#beloved maglor

[thesummerestsolstice]

See one of my favorite Rivendell headcanons is that even though it's a wonderful, peaceful sanctuary, pretty much everyone there could be incredibly dangerous if they wanted to be. Like, let's think about who lives in that valley.

Elrond Peredhel, resident healer and eldritch crime against nature, self-explanatory

Glorfindel, slayer of balrogs, self-explanatory

Erestor, probably Feanorian, definitely dangerous

Old Feanorian diehards, all of whom are probably looking for an excuse to commit morally justified violence

Old Gondolindrim/Iathrim, who, despite what they might tell you, are exactly as dangerous as the Feanorians

Garthaglir the Library Orc, who absolutely remembers how to use the giant battleaxe he keeps behind his desk

A strange, shadowy figure roaming the valley who I'm *sure* isn't Maglor Feanorian, but who is nonetheless a terrifying singer

Elladan and Elrohir, who have spent the last several centuries becoming nightmare fuel for Sauron's forces

Arwen, eldritch, bites

Bilbo Baggins, not to be underestimated, can defeat a grown man with nothing more than his scathingly polite commentary

Dunedain visitors, vaguely feral, highly trained

Aragorn, very feral, highly trained

Lindir, not actually dangerous, but if you upset him you are going to have problems with everyone else on this list

I actually really like the idea that a lot of the people who live in Rivendell are inherently kind of dangerous, because it means that they're actively choosing peace and kindness for themselves and I love that.

[ilaneya]

i’ve finally made something for mermay 😌

[sun-snatcher]

“I swore an oath to Durin. To some, that may now hold little weight, but in my esteem, it is by such things our very souls are bound.”

Rewatching the show, and it never occurred to me that this may very well have been Elrond referencing his upbringing under Maedhros and Maglor.

Of course, Elrond of all people would say as such. Not simply because it’s simply the law of the magic system in Middle-Earth, but because he himself personally bore witness to the symptoms and consequences of what a binding Oath could accrue.

[somepinkthing]

AU where, in pain, maedhros initially rejects maglor when he first sees him post-rescue. Very publically too. In their grief and guilt, the other brothers then turn on maglor and cast him out, injuring him in the process. At first, when they can't find him again, they don't worry. He was ever the more level headed of them all, they figured. He knows he can't make it out there. He'll come crawling back and we'll accept him, we aren't the brother-abandoners after all. But as time drags on, it becomes more dire. Search party after search party is sent out but nothing turns up a trace. Eventually, they start edging closer to morgoth's lands. In a fit of irony, the remaining brothers soon decide they can't risk any more parties that far into enemy territory when three of them in a row are found ripped to pieces.

In the meantime, maedhros has also improved, mentally and physically, and has begun to ask about maglor. It seems... odd that he hasn't seen him. Maglor has never held a grudge against family this long, much less against his favorite brother. Maedhros himself hasn't let go of all his resentment entirely, but he regrets how it all went down all the same. Now recovered, he knows what maglor did was the best course of action and likely saved his remaining family from annihilation (no we can't all be named the valiant, findekano). He wants to reconcile. At the very least, he wants to see him.

None of the other brothers have the heart to tell him. Nor do they think it'd be a particularly good idea while he's still healing. They tell him maglor is busy, he's emotional, he's drowning in guilt, he's been hurt, he's still feeling hurt—anything to keep the truth under wraps.

Fingon, in a fit of indignation at his cousin's continued refusal to come see his ailing brother, comes personally to the feanorian camp to fetch him. When he finds out the truth, he first feels it's just. Then he just feels guilt ridden and cold. All of them agree it'd be for the best if maitimo were kept in the dark about it for now.

"Maybe he's just being stubborn," all of them tell themselves at some point, "he's always had a knack for the dramatic. He could still be coming back."

But when even maedhros makes it back to the feanorian camp before maglor does, they have to concede the point. They've lost their brother.

Maedhros is naturally distraught when the truth comes to light. Unable to personally go looking, he begins investigating what happened. It turns up nothing regarding maglor's whereabouts, but he finds out a very interesting rumor. A rumor that celegorm's hunters punished a traitor a few months back by hanging them in a tree.

They find no body in the end, just a cut rope. Relief and dread fill the brothers at the discovery. Maglor is alive! But it's likely someone else cut him down. Who? Why? After all, they now know there are fates worse than death.

Meanwhile, deep in the forests of nan elmoth, eöl curls around his mute lover. A pretty noldor he found left in the trees like some decoration by orcs, throat completely mangled from the ordeal. He's altogether rather mad and useless at any household chores, but he's pretty enough and his skill with a set of twin daggers grows every day. And, well, he certainly doesn't ask for much. Nor does he complain at all—even on days where eöl's mood is foul. And he plays the harp whenever asked, very well too. And it pleases eöl to have such a talented musician in his court. So the noldor stays. His fits of madness become easy enough to manage once eöl finds out solitude shuts him up like nothing else will. It's like he's never been alone before or something.

And that's the way it stays, even after eöl marries aredhel. Their trysts end but the little harpist has picked up enough skill by that point to be useful. Eöl notices at some point that his servant wears a mask and has a habit of avoiding his new wife, but he never lashes out at her in his jealousy so. It's well enough. He's fantastic with the boy too.

Eöl never regrets taking the noldor in.

That is, until it runs away with his wife and son. Right into the hands of the feanorians.

[nightmares-2]

Makalaurë

Alt version under the cut

[g00seg1raffe]

So there was a post a while back about Ben Solo always being told "don't do (x), that's how uncle luke lost his hand" when he was a kid - and I raise you: Elrond and Elros being told "don't do (x), that's how Maedhros lost his hand"??

Like, at Amon Ereb when the twins were newly acquired and refusing to eat their vegetables and Maglor is Mag-mothering them until Erestor, feral half-sane clinically depressed anarchist Avari hostage/patient/infiltrator and Certified Little Shit, hits em with:

"I would listen to the Lord Maglor, winyamor, he well knows the dangers that come to young elflings who don't eat enough vegetables - after all, that's how his brother lost his hand."

Elrond looks conflicted. Elros squints suspiciously. "Truly?"

Erestor, practically comatose since the massacre but ultimately saved from Fading by the biological compulsion to fuck with you, lays a hand over his heart. "I would never lie about such a thing! Just what do you take me for? This is a true tale and a grave warning - the Lord Maedhros' hand was tragically lost in the days of his youth, whilst he was still growing as you are. He refused to eat his vegetables and so, cruelly deprived of the strength it needed to grow strong, his body started to fall apart! First his fingers, then his thumb, and then his palm and wrist - all turned blue and dropped off!"

"No!" Elrond gasps. Elros looks both terrified and impressed. Maglor's face is scrunched up into something that the twins probably interpret as pained - at reminder of the horrors of limbs falling off! - but is actually just him busting a rib trying not to laugh.

"Yes!" Erestor cries with relish. "And it never grew back. All because he didn't eat his vegetables. Isn't that right, Lord Maedhros?"

Maedhros, a looming terror at the head of the table, scarred and solemn and impenetrable as his fortresses, narrows his eyes consideringly at the unfolding shenanigans and the rascal behind it. His conclusion? Fuck it. He gives a slow, solemn nod. Completely deadpan and exaggeratedly formal, because it may have been centuries since he last had his brothers smothering laughter at political dinners but the Finwëan sense of humour, once caught, is not an ailment easily cured.

Maglor conceals his wheezes behind his goblet as Erestor nods sagely to the wide-eyed twins, who suddenly seem a sight more interested in their vegetables.

[arofili]

@aspecardaweek day two | aromanticism | alloaro glorfindel

Glorfindel was tall and straight; his hair was of shining gold, his face fair and young and fearless and full of joy; his eyes were bright and keen, and his voice like music; on his brow sat wisdom, and in his hand was strength.

—The Fellowship of the Ring, “Many Meetings”

picrew | for @maglor-my-beloved

[darkfrozenabyss]

Finished sketch dump

[superloves4]

They told him she was a bird but Maglor tought she was much more his tormenting siren.

Luthien plans to defy fate itself.

It's doooone!!! Just in time for my first drawing of the year!!! My brain got the Maglor x Luthien worms again and this might just get a long fic at some point! Happy festivities everyone!!

[sauroff]

Commission of Erestor for @maglor-my-beloved for their fic Lord of my Love ✨✨

A small extra for it below the cut

(I'm making myself do these to not forget how to use AE during holidays, cause I'm boomer when it comes to learning to use new softwares)

[thesummerestsolstice]

I don't know if this is what Tolkien intended, but whenever I picture Maglor's Gap I picture it in the spring; a meadow in full bloom, with colorful flowers and gentle bumblebees. While Himring is icy for much of the year, the lower plains around it are warm and welcoming for a good few months in the spring and summer, and have much milder falls and winters.

I feel like it's important for Maglor's Gap to be not just a strategic choke point, but a genuinely beautiful piece of Beleriand that Maglor and his followers loved dearly. Somewhere they thought of as a home. Somewhere they eulogized in songs long after it was destroyed.

Maglor sings of the Gap, in the Noldolante, but the only part of it remembered there is the part where it was scorched into nothingness.

But he also told Elrond and Elros about his old home; keeping its better memories alive. Elrond, as Gil-Galad's minstrel in the Second Age, often sings songs about the wildflowers and songbirds of the Gap in Spring. Not many know that's what he's singing about, but he does, and that's enough.

[thelien-art]

Day 2: Maglor of @feanorianweek

Kingship

Poppy = Sloth | Manipulation

I do think Maglor mourned when Maedhros got himself captured, I just also read Maglor as a manipulative power hungry character.

He probably convinced himself that Maedhros had died and ignored everything that proved otherwise, both as a poor coping mechanism and, subconsciously, seizing the power of being a king, although he never named himself one as that would give him trouble. He differently enjoyed the power and mourned, when Maedhros came back, for the power loss. He was happy to have his brother back of course. I don´t think he spoke against Maedhros choice to give the kingship to Fingolfin, even if he wanted it himself, as he did except Fingolfin to do something stupid and get himself killed eventually, and by agreeing he seemed more "civil" and the friendliest of his brothers, which would end up giving him political power, giving people the illusion that he´s the innocent and harmless of his family.

Maedhros | Celegorm | Caranthir | Curufin | Ambarussa | Nerdanel and Feanor

[balrogballs]

Hi Zara Balls, sorry for landing with another stupid question but your story was making me read up on Indian Muslim music and I was wondering, is Maglor meant to be a ‘ghazal’ singer? Your description of his performance was so rich that I was trying to find out what it would be like in real life, and I found out about Ghazal poetry, is that what he was doing?

Hello and don’t worry re: questions, again, it’s a new area for many readers. Ask anything you like, there are no silly questions — but please bear with me for slow replies 😊

Firstly, I think with performance, a demonstration is best, so here is my inspiration for Maglor, his performances, how the audience/set-up looks, with him the songmaster, sitting up in front and carrying the performance, with apprentices eg. Lindir etc being those dudes behind the singer.

When writing, I was literally picturing Maglor as this specific singer. Same level of energy, hand-waving, having a total blast, enjoying himself more than the audience - its a video so click on it!

Now for explanation — so, you’re half right in that ghazals and what Maglor performs has a similar root — early modern Sufi musical cultures of the Middle East and South Asia. Ghazals, which you’ve read about, are ‘amatory’ poems — love poetry that express romantic, erotic, or spiritual love. In fact, quite a lot of these are straight up queer (check out Amir Khusro). In its modern iteration, check out slow Bollywood love songs — that sort of thing, many are written in the ghazal style.

While Maglor is shown to sing a ghazal at one point, he’s mainly a qawwali singer — these are two different styles of both writing and performance, and there are definitely intersections, with some ghazals being performed in qawwali style. For as much as is relevant to Maglor in the fic — the qawwali ustad (music master) holds public performances, rather than private recitations, especially in places like Kerala where the majority of listeners wouldn’t actually understand the poetry and are there for the music.

So qawwali performers, whilst singing about similarly spiritual aspects, are very high energy, frankly quite campy, and just have the absolute time of their lives while performing. Less church hymn and more barn dance! The energy of these guys are just as or often more important than the lyrics or poetry itself, hence why even Elrond and his sub-zero mental health was clapping along — it’s just a great and fun time, rather than a poetry recitation.

Hope this has helped and feel free to ask me to clarify.

[actual-bill-potts]

Wow congratulations on 2k!! Can I be very predictable and request some Maedhros and Maglor – maybe post-Dagor Bragollach? Thank you!

With many many apologies for how late this is, thank u very much and I hope you enjoy beloved <3

Maglor was lying on his front.

His back had been badly burned during the last frantic leg of his flight to Himring. Maedhros, over and over, had thought he could have turned - if he’d turned at the wrong moment he could have been blinded, or worse. Sometimes he was so overcome by this thought that he, very carefully and quietly, breathed a prayer of thanks to Varda.

She was not listening, of course. But - but if she was. Just in case. For Maglor.

Himring had not had much burn salve when the Long Peace came to its sudden and abrupt end. Maedhros - fool that he was - had not anticipated the dragon, and had seen no need for a large store of such. Besides, it was difficult to grow plants with the required soothing properties on his windy hill. So they had had very little to treat the injuries of Maglor’s people, and of Maglor himself. Many had died. Maglor himself had almost died; he had screamed himself hoarse, crying out, "Nelyo, make it stop - make it stop please" until Maedhros had fled the room. He had defenses to mount, rations to assign, guards to discipline. He could not spend all day in his brother’s room, and his burning presence could not help: only harm.

But Maglor’s fever had at last broken, the burned skin on his back beginning at last to knit itself together. Though it was still dangerous to apply any pressure to his back, the healers had lost the strain about their eyes when they spoke to Maedhros. And so he felt that it was safe enough now to sit in the same room with Maglor, and hold his hand, and feel the rhythmic flicker of his brother’s spirit.

Beside him Maglor stirred. "Lindessë?" he asked, muzzily.

Maedhros held in a wince. Maglor’s wife had been lost in Dagor Bragollach. There had been few who were not soldiers at the Gap in the first place, and they had been sent out to seek safety at Himring with a company at the first sign of attack - or so Maedhros had gathered, from one of Maglor’s few lucid periods and the reports of his commanders. Not a one of the civilians had reached Himring, and Lindessë was dead. His guess was that they had run into the dragon, and he could only hope that it had been quick.

"Not Lindessë, Lauro," he said gently.

A pause. "Oh," Maglor said at last, dully. "Yes. She is dead."

"Yes," said Maedhros. There was nothing else to say.

"But you are alive?" said Maglor. His fingers were cool within Maedhros’ own.

"Yes," said Maedhros again. "I live - and you live, and I am glad of it."

"It - hurts," said Maglor.

"I am sorry," returned Maedhros, wishing that he could do something - anything! - to help, instead of delivering useless platitudes and standing beside Maglor’s burned body with a spirit that was constantly afire with agony. "We have not much salve and the healers are stretched thin."

"No," said Maglor, voice muffled by the pillow. "Not - that. Her."

"Ah," said Maedhros. He did not know what to say. This was one of the rare pains he did not intimately know. The thought of it made him quail.

I told you so, Curufin might have said. They had all warned Maglor, again and again, about the danger of marrying in Beleriand: and marrying one who could not fight and did not wish to! She had been indispensable in the Gap, it was true, for her way with horses was unmatched and her Songs beautiful - but she was no warrior. And Maglor was so close to the Enemy.

Maglor had not listened, and now Lindessë was gone, and Maedhros did not have the heart to say anything about unwisdom. Not anymore.

"I know it hurt," Maglor said. "I felt it. She was surprised. She reached out to me. But I could not reach back."

"I am sorry, háno," said Maedhros, squeezing Maglor’s fingers, trying to imbue them with some of his own warmth. "She is safe now."

"Is she? Or do you think she is Doomed along with us?"

"She was Sindar," said Maedhros, "and has shed no blood. Námo is not unjust."

Maglor laughed bitterly. "Is he not?"

Maedhros could think of nothing to say to that; and they sat in silence for awhile.

Finally Maglor said, "Do you think there are horses, where she is?"

"I do not know," said Maedhros. "Perhaps. There are horses in Aman, after all."

"Yes," said Maglor, "yes, you are right." He turned his face towards Maedhros. His cheeks were wet.

"I want to go home," he said. "I am so tired."

"I know," said Maedhros. He stroked the short ends of Maglor’s hair carefully. "I am here. I am sorry."

"Do not be sorry," said Maglor. "It was not you who led us here. I am just - tired."

"Then you ought to sleep," said Maedhros, "and I will be here when you wake up, if you wish it."

"I do," said Maglor. His voice cracked. "I do wish it."

Maedhros hesitated. "I am not Atar, not yet Amil, but - I - I will take care of you, dearest. As long as I can."

"I know," said Maglor, squeezing Maedhros’ hand in turn. "I know."

His hitching breaths evened out soon after that, and Maedhros sat with him long into the night, banking the blaze of his spirit as best he could, breathing in time with his brother.

[nightmares-2]

Merry Christmas!

[searchingforserendipity25]

Hello beloved! Belated 5 sentences prompt:

"I have made up my mind," said Maglor.

Maedhros snorted, stirring the fire-pit without looking up from the flames, saying, "You have said so many times before, and still you do not go, and still I am not free."

"This time I shall go in truth," Maglor said curtly; he did not look at him, though he added, "Be pleased, for I am weary of such poor company; and I must, I must away, though you never would forgive it."

It would be true, this time - he would not quake with scruples in this. In the morrow Maglor would douse the last of the coals in saltwater; pack up his satchel, and walk inland.

He would not look back, though the sea's call would never quite leave his ears, nor his heart rest easy, stinging with another of his own betrayals - though the urge to check the absence of movement at the corner of his eyes would not abandon him for Ages.

But even if he remained, the fireside would be cool and empty, as ever it was, and Maedhros not come with him; he was willing to forsake any peace, to abandon the Western seas, to be free of the ghosts that clung to it.