animal terror.

And then he raised his blade from its sheath, without hesitation.

Maglor's best weapon had even been his voice - he had meant to make his way back to the Gap unaccompanied, none of his riders were about him.

He had ridden into safety for them, the lives bound to die with him if he had stood fast; he fled, now, as a thief in the night, dying of his wounds, alone, so that they might outlast him.

Maglor in his clear mind would not do such a thing. Maglor, Maglor as himself, took loyalty too solemnly; he would have given them the choice to follow him to the last, if he had been thinking clearly, and not wild with anguish. That was when Maedhros knew for certain what he must do.

Maedhros had his warriors close all the doors and all the windows, and leave them to their reckoning.

Maglor's face looked at him, repelled more than afraid at finding himself trapped. The worst of it was the bubbling foam at the corners of his mouth as he laughed, incredulous. Maedhros, he called. Nelyo, so you too are my enemy?

How could you allow this - how could you permit it! The East was yours to keep - look at what your keeping has made of us, O Lord of Himring! 

Maedhros ignored his insults, his threats, his bragging and begging. He loved him too well not to press him back, back, back, down staircases and corridors.

Maedhros had to lift him up - bearing against his teeth and clawing fingers, pressing him down on the cold springs at the secret base of Himring's thermal baths. Maglor only went limp at last when Maedhros dunked and dipped and half-drowned him back to sense, when at last the terrible blood-fever in his receded.

It took many days, for that. A fortnight and more; and the harm of that time never lifted from him, and left its deep marks.

And years of silence. The healers did what they could, sang the open sore that was his mouth whole; it broke apart, again, again.

He coughed blood at night, stained scraps of cloth scarlet - Maedhros remembered the sail-cloths of Alqualondë, red on white, whenever he saw him wiping his mouth. 

White scars engraved his cheek, from the broken length of his spread as it broke in many parts a gnashing dragon's teeth; and he did not speak for years.

Maedhros knew too well this despair, and loved him too much. He kept his closed away, at first. A high tower, the highest, with not even an arrow-slit to escape from.

Maglor's voice, closed like a fist in his throat; Maglor's face terrible and worse than terrible, the flaring of him as he paced the battlements, when he was permitted to walk, under Maedhros's own guard.

He sought always to see if someone was riding towards Himring, or away from it. Few of his riders had survived the great conflagration; few survived their flight. They went off into the wilds to ride against bands of orcs, or the rumours of Balrods or wyrms, as King Fingolfin had.

They meant to die, as King Fingolfin had.

Maedhros took to sharing his brother's cot, arms holding close his trembling limbs, lest he rise again in the dark before dawn and make for the stables, the scorched plains, the long homeward path back to what remained of the Gap.

Maglor wished it. Maglor wanted it with such a burning desire it left Maedhros breathless, painted the mirage of leaping dragon-fire behind his lids.

He went quiet and cold, that winter, once the fire left his veins - too cold, coals turning to cinders. He shook with chills, until he was wan and exhausted, and then longer still, and made no sound, gave up on the making of sounds.

He looked at Maedhros with a face empty, one eye blind - but it was the loss of his voice that defeated him. That, and Maedhros's unrelenting determination to make him live.

Let me go, release me, he had howled, until he could not any longer. His voice overlaid itself over memories of Angband, when Maedhros slept. The chains of Thangorodrim, and Maglor riding barely in front of a wave of fire, Maglor behind the thick steel-and-stone of Himring's highest tower, sweating through his fever and his fury.

The look on his face, when Maedhros raised him up from the water. At times he woke with the bones of his arms reverberating with the force of pressing him down, certain as he woke that he had done it - drowned him dead. He had to turn and check, make certain he was not in bed with a corpse bloated blue and black.

It did not seem possible that Maglor may survive the year. Maedhros was a mad fool set on accomplishing the impossible - in this one instance, at least, he earned a bitter victory.

Fingon, he suspected, envied it terribly - his dearest person, saved from the aftermath of Morgoth's flames. Maglor, Maedhros knew for certain, did not forgive him. He had not wished to live.

("Let me go," he had screamed, with the last of his beautiful voice wrecked to disharmony. "Do you not know it was always meant to end in this? Let me at the flames, Nelyo, it is my land, mine, no good shall follow if I do not die in it. I know this, if you bear me in your heart with any love at all you must release me -"

He kept fighting for the words, even when he could not speak, choking on them. Maedhros dreamed of that, too).

"Not this year yet," he cautioned, when at last he judged his brother well enough to be able to leave the tower, and give him the freedom to pay his due respect to the king. "Call your standards, your vassals and all the forces at their disposal, and all shall answer in full faith. But wait only one year more; the time is not yet come."

Maglor's voice should be fully his own again, by then. The healers agreed; and Maedhros knew it.

He dueled in the grounds, and fought anyone who dared to try him. His body, forged anew from a terrible crucible, healed its shattered ribs, its splintered femur, the cracks in his skull, the fine, fine fractures in his long fingers. He trained as the healers dictated, drank the bitter tinctures, ate well, worked a sweat of pain for hours as he strengthened his body again, and readied himself for the harp again with plucking loose strings.

Even Maedhros lost against him when they crossed blades, not once, but time and time again. It was a sight of beauty and dread, watching the two lords of the fortress spar. 

Down on the training grounds, hands and knees in the dirt, looking up at his brother standing taller than him, for once - taller, fiercer, the whites of his eyes alight - Maedhros was very aware of the picture they painted, and the road he meant to take to keep that fire kindled.

For Maedhros had been brought to life himself with his brother's insistence, by the shores of Mithrim, knew to be patient. Ruthless, and patient, for the times when their blades crossed, and Maglor's face shone with a new passion, a flare of mirth.

It made no difference that Maglor grew dire, afterwards, and evaded all company, and would not look at him. Maedhros might lose the duel, but those brief smiles were his prize, and those he stole more and more often.

Maglor was nearly whole. Kept court once more with his own warriors, and kept some from their fateful rides, and blessed the ones who took their leave in honour.

Slowly, with his customary discipline, he learned his voice-box anew; carefully, inevitably. The face he turned always eastwards looked at Maedhros without resentment, now.

When he won, Maglor held out his hand to help him rise. Maedhros started to wait, to hope almost.

And when at last, at last, Maglor pressed close in his arms, weeping trails of salt against his neck, that was when Maedhros knew it was time to go to war; for together had never been as strong, or more certain to succeed.

#maglor #maedhros #maedhrosmaglorweek #silm fic #my fics #tolkien fanfiction #sons of feanor #feanorians

[tanoraqui]

Teen and Up Audiences | Graphic [but often poetic and/or supernatural!] Depictions of Violence | Gen

Words: 8,619 | Chapters: 1/1

Relationships: Finarfin & Galadriel, Finarfin & Maedhros

Characters: Finarfin, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Galadriel, Anairë, Maedhros, Eönwë, Maglor, Celebrimbor, Celeborn, Amarië, Irimë |Lalwen

Additional Tags: War of Wrath, I tagged everyone but really it's about Finarfin, kingship, and personal and collective vengeance/justice/trying to kill an unkillable dark god

“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” Lalwen complained in greeting. “Two brothers I have already lost, blindly charging that place. Must you add a third to my tally?”

“Maybe,” Finarfin said bluntly. It was still gentler than the truth on his tongue: It’s my turn.

(Or: in which Finarfin is, after all, the third son in the fairy tale.)

I worry that I’ve hyped this up too much by having it as a WIP for so long, but Here it is at last: Finarfin’s due shot at 1v1-ing Morgoth (more or less), a cornerstone of my personal elaborate tapestry of Arda headcanons! (I regularly forget that the sword isn’t a canonical legendary weapon.)

#the silmarillion #finarfin #arafinwe #galadriel #maedhros #war of wrath #morgoth #melkor #eonwe #anaire #lalwen #maglor #amarie #celeborn #celebrimbor #fanfiction #my fic

[whovianofmidgard]

Day 4 – Caranthir – Childhood, Appearance

For @feanorianweek You can also read on AO3

Life in Valinor for someone like Caranthir was an overwhelming existence. His dark eyes never quite got used to the brightness of Laurelin, like most babes usually did after some months. He ran away so fast on his short legs from the clanging of forges and choirs singing, the sounds too loud for his sensitive ears. He screamed and cried when certain fabrics and textures touched his skin, blotchy red patches and rashes forming inexplicably after an hour of wearing new clothes.

Caranthir didn’t like going outside. He especially didn’t like going out for chores. However, Ammë and Atar were busy with their work, and Maglor and Celegorm had their studies, so he was left in Maedhros’ care while he did chores that needed to be done. Like shopping.

Caranthir trotted after his eldest brother, small hand clutching large hand, as they waded through the noisy market. He was mostly being guided by Maedhros, for the elfling was left half-blind from the mid-flowering light of Laurelin. Caranthir alternated between staring down at his feet, squinting with tears obscuring his sight, or just simply closing his eyes.

Maedhros stopped by some vegetable stall, leaving Caranthir to hold on to him and be bored. The swish of fabric caught the edge of his sight, a rich dark purple in colour, yet so thin it let light peek through its weave. Letting go of his brother’s hand, he went closer to the textile stall curiously. He slid his little fingers through the dark fabric, unfortunately it was itchy and burning, but he lifted it over his head.

Caranthir could perfectly see right through it, he could see the market, the elves milling about, everything. The only difference the fabric made was that the light and colours were muted. And most importantly, it didn’t bother his eyes.

“Nelyo, Nelyo!” he bounded over to his brother, purple textile still on his head. “Look, Nelyo! I can see and my eyes don’t hurt!”

Used to his little brothers’ oddities, the strange image Caranthir made didn’t even phase him.

“You can see everything?”

“Uh-huh,” Caranthir nodded.

“And there is no pain at all?”

“Nuh-uh,” Caranthir shook his head. “Well, the fabric is itchy.”

Maedhros looked at his little brother for some time, deep in thought. Then he removed the fabric from Caranthir’s face and after returning it to the stall he led them to different part of the market.

“Come, I have an idea,” he said, stopping in front of a vendor selling glassware.

Maedhros talked with the vendor for a while, then the elf rummaged for something underneath the stall, finally producing a small sheet of glass. Maedhros took it then handed it to Caranthir.

“Try looking through it.”

The glass was almost completely black, but it still let a little bit of light through. He put the glass up against his eyes, and relief flooded him as the stinging sensation abated.

“It doesn’t hurt!” Caranthir exclaimed, his hands fluttering about him in a rare show of joy.

Maedhros ordered a full sheet of coloured glass to be delivered home, and the very next day Caranthir was gifted with dark spectacles that protected him from the light.

-

Caranthir liked sitting with Maglor. The harp had a gentle sound, not too loud, and his brother practicing his scales and harp solos made for enough repetition and predictability that he could read or do his numbers homework in peace.

Maglor’s voice was nice too, but not up close. There needed to be at least two walls dividing them, so his singing didn’t hurt Caranthir’s ears with its loudness. Usually, when Maglor reached the place in his practice where he’d start singing with his harp, Caranthir would pack his books up and leave Maglor’s room for his own.

Noticing the pattern, Maglor once asked his little brother about it, and once hearing the answer he fell into silent contemplation.

The next time they were comfortably doing their own thing in Maglor’s room, his older brother gave him something.

“Try it on and tell me what you hear,” Maglor said, and helped Caranthir put the thing over his head, two padded pom-pom-like balls covering his ears.

“Can you hear me? And is it itchy at all?”

“You’re all muffled but I can hear you a little. Not itchy, but it tickles.”

Maglor just grinned, and later when he started to sing during practice, Caranthir stayed and continued his studies, unbothered by the loud sound.

-

The itchiness he partially figured out on his own, when a bit older Caranthir ironically got into fibre crafts. He now knew which fabrics his skin tolerated and which ones he didn’t, yet from time to time his hands would still turn red with rashes. An occupational hazard when working with all sorts of textiles.

#feanorianweek #feanorian week #caranthir #maedhros #maglor #silmarillion #the silmarillion #silm fic #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing

[phantomstatistician]

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Character: Maedhros

Sample Size: 3,208 stories

Source: AO3

#maedhros #fingon #maglor #sauron #fingolfin #feanor #finrod #finrod felagund #morgoth #morgoth bauglir #curufin #the silmarillion #silmarillion #fanfiction #ao3 #statistics #phantom statistician

[the-elusive-soleil]

Instructions

Maglor sat the children down in front of him, then bit his lip, unsure of where to begin. 

He didn't want to have this conversation at all, but it had to happen. The other night, Maedhros had...slipped again, been dangerous; it was nothing that Maglor couldn't handle, but the same wouldn't necessarily be true of anyone else. Particularly not of the peredhil, and if anything were to befall them, Maedhros would never forgive himself.

“You remember,” he said slowly, “that I once told you to always listen to me and Maedhros, and trust us, because your safety could depend on it?”

Elros and Elrond nodded, looking uncertain as to where this is going.

Maglor took a deep breath. “You need to know that there are times when that...may not be true. When your safety will depend on not listening to us, on disobeying us, even. You should not have to make that distinction--I do not want to have to burden you with this--but I want even less for you to be put in harm’s way because I failed to speak about this.”

Elrond pursed his lips. Elros frowned, head tilted. “How will we know the difference?” he asked. “Between when to listen and when not to?”

Maglor bowed his head. “If we are ever trying to hurt you, or cause you distress, either because we are...not ourselves or because of the Oath,” he said. “You must stop us, then, however you have to.”

“You wouldn’t,” Elrond insisted. “Whatever happened, you’d never do anything to hurt us.”

Given the circumstances under which they’d ended up in his custody, Maglor found that statement ironic enough to be laughable, if he’d been in any mood to laugh. Instead, he just shook his head. “I would rather have the assurance, all the same,” he said. “Promise me that you will do this. Please.”

The twins exchanged looks.

“We promise, Atya.”

***

“Elrond, what are you doing here?”

Maglor couldn’t help but stare. He’d successfully avoided his one surviving son former kidnapee for two Ages, or thought he had, and had only let his guard down at all because he’d thought Elrond was on his way to the Grey Havens. Apparently, he’d been mistaken, because Elrond was right there, standing in the middle of the woods with him, a look that might have been fond exasperation on his face. 

“Coming after you, of course,” Elrond said, folding his arms. “I am set to sail West soon, with several of my household and some others, and I have come to make sure you go with me.”

“I am not meant to sail,” Maglor said, shaking his head, “and my presence would do you no good, here or across the Sea."

"I beg to differ."

"You are too kind." Maglor took a step back, then another. "Let me alone, and do not worry for me. This exile is no more than I deserve."

Elrond's voice was oddly calm. "And what of what I deserve? What your family in Aman deserves?"

Maglor bowed his head. "I am no longer the person whose return they wish for," he said, "and you ought to have the chance to know your true parents without my shadow over everything."

He turned to walk away, but found himself arrested by Elrond's hand on his arm. "I won't let you, Atya," he said firmly. "You are coming West with me, and if you hate me for it, we can work through it on the way." With a raised eyebrow, he added, "This is what you told me to do in such a situation, after all. If you wished me to leave you to fade in self-punishment, you should not have made me promise to stop you from causing me distress."

Maglor did not quite see the connection there, but in the next moment, Elrond sang out a cascade of familiar notes, meant to send someone into unconsciousness, and he was forced to put the question aside for later.

#silmarillion #maglor #elrond #elros #kidnap fam #soleil writes things #refracted (fanfiction) #brought to you by me reading a fic where the characters did the opposite of this #and left maglor behind to fade because he said so #it made me disappointed so there had to be Words

[imakemywings]

Perspective

AO3

 “Why don’t you go ahead and cut it, Nelyafinwë?” Grandfather gestured to the little almond cake he had set on the kitchen island. He had brought it back from Valmar, which made it a relative treat; it was unlike the many other sweets they often had at beck and call. Father rarely had cause to be up in Valmar unless he was lecturing, and he did not usually bring the children along when he did, nor was he one for showering them with gifts unnecessarily.

Maedhros took the knife, with Maglor watching intently (as much as he could when he could barely see the surface of the counter from his height), and cut the cake less 50/50 and more 75/25. He set the knife down and looked satisfied.

“Why have you chosen to cut it this way?” Finwë asked patiently.

Anticipating this question, Maedhros clasped his hands behind his back and answered smartly, “I am bigger than Kanafinwë. I should have a bigger piece. I have made them proportional.” The small smile on his face was nothing if not smug.

“Interesting logic,” said Finwë, nodding. He looked to Maglor, who was scowling, screwing his round little face up in preparation to start bawling, something sure to ruin the morning of everyone within earshot—which was to say the entire house. “Kanafinwë, why don’t you choose your half first?”

Maglor, ecstatic at this unexpected change of fortune, promptly swiped the much larger piece of cake and danced out of Maedhros’ reach, stuffing a massive bite of it into his mouth at once. He grinned around his full cheeks at Maedhros, who had a moment of shock, which was quickly overcome with chagrin. Ruefully, he picked up his much smaller piece of cake.

“You didn’t say you were going to do it that way, Grandfather,” he said, his voice bordering on sullen.

“Would you have cut it differently if I had?” Finwë asked. “Closer to even, perhaps?” Maedhros’ expression descended into sulking as he realized he had played exactly into Finwë’s game. “Perhaps next time you will consider things from another perspective,” Finwë suggested. Then his expression grew more serious. “As your father’s heir, and a chief representative of this house and of the Noldor, you must act always with fairness and equanimity,” he said. “Even where you desire to obtain for yourself preferential treatment. Kanafinwë is your brother, and inclined, I imagine, to forgive you the occasional bout of selfishness. But others will be less so inclined.”

Maedhros frowned and nibbled at his piece of cake. Maglor, checking first to make sure Grandfather was watching him, broke off a miniscule piece of his own and held it up with crumby fingers.

“Do you want some of mine, Nelyo?” he asked, sweet as sugar, the darling model of a generous Noldorin prince. Maedhros sighed and shook his head.

“No,” he said in a long-suffering voice, “it’s yours.”

Maglor did not offer twice, but skipped out, trailing crumbs across the hallway floor and trying to hum with his mouth full, which did not much improve the situation. Grandfather squeezed Maedhros’ shoulder on their way out of the kitchen and Maedhros sighed again.

“It seems there are a great many lessons for a prince to learn,” he remarked to Grandfather, who smiled.

“Indeed there are,” he said. “But for one thing you should be grateful, Nelyafinwë.”

“What is that, Grandfather?”

“This lesson came with cake!” And Maedhros could not argue much with that.

#rocky writes #maedhros #finwe #maglor #the silmarillion #tolkien tag #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Letters & Cards

Prompt: Letters & Cards

Characters: Maedhros & brothers

Warnings: /

Maedhros, The Tall, The Kinslayer, The Dreaded, looked up sharply as the young servant slipped into the room hesitantly.

“These have come,” they said waveringly. “Seasonal greetings…”

Unable to conceal the rare burst of unabashed joy painting his stern face a delicate pink, the Lord of Himring grabbed the missives and pressed them to his chest fitfully.

“To our brother, are your toes frozen yet?” The twins.

“Nelyo, I shall arrive soon—I hope you’ll have mulled wine at the ready.” Káno.

“I am alive. Are you?” Moryo.

“Warm greetings to a cold man!” Turko and Curvo.

Grinning, Maedhros sighed.

Here is the song that inspired this drabble. Disconnected by Jazz Morley!

Lots of love!

-> Masterlist(by @cilil)

#og post #December Drabbles #Fluff #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #Maedhros #Maglor #Caranthir #Amrod #Amras #Celegorm #Curufin #Cards & Letters #family feels

[dalliansss]

It was Círdan who said that they needed a gesture of good faith to the Valar. Then Maedhros and Maglor had another debate between themselves, and for the first time in many, many years, the younger brother prevailed over the elder. Maglor would sail West, with Eärendil, and the Silmaril. 

Eärendil leaves the half-dilapidated inn and his children to Gil-galad’s care. He must do this, and he must not turn back, for if he does— if he chances to look back, he knows he will waver and he will not want to leave, and they will all die here. Morgoth will have reclaimed the Silmaril, and all will be lost, then.

He finds Maglor and Círdan and Voronwë already waiting by the quayside. Maedhros Fëanorion was nowhere to be seen. Vingilot is ready to sail and Eärendil had especially handpicked from his mariners those who had no families and children. Those who can afford to die, or vanish off into the unknown, never to be seen again, like his own parents, Idril and Tuor. 

Maglor looks as if a wraith: sunken cheeks, limp dark hair. Deadened gray eyes. His cloak hung about him in tatters, and Eärendil knew underneath the thin layers, he would be holding the small lacquered box which contained the Silmaril. They exchange a long, silent look, and a nod.

Of course, Eärendil boards Vingilot first. Voronwë follows. Maglor visibly hesitates, until Círdan grips him by the left forearm. They look at each other, and Maglor finally boards the ship as well. Within the hour they push from the port, and all of Vingilot’s sails are dropped. They have the wind and weather in their favor. Still, Eärendil and his mariners begin singing the Prayer to Ulmo as they venture further out into open sea. 

It is not just Eärendil who refuses stubbornly to look back at the land. Maglor, who is sitting on a heap of coiled rope and protecting his precious little box, refuses to turn his head back as well. 

[the tides of defeat / part 11 of Blood in the Mouth / AO3]

@skaelds

#silmarillion #silm #collab fanfiction #collab fanfic #blood in the mouth #sauron #mairon #finrod #finrod felagund #maglor #eärendil #war of wrath #my drabs

[cilil]

Maglor

⌔ Synopsis: Maglor Fëanorion, before and after the Oath. ⌔ Warnings: Angst, grief, suicidal thoughts ⌔ Double drabble

Makalaurë, for as long as he could remember, had been an artist, a singer, a musician, an actor. His harp was his trusted companion and his voice charmed even the Ainur, whose roles he would sometimes play in Ilmarin's theatre. 

A smith like his father or a sculptor like his mother Makalaurë had never been, but it mattered not. He had his own passion, his own art, his own destiny. 

It was hard to stand out as a son of Fëanáro, the mighty and renowned crown prince of the Noldor, as one of seven children; but Makalaurë had done it. 

⌔

Maglor has long since become a warrior, fighting in eternal service of his father's Oath. One of seven kinslayers, one of seven doomed princes, pitied and loathed. 

His sword remains by his side always, bloodstained and ready to be drawn at any moment. His harp he carries still, stubbornly hidden underneath his cloak, but he sings little, for his voice is hoarse from battle cries.

One by one his brothers fall, until at last even Maedhros abandons him. 

Maglor contemplates joining the jewel in the sea, but does not. 

Thus he becomes once more renowned — as a lonely, grieving minstrel. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

@feanorianweek

#maglor #makalaure #drabble #double drabble #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #feanorianweek

[lidoshka]

Maglor of the sands

I redid a design I did a while ago.

Also, in case you haven't, I reccomend you read the series "Everlasting Song" by @amethysttribble

#mis trazos #tolkien world #silmarillion #maglor #feanorians #fanfic recs #redoing designs is good because it let's you know there HAS BEEN progress after all! #I keep drawing some kind of guitar-like instrument #even when it has been proved over and over that he has a harp #Ooops #ooopsie #everlasting song #fanfiction begets fanart

[echo-bleu]

Noldor Hair Headcanons (4/4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3

There isn’t anyone left who knows how to do Maglor’s Mourning Braids, but they are described in a lament for Fingon that’s still doing the rounds, so Elrond and Elros make their best try. That style is henceforth known as Elrond’s Mourning Braids (because Elros gets forgotten by the elves a lot after he dies, let’s not lie to ourselves).

A decade of nothing but Mourning Braids really hammers in that Elrond and Elros weren’t just hostages.

It doesn’t do a lot for their reputation, but they don’t particularly care.

Bit by bit, Elros adopts mannish customs after making his Choice, and even goes so far as to cut his hair above the shoulder. Elrond is pre-grieving his brother too much to be properly shocked about this.

(It’s still long enough to braid. It’s fine. It’s not like his brother is leaving him on purpose. Or rejecting him. Elrond knows that.)

Everyone thinks Elrond should wear his hair in the Sindarin custom but he refuses to give up his Noldor braids. Elros braids his brother’s hair until he leaves for Númenor.

Elrond and Gil-galad do each other’s hair through the Second Age. Because they’re the last of their family and the only ones to keep to the old traditions. Not at all because they’re close. Of course not. Wouldn’t be proper. (They spend two hours at it every morning alone in Gil-galad’s chambers.)

Elrond revives his Mourning Braids on his 500th birthday.

Celebrimbor learns about dwarven hair culture. It’s Very Different but kind of similar, in that fancy hairstyles are a status thing. (Or really, long hair/beard is a status thing and then you have to do something with it because otherwise it catches everywhere.)

Narvi isn’t in fact the first dwarf to touch elven hair, but that’s only because Finrod had a very extended concept of family.

Annatar magically braids his own hair, when he even bothers (his hair doesn’t even singe in the forge if it falls into the fire). This hurts Celebrimbor’s sensitivities, but he adapts to Annatar’s ways, and adapts again, and adapts, until he really can’t.

Sauron cuts off Celebrimbor’s beautiful dark braids full of dwarven beads and ties them to the spears of his personal guard. Elrond never quite manages to get that image out of his head.

At war again, Gil-Galad invents locs. Well, re-invents them really, because Silvan elves have worn them forever, but he’s the first Noldor to do it. (He has Fingon’s hair texture. Does that mean he’s Fingon’s son? Who knows. He’s not telling.)

It’s only after Gil-galad’s death that Elrond teaches himself how to braid his own hair.

He hates it.

But he won’t wear his hair loose.

(The first style he masters is Maglor’s Mourning Braids.) (It really shouldn’t be because it’s Intricate but Elrond is nothing if not stubborn.)

Imladris has a full salon, like the Noldor palaces of old.

It doesn’t get that much use, to be honest.

Erestor learns to braid really tiny braids into Glorfindel’s hair, so that he never wears his hair fully loose but it still looks like it’s loose. Everyone else thinks it’s ridiculous. Glorfindel thinks it’s the best thing. Elrond watches them with a knowing smile.

Celebrían wears her hair half-loose in the Sindar style until she marries Elrond. It takes him several years to find the strength to ask her to do his hair, but she lets him do hers and he sneaks in more and more braids until they settle on a mixed-style. When he finally allows her to do his hair, Celebrían makes her mother grumpily teach her proper Noldor braids.

Elladan and Elrohir only wear practical Sindarin braids for the day to day, but they delight in doing each other’s hair in complicated styles for feasts and ceremonies. Elrond cries the first time they accidentally replicate Maglor’s favourite hairstyle.

Arwen is a little gremlin who squirms out of her parents’ lap when they try to braid her hair. She’s also inherited even more of Melian’s hair than Elrond, so even when they manage to do a braid, it’s gone in a few hours.

It takes years after Celebrían sails, because they’re all grieving, but eventually Elrohir offers to do his father’s hair, and Elrond lets him. They don’t do it every day, but it’s a large step in their recovery process.

By the way, Thranduil’s thing for flower/leaf crowns isn’t a Sindar or Silvan practice, it’s just that he wanted to be Fancy but Not In a Noldor Way, thank you very much. He’s also very vain. His servants do his hair.

Little Estel is very cute, has very silky hair for a man, even of his line, and makes a great doll for the twins to play with. He likes his hair touched A Lot.

Arwen learns about that early on. She’s a very good silver smith. Aragorn now owns a lot of hair jewellery. He can’t make a braid to save his life, but that’s fine, because Arwen can’t wear them anyway.

In the North, he wears his hair like Elros, cut above his shoulders. Once he becomes King, he lets it grow to his waist. He’s the first Man since Tuor to casually wear his hair in elaborate Noldor braids. He accidentally sets a fashion.

Arwen also does Éowyn’s and Faramir’s hair regularly. The first time is for their wedding. Éowyn isn’t a fan of the unpractical Fëanorian styles, but the Nolofinwëan battle braids look incredibly good on her.

Wandering on the coast for two ages, Maglor no longer does anything with his hair. It doesn’t enjoy the salt at all.

When Elrond finally finds him, he almost has to cut it all off. Instead, he spends weeks carefully untangling and moisturising Maglor’s hair until he can finally braid it in the old style for him. Maglor cries.

Elrond cries too. He cries even more when Maglor sits them down on the floor and braids his hair like he used to.

They sail together with the other Ring bearers, and there’s a lot more crying when they find Celebrían, Gil-galad and Maedhros waiting for them together.

Celebrían is wearing her hair in one of the Fëanorian styles that can be done one-handed.

Galadriel isn’t entirely happy about that, but she sees Finrod and forgets about it.

There’s some more crying.

Fingon is also there (the amount of gold in his hair is a bit blinding, not that Elrond will ever tell him) and also wearing a one-handed braided style.

There are some fights over who gets to do Elrond’s hair in the next few weeks.

Celebrían wins most of them, because she’s inherited Galadriel’s viciousness, but she lets everyone have a turn.

Elrond would like to know why he doesn’t have a say in it.

(He does. They would never touch him if he didn’t want to. They’re just very happy to see him.)

He does go to visit Elwing and Eärendil in their tower, and he goes with his hair down, because he’s a peace-maker at heart.

But in Tirion, he always sports the most complex hairstyles, just barely coming short of overshadowing the High King’s (mostly because his hair is still too silky for it to hold well), because his family all want to outdo each other.

He earns the reputation of being the most beloved of all the Noldor.

It’s not wrong.

Some visuals & more in my art tag

#noldor hair headcanons #if i am to braid my mystic crown #echo's fanfiction #silmarillion #tolkien #silm fic #tolkien fanfiction #elrond #gil-galad #lotr #the lord of the rings #aragorn #arwen #celebrimbor #maglor

[searchingforserendipity25]

The Sculpture of Coast

Maglor drifts ashore one mist-dark morning. 

Nerdanel finds him only by accident. Limestone had been her heart’s desire, not a son; she nearly trips on him, nearly goes around the narrow passage of tall rocks. 

The cove is full of little lives, mollusks and sand-ants and meaty sea-urchins; a peaceful place, and good. 

A seastar clings to the tangled tresses of his hair, pulsing gently Her son looks unnervingly well-made to it - a piece of castaway waste amidst the shallow tide-road of a deep pool, limbs rising and swaying with the movement of the water.

She reaches her hand to the glimmering green water and the trailing white foam to reach him, and touches only sun-warm sand.  

He blinks at her with pearlescent eyes, and she sees his hair too is seaweed, and the sea-star part of him - his eyes black and gleaming as worn black conch-shells.

His skin is the water, the sunlit water and the shifting shadows underneath the surface. Storm-tossed, he has made his way back to Western shores, but not to touch them - Nerdanel can see, too, glimpses of charred driftwood bark that were his hands. In this way the songs are true, as she has long suspected.

She thinks, for a moment, that this can be no good way to be, for the sea always bitter, and storms in Aman are fierce. His breathing swells and eases with the current.

His mouth opens, and a sound of the sea speaks - 

Water pushes against her knees, salt sprays the hem of her apron in distress. Small whirlwinds gather around the highest rocks - sargasso and char and shadow shift, fearful, displeased.

No violence at the last - what little satisfaction that is! - but a great strangeness in the mind that spills out, unbound, over the waters and the wind.

She cannot tell if he recognizes her. It does not, all in all, make a great difference. 

‘Never mind,’ Nerdanel says curtly.  ‘Stay as you are, you lost thing. I am on my way only, and you are not what I seek.’ 

Her voice in the wash of the waves is softener than she likes it to be, but she has always known how to quiet her fretting children, in their youth at least. This one, the last, is ancient; it makes little difference.

She touches a tangled curl of damp, purpling sargasso. Only once; briefly.

The narrow path grows narrower still in the gloam. Nerdanel’s feet remain steady, too wise to hurry and dare a fall. By true evening she is back in her tent, making notation of the ancient age of the rocks: their ingrained fossils and coral husks, their dead matter.

Tilion, her old friend, rises to his own work, alights upon her maps generously, sweeps the tide and all its wrecks away.

Perhaps he is there, still, the lost thing - a spirit in the water, or a pile of bones unearthed by the low tide.

Nerdanel does not turn back, and does not return. She has measured all the stone in miles, and found no good place for a quarry.

#maglor #nerdanel #my fics #silm fics #february ficlet challenge #prompt 3 - drift #tolkien fanfiction