#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.

[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

[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)

[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

[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.

[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.

[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.

[nightmares-2]

Makarato 💛

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Snow Day

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to @maglor-my-beloved for having submitted that beautiful drawing (please share it!!!) for me to get out of my writer's block.

It's my joy and honour to share the result of my toiling with you! <3

Characters: Elrond, Erestor, and Glorfindel

Words: 1550

Warnings: It's pretty cold, there's a sword, a bit of sadness, use of the M-slur for Melkor 😂

“Morgoth be cursed,” Erestor muttered, looking out of the window with boundless annoyance that made his face look drawn and pale. “It’s snowing.”

“It’s actually not,” Glorfindel contradicted, strolling into the study with a sunny grin. “It has just stopped. We could steal a few shields and slide down a hillside? Make the best out of it?”

At that uncautious suggestion, no matter how enthusiastically it was presented, Elrond lifted his head sharply from the letter he’d been perusing, hitherto having desperately tried to shut out the ongoing discussion between his friends.

He now realised that this had been a grievous mistake!

Neither one took well to being cooped up inside—the reasons for their mounting cabin fever might have been opposed, but the nerve-wracking effect of their continuous arguing was unfortunately much the same.

“I have too much work as it is,” Elrond finally interrupted the ensuing squabbling patiently. “I’d much rather you don’t add to it by wilfully engaging in dangerously reckless behaviour.”

Erestor nodded smugly, but his eyes returned to the icy desert outside longingly again and again as if he was earnestly considering Glorfindel’s proposal.

Shrugging, Glorfindel meanwhile leaned against the wall, crossing his long legs and smirking deviously at the much put-upon Lord of Imladris. “If you’re so opposed to a bit of innocent fun,” he drawled seductively, “I guess you’ll have to set aside your boring paperwork and come with us. Just to make sure that we won’t do anything you deem too foolhardy.”

“Can’t you just build snowpeople?” Elrond asked tersely, exasperation colouring his fatigue-laden voice. “That should keep you out of trouble.”

As he returned his attention to his correspondence, he missed the exchange of meaningful glances between the other two who’d instantly recognised the minute crack in Elrond’s usually so impervious mask of calm efficiency.

"Glorfindel is right," Erestor declared slowly.

Elrond’s head snapped up again in wordless shock—clearly, the bad weather had driven them stark raving mad if Erestor had taken to agreeing with Glorfindel.

“You should rest a little. Why don’t you come with us? Not everyone has had the chance of being parented by a hundred different people,” Erestor continued with that corrupting mix of petulant aggression and wide-eyed vulnerability that made him so wickedly convincing. “You could show us how it’s done.”

Before Glorfindel could snigger that there was but little mystery to the matter, Erestor had firmly kicked him in the shin to keep him from destroying their joint efforts by innocent bluster and ill-advised encouragement.

“There were hardly a hundred,” Elrond muttered, his resolve and interest in the dry reports about taxes and weather changes already waning inexorably. “And I would think that the two of you can figure it out on your own.”

Two mouths, pouty and rosy, opened to protest, and he lifted his hands to placate the storm of remonstrances and well-meant sermons before it could arise.

“As you wish. Please make sure that you’re wearing appropriate apparel—the wind can be quite chilling—and meet me by the Eastern gate. I’ve got to drop these off and retrieve my winter cloak and mittens before I even think of venturing outside.”

Watching them scamper away hastily before he could change his mind, Elrond wrenched his thoughts away from the duties he’d have to postpone until his return and, with an indulgent shake of his head, swiftly made his way to his own chambers.

When he finally arrived at the appointed meeting point, swaddled in several layers of insulating fabric, Glorfindel and Erestor were already waiting for him—they were also already viciously fighting about something the late-comer could not yet discern.

Elrond sighed and joined the fray fearlessly.

“I can’t believe you’d double-cross me like that!” Glorfindel muttered, visibly vexed, while eyeing the short sword in the other’s hand. “When I propose we take a detour to the armoury, I am an imprudent fool, but when you simply sneak in and out, you’re a genius!”

“Your words, not mine,” Erestor laughed and danced away when his colleague lunged forward to pluck the weapon from his grasp in a petulant attempt at checking the other’s glaring aura of petty triumph.

“Let’s go!” Elrond, growing uncomfortably hot as he helplessly watched them chase one another through the deserted hallway, exclaimed.

He sincerely hoped that the bracing cold and the creative endeavour would distract them sufficiently from their spat so their little outing would not end in the kind of grievous injury he had so adamantly wanted to prevent from the beginning.

In sullen, determined silence, they trudged up the snow-packed path leading away from the sheltered, cloistered paradise of Imladris until they reached a small hill, covered in fluffy, white powder and cruelly exposed to the presently dormant violence of the weather.

“So,” Elrond said quietly. “As Erestor has previously remarked upon so brazenly, this snowstorm might well be one of Morgoth’s curses which linger still within the darkness plaguing our world. When I was…young, we’d craft effigies to dismay and mock him so we’d be less afraid...”

Struck by the incandescent intensity of his friends’ regard, he fell silent for a moment, kneading the strap of his bag nervously for fear of having already said too much.

“I like this,” Glorfindel finally cheered after having given the idea some thought. “Let’s create cool guardians for Imladris. How about that?”

Thus, it was decided. Snow was progressively heaped, rolled, and pressed into the approximate shape of three lumpy Elven bodies under much grunting and giggling until they were satisfied with the raw building blocks they had assembled.

“Oh, come on, that’s not fair!” Glorfindel thundered as he watched Elrond reach into his trusty satchel and extricate a handful of sturdy chiselling tools from an old leather cover. “Erestor! Come look at that—our Lord Elrond, who claims to be blessedly free of the curse of ambition, has dragged scalpels and tiny hammers along.”

“Didn’t expect anything less,” Erestor mumbled, entirely enthralled by his own project—he envisioned a fierce warrior, armed and armoured, who’d stand stolidly atop the knoll and keep a cold, watchful eye on the landscape,  ever-vigilant to the enemy’s scouts growing bolder and roaming closer to Imladris with every passing day.

Miffed by the others’ clear attempt at cheating, Glorfindel rushed down the hill and into a nearby grove of tall trees to countervail his evident disadvantage by gathering supplies and aids that were readily available by nature’s grace.

As he emerged once more and clawed his way back to his snowy canvas, though, both Elrond and Erestor had nearly finished their snow elves.

Uttering a snorting noise of dismay, Glorfindel stuck the two perfectly beautiful branches he’d found into the slender, shapely body of his creation and took a step back to let his appreciative gaze drink in the unexpected success of his opus.

Indeed, he was inordinately pleased with the ferocious, aggressive look of his crookedly grinning gelid sentinel, and so he beamed with pride as he turned back to his friends.

Of course, Elrond’s snow statue had expertly chiselled features and wore a thick, blue scarf that blew like a banner of a House long-fallen in the icy wind, and Erestor’s piece was bestowed with a sharp blade, glittering in the sallow sun, but it simply wasn’t in Glorfindel’s nature to become truly enraged with envy.

“Foresight, caution, and good health shall keep Imladris safe,” Elrond said ponderously, patting the sharp, high cheek of his snow sage, who was unnecessarily well-dressed to withstand the freezing temperatures. He truly had been made in the image of his creator, one had to admit, as Elrond now cleaned his thick gloves of the last remnants of sticky, melting snow before dutifully preparing and packing his tools.

Diligent to a fault, he certainly yearned to return to his study and letters before the weather could turn on them and make them regret ever having considered so foolish a plan as to leave the safety of Imladris in these meteorological conditions.

Scoffing, Erestor nodded at his own fearsome, sword-wielding oeuvre with grim satisfaction. “Sharp blades and unwavering vigilance shall serve us better, methinks,” he hummed gently as he further imbued it with stern tenacity.

Both turned to Glorfindel who grinned sheepishly. “I’m with Erestor on this,” he admitted. “Thus, I…made him. Erestor will keep us safe.”

For a seemingly endless moment, Elrond—who’d undeniably gone somewhat overboard in the execution of his planned distraction—merely blinked as the wind was picking up again and now buffeted them with glacial needles.

“I can agree with that,” he finally said, mellowing. “Let’s leave our brave companions to guard the Realm—each in their own way and as best they see fit—and return to our lit fireplaces and comfortable chairs.”

It looked as if the other two would demur, so he quickly swore that there would be no more work of any kind upon their return.

“Let’s merely sit together, have a cup of warm tea, and talk about our childhood traditions as if they were not lost forevermore yet!”

With a last solemn, laughably superstitious salute to the resplendent results of carefree fun and amicable competition, they threw themselves against the near-solid wall of snow-laden squalls and fought their way back to Imladris.

There are no Masterlists nor tags this time.

It's just a random art/fic exchange as we're gearing up for TRSB!

Lots of love!

[nyenyerle]

[morgulien]

coming up with increasingly pathetic excuses for not letting other people connect to my bluetooth speaker because i don’t want to have to explain why it’s called “Maglor”

[eri-pl]

Slim Advent calendar 22: Time

“My lady.” Cano bowed as deeply as a prince’s son should before a Valie.

Vairë nodded to him. “What a pleasant visit. May I call thee Macalaurë? This has always seemed to be more poetic.” She kept working on her loom, pulling through it colorful threads with speed and precision beyond any other's.

“Of course.” He chose his next words carefully, not to say anything too controversial. He would much prefer to discuss those matters with someone less caring about controversy, and likely more knowledgeable, but his father barely let him talk to any of the Valar. Cano hated politics. And the fact that he had to be political in order to learn more about art. “May I ask you about the Great Music?”

“Lady Varda knows more, though she does not talk much. But even many of her Maiar would probably be a better source of inspiration, or, even more so, of Irmo's. But ask if thou willst.”

“Was there time then? Before Eä?” Cano forced himself not to blush. His father would probably find at least three logical errors in those questions.

But Vairë didn't admonish him. She paused her work for a moment, then answered. “No. There was no time then.”

“Please, don't treat this as doubting you, but, how did music work when there was no time?”

Now she paused for longer. Cano wondered how much to look at the Valie, and how much at the colorful, lifelike tapestries surrounding them. He should seem bold, but not too bold; decisive but not rude. The tapestries were so light that they flickered like flames with every breath, which made it even harder to not stare at them all the time.

Finally, Vairë spoke. “It might be better to say it thus: there was time, but unlike now. Order, but not yet a measure. Earlier ones came before the later ones, but none were longer than others, until they lasted over then and then more. They had no length, only direction.” Before Cano could verbalize his confusion, she added “Thou lovest thy father. That's one of the things the Noldor are famous for. And thou lovest your harp. And surely thou lovest thine father more, but it's not possible to say how much more. Twice? Thrice? Hundredfold? This question does not make sense. Now imagine time being in this way. That's how it was when we came to be, and that's how it was when we sang the Music.”

It took Cano some time to imagine, but she let him think in peace, and in the meantime worked.

“I see. That's harder to work with, but not impossible.”

Vairë looked at him deeply, pausing her work again. “Dost thou wish to create something resembling the Music itself? Do not.”

“I—” Now he let himself blush. Father wasn't there to chide him about it, and Cano really didn't want to anger one of the Powers. “Not something mighty. But I am seeking to increase my understanding of what music is.”

“Fine then.” She resumed weaving. “It would be pointless anyway. The Music was deeper in a way I cannot explain in any way thou wouldst understand. Like a fabric is to a thread. And yet, it was not complete.” The last words she said with sadness.

“How so? It's the world not complete then?”

“No, unless in the sense that it hasn't come to its end yet. The world is more then the Music, and we do not know all of it.”

Cano stood still, as politeness would have it — he was not some Vanya to sit when visiting one of the Powers, no matter what he would prefer, father made it clear — and Vairë seemed to understand this. It was enough that he asked them strange questions.

“Does this mean, my lady, that there shall be a time when your knowledge ends?”

“Not soon. And not as thou imaginest it. The Music was not…” She took one of her threads. “This is like the Music.” With quick movements of her fingers, she crocheted it into a small square. “And this is like Eä.”

She used a multicolored thread, so the square was mostly gray, but a contrasting line ran across it. “Those are the parts we have not sung. They are not limited to one place, as thou seest. But it is not a big part. The Music ended on the cadence, at least on a six-four before, if I were to compare it to the structures from thine book.”

Cano’s heart leaped with joy. Vairë herself had read his book? And didn't find it useless? Father had said it was decent, but not strict enough. But how could he make thinking about music even more strict? It was an art too, after all.

“I hope to write another one when I learn enough.”

Vairë smiled. “I'll gladly read it.”

[arofili]

if you're still taking prompts:

Elrond/Erestor/Celebrimbor, 33 (“Forget me.”) - Autumn or winter, maybe a last farewell before the fall of Eregion? (could also be gen or queerplatonic if you'd prefer)

I hc Erestor as Caranthir/Haleth's son, include that as you'd like :) (I also usually hc Elrond as fairly Feanorian, but again, you don't need to include that if you'd rather not)

<3

~ maglor-my-beloved

Forget me, Celebrimbor’s letter had urged. Leave me behind, let me die...

As if they could do that. As if they could simply forget all their love for him, all the nights spent together, all the history they shared!

“You know we cannot win this fight,” Erestor said wearily.

Elrond set his teeth as he donned his helmet, the last of his armor before the march. “I know,” he said shortly. “But you know we cannot abandon him.”

“I know.” Erestor grasped his gauntleted arm. Even through the armor, Elrond could feel the strength of his grip, almost as firm as Celebrimbor’s own. “But—but we will lose him, Elrond. You must be prepared to retreat when it is time.”

Elrond wrenched his arm from Erestor’s grasp. “We don’t know that,” he growled. “We can save him, if we try—”

“This is war,” Erestor said. He was older than Elrond: he knew the odds. He remembered the long and bitter days of siege, of blood, of destruction.

Well, Elrond had lived through war, also. He was born into it, had come of age into it. And he was not powerless, not anymore.

“I will fight for him,” he insisted. “To the very—”

“Don’t,” Erestor begged, his voice cracking. “Elrond. I cannot lose you too.”

“You won’t lose either of us,” Elrond insisted. He had no time for this. “Now come, or don’t. Either way, there is a war to win, and I will not wait until it reaches us.”

He turned and began to stride away.

Erestor followed. He always did.