#maglor scenario

[doodle-pops]

Cinnamon Love

Maglor x reader

Warnings: none, fluff

Words: 1.5k

Synopsis: “Oh really? Apple bobbing, apple picking, caramel apples, apple cider, apple pie—apple is clearly the best autumn flavour?” “You’re just saying that because I’m drinking a pumpkin spice latte and I didn’t get you one.” — Autumn Prompts

The low sun cast its golden light over the fields of Valinor, softening the edges of the world into a warm, hazy glow. The rolling hills of the Blessed Realm were adorned with patches of trees, their branches heavy with the ripened fruit of the season. Apple trees, to be precise, whose fragrance filled the air like a sweet promise of autumn.

Maglor had a basket in one hand and was reaching for a particularly large apple with the other, a small frown of concentration wrinkling his forehead. His long, dark hair, now free of the braids he usually wore, shimmered in the sunlight as he stretched upward. The sight of him like that—barefoot, relaxed, and so different from the fabled Kinslayer—was almost too much to bear.

You watched from a little distance, leaning against the trunk of another tree, a mug of pumpkin spice latte cradled between your hands. The warmth seeped through the ceramic into your fingers, contrasting with the crisp bite of the autumn air.

Maglor finally plucked the apple from its branch and turned towards you with a grin. “You’re just standing there, aren’t you?”

“Observing,” you corrected with a smirk. “Someone’s got to keep you humble.”

He gave you a mock-wounded look before he dropped the apple into the basket with a satisfying thunk. “I thought I had perfected the art of apple picking,” he said, moving towards you, his steps slow and deliberate. His eyes flickered down to the mug in your hands, a slight quirk of his eyebrow betraying his curiosity. Maglor had only recently taken to the odd custom of ‘lattes’—an influence of the returnees from the mortal lands—but of course, he’d effortlessly made it look as though he'd been doing it for centuries.

“Pumpkin spice latte, again?” he questioned.

“It’s autumn, Maglor,” you said, lifting the mug to your lips for a slow sip. “The season of all things pumpkin, cinnamon, and nutmeg.”

“You say that,” he replied, crossing his arms and leaning against the tree next to you, “but let’s be honest here—apple is clearly the superior autumn flavour.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, feeling the corner of your mouth twitch upwards. “Oh really? Apple bobbing, apple picking, caramel apples, apple cider, apple pie—apple is clearly the best autumn flavour?” you teased, echoing his words with a raised brow.

His eyes sparkled with amusement, the laugh already forming on his lips. “Precisely.”

You shook your head, suppressing a laugh. “You’re just saying that because I’m drinking a pumpkin spice latte and I didn’t get you one.”

His eyes narrowed, though the playfulness in his tone remained. “How could you not get me one?”

You took a deliberate sip of the latte, your lips barely touching the edge of the cup before setting it aside on the nearby table and folding your arms across your chest. “You didn’t ask for one.”

“Rude.” Shooting you a look, though the humour in his eyes mirrored yours. Gracefully, he set down the basket and moved closer, brushing your hand against his in a way that felt entirely natural, his fingers lingering against your skin for a moment longer than necessary. “Besides, you don’t even like pumpkin spice.”

“I never said I didn’t,” you replied with a faint smirk playing on your lips as you turned slightly towards him. “You’re assuming.”

“You always complain about it.” He gave you a pointed look, folding his arms to mirror your stance, though his posture was far more elegant.

He laughed then, a sound so rare that it felt like music in itself, and you couldn’t help but smile in response. There was something about the way he laughed that made the world seem lighter, as if for that moment, the shadows of his past were forgotten.

“Perhaps I’ve acquired new tastes,” you mused. “Or perhaps,” you added, leaning in slightly, your voice dropping to a near whisper, “I just wanted to see how you’d react.”

“See how I’d react?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow as he took a step closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth of him, his presence enveloping you in that way that always made you feel both giddy and safe. “My sweet love, you should know by now that I’m not easily impressed.”

As he stepped closer to you, the scent of him—earth, wind, and something distinctly Maglor—mingled with the crisp air. “Perhaps,” you murmured lowly. “But it doesn’t make me wrong.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

“I try,” you replied. He reached out and gently tugged at the end of your scarf, wrapping it more snugly around your neck. The action was so domestic, so casual, that for a second you almost forgot this was the same Maglor who once roamed the wilds of Middle-earth, the same Maglor who sang lamentations of sorrow and loss.

“You're going to be in trouble, you know,” you said, looking down at the apples he’d already picked. “Caramel apples, apple pie—you’re going to have to make all of it.”

He paused, a look of mock horror crossing his face. “All of it?”

“All of it,” you confirmed, nodding solemnly. “And I expect nothing less than perfection from the renowned son of Fëanor.”

He sighed dramatically, his hand covering his heart. “Ah, the burdens of being a legend. Fine. But if I make the apple pie, you’re making the cider.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Deal,” you said, holding out your hand to shake it, but Maglor just chuckled, catching your hand in his and pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your knuckles. The gesture sent a little thrill through you, though you tried to play it off with a casual laugh.

“Now, come on,” you said, trying to distract yourself from the way his lips felt against your skin. “We’ve got work to do.”

The two of you spent the next hour picking the best apples from the trees, Maglor quickly proving to be far more efficient than you at climbing up into the branches to reach the ones hanging just out of reach. He moved with an easy grace, his lithe form blending so naturally into the peaceful surroundings that it felt like Valinor itself had been waiting for him to come home.

“I’m beginning to suspect,” you called up to him as he tossed another apple down into your basket, “that you’ve done this before.”

“Only in my wildest dreams,” he replied, his voice muffled slightly by the leaves. He dropped down from the tree in one fluid movement, landing lightly beside you. “Though I’ll admit, it’s nice to finally pick apples without worrying about, you know, armies of orcs.”

“That does tend to put a damper on the whole experience,” you said dryly, passing him another basket as he leaned down to collect the scattered apples at his feet.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the ground, you both made your way back to the cottage, baskets brimming with apples and laughter lingering in the air between you. The kitchen was soon filled with the warm, rich scent of baking apples and cinnamon, Maglor humming softly to himself as he prepared the pie crust with an elegance you wouldn’t have expected from someone with his storied past.

“You’ve got a bit of flour on your nose,” you teased, leaning against the counter as you watched him expertly peel and slice the apples. He paused, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand before realising he’d only spread it further. “You're making it worse,” you laughed, walking over to him and brushing the flour from his face with your fingers.

He caught your wrist gently, holding it still as he looked at you, his expression softening. For a moment, the playful banter fell away, and the world outside the kitchen seemed to fade into nothing. His thumb stroked over your skin, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“For what?” you asked, your voice equally soft, caught in the unexpected tenderness of the moment.

“For being here,” he replied, his eyes searching yours as if he was trying to convey something deeper, something he wasn’t sure he could put into words. “For reminding me what it feels like to...live.”

You blinked, taken aback by the raw honesty in his voice. There was no grand speech, no flowery declaration—just a simple truth, laid bare between you. You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the baking pie.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly, stepping closer and resting your head against his chest. His arms came around you, holding you close as the scent of apples and cinnamon filled the air around you, mingling with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

For the first time in a long while, it felt like the world was at peace. And in that quiet moment, as you stood there in the soft glow of the hearth with Maglor’s arms wrapped around you, you realised that this—this—was what home truly felt like.

Masterlist

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[thescrapwitch]

Tidbit Tuesday

Thank you for the tag @thelordofgifs! Right now I'm focused on trying to get my Feanorian Week fics all done on time. However, a sudden snowstorm on the first day of spring (ah the joys of living in Canada) and a lovely comment reminded me how much I love writing Silm-fics with horror elements. So have a little sneak peak of a dark fairytale-ish one-shot my brain's been cooking:

At night, Maglor tossed and turned.

Listen, it whispered. Can you hear me dreaming beneath you? My lips kiss the bottom of your feet. My mouth aches to taste your flesh. My teeth are waiting for you. Listen, oh singer of the shining lands, sweet voiced prince with bloody hands. I am hungry, so hungry. You of all others here know what it is like to be possessed by hunger. Will you feed me? Will you give me what I want?

Maglor sat up, sweating, shivering from a fear he could not name. He pressed his hands against his ears. The whispers in his dreams did not fade upon waking. They continued to mutter, to claw at him. Hungry, hungry, I am so hungry.

He reached out. He needed to feel the soft breathing of the twins, to know that both Elros and Elrond were safe.

No one else was in the bed with him.

Tagging: @dreamingthroughthenoise @lordgrimwing @echo-bleu @sallysavestheday @camille-lachenille @leucisticpuffin and whoever else wants to join in! No pressure, of course :)

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

anyone want my 1600 unstructured rant about morality and fate in the first age? Here, it’s yours.

Absolute morality concerning doom and fate in Tolkien’s Silmarillion

The justification and persecution of the first age and its participants are heavily discussed, heavily disputed topics. In this we will explore the relevance of the first age to Eru’s plan, the extent of its events as products of fate, and the eventual moral judgement of participants in light of actions and given circumstances. Lore used follows the published Silmarillion (Ainulindalë, Valaquenta, Noldolantë) and the End of Days prophecy most recently given by Tolkien. We aim to draw accurate moral judgments and either demonstrate reasoning for or create hypotheses of characters’ fates by examining textual evidence of Eru and the Valar’s moral standings and involvement.

Of Eru Iluvatar, little is given. Here, we assume he is motivated by love for creation, and he would pass this to the three races of his children as their purpose of existence. Therefore the End of Days ushers in a peace free of evil that is devoted entirely to creative progress. However, the action of the first ages is concerned with the destruction of evil (being wilful and unprovoked immorality) due to Melkor’s rebellion. Let is infer that Eru has foreseen Melkor is incurably evil, and thus sees he must be wholly destroyed or absolutely captured; we infer also the existence of a law of conservation of power as a tenant of Eru’s plan (which men alone can withstand). Given this, the hand of men is needed to overcome Melkor’s power. Eru, who has power to create souls tied to the life of Arda, possessive of greater power— elves, and souls dissevered from it, possessive of lesser— men, contrives to mix them and breed a new race.

This new race is that of the Dúnedain. They have strength enough to face Melkor and can subvert the law of conservation of power, evidenced by the prophesied role of Ar-Pharazon’s fleet in the End of Days (wherein they will be unburied and their alliance decide the winning side). Before the siege of Utumno the quendi were taken to Valinor, and must return to meet men and breed the numenorean race. To the end Eru applies himself.

After Melkor’s first capture, he is offered mercy. This is a principled act: though Melkor had no remorse or feasible excuse, it is overhasty to punish a first-time offender. Melkor is instead given three ages of waiting and a chance to beg for release. This is similar to the fate of slain elves in Mandos. It is reasonable to assume that Eru was aware Melkor was incurable but knew also the initial forgiveness was necessary. In anticipation of his betrayal, and the darkness to come, Eru brought to life Fëanáro, greatest of elves, and put it into his mind to create the Silmarils. Fëanáro and his bloodline are designed as the vassals of the Noldor, responsible for leading them to Beleriand and protecting them from Melkor (evidenced by the march of Maedhros) while the first peredhil are born. Finwë’s second, marriage, too, was of Eru’s devising: he perceived Fëanáro and his kin were too volatile, thus the line of Fingolfin sired the numenorean race.

Nargothrond and Gondolin, devised at Ulmo’s will by Turgon and Finrod, were both indispensable in the creation of the peredhil lines. Of Nargothrond, King Finrod Felagund’s loyalty saved Beren Erchamion; of Gondolin, Tudor and Idril there met. They are therefore necessary to Eru’s plan. Of the meeting of Elwing and Earendil, it may be said that the respective falls of Doriath and Gondolin were necessary, though the manner in which this occurred (the turning of kin against kin) may not have been.

Now we examine the independent actions of Noldoli relevant to the designs of fate above described. First and foremost is the oath, which can be named rather rash than evil (though there may be evil in Fëanáro’s forcing of its swearing upon his children, the acts committed in its name are independent). Fëanáro’s following of Melkor to Beleriand to avenge his father and reclaim his property is not suspect, but the first kinslaying is. It was later proven that the Helcaraxë was not an impossible path, therefore making the weighing of Fëanáro’s need against the Teleri’s sentimentality obsolete. It can be claimed that the Teleri ought to have joined in Fëanáro’s cause or given the boats willingly, but it cannot be claimed that battle was an appropriate solution. Of the burning of the boats, we say Fëanáro’s actions were wilful, but not unprovoked: the early death of his mother, remarriage of his father, and the latter’s recent murder suggest significant grief and trauma, such that Fëanáro’s actions, while morally wrong, were not evil.

Fëanáro is the first elf we can properly describe as victimised, as his parents’ situation was outside of his control. Eru likely arranged it such so that Fëanáro would grow hale and steely, and thus be capable of leading his people to exile, and it is a similar thing that is done to Maedhros. His captivity in Angband taught him the internal strength needed to hold the east against Melkor, and thus allow the births of the peredhil and creation of the numenorean strain. These situations (and many similar) complicate the judging of acts based on immediate morality alone, for the undeserved emotional suffering occasionally accounts (as in the case of Dior withholding the Silmaril). Of Celegorm and Curufin in Nargothrond, much of their actions can be ascribed to the power of the oath: explaining but not justifying their part in Finrod’s death. This was their treachery not wilful and not evil. Their withholding of Luthien may be pronounced evil, though softened as it did no lasting damage— except, perhaps, politically between Doriath and the sons of Fëanáro, excusing Thingol and Dior’s withholding of the Silmaril.

Of Beren and Luthien, their actions were sound though directly contributed to the provocation of the oath and subsequent kinslayings (explaining but not justifying them). Whether the retrieval of one Silmaril was necessary to Eru’s plan or not is questionable: what would have happened if Thingol had not demanded such a price? Their quest is the crux around which the first age falls, and though it inadvertently caused great tragedy, it is likely alone responsible for the meeting of Earendil and Elwing, and their sailing to and convincing of the valar (a last resort). Thus is the second kinslaying in a sense completely justified: as a necessity of fate.

Unless one holds the Silmaril itself responsible for the safe passage of Earendil to Valinor (thereby necessitating the third kinslaying) then for Sirion can no excuse be made. The action of the oath alone and the psychological torment of the remaining brothers is sufficient to turn hate into pity; though one may not go far as to say they had no choice, one is compelled to offer forgiveness. Integral to the viciousness of this act are both the relatively defenceless state of Sirion and the importance of the Silmaril to its people: in this case, the benefit it brings outweighs the natural claim Fëanáro’s sons have for it. Elwing would have been morally right to suggest surrendering the Silmaril on the condition the brothers keep it in Sirion, but her suspicion of them due to their ransacking of her home prove this is not unprovoked, though still unjustified.

Here the nature of the oath is discussed. Foremost in discourse is its universal nature, such that even Fëanáro and his kin themselves are subject to it, and the supernatural power it has upon the foresworn. It is unclear whether the oath refers only to current perpetrators, or to those past including. If the latter is true then doomed are all foresworn, if only the former then the oath’s end shall come at the End of Days, when the Silmarils are broken (this particular act unspecified in their oath) and the oath becomes void.

Of Elu Thingol can we be most judgemental. If we hold the necessity of Beren’s quest in creating the numenorean line as unproven, then his hubris may be condemned as rash (similar to the swearing of the oath). Indeed, these two acts work against each other in the kinslayings. Thingol’s initial coldness towards the noldor is explained by their slaying of his brother’s kin, and his refusal to surrender the Silmaril by his hatred for their capture of his daughter. The latter especially is morally incorrect, though the Silmaril’s growing hold on him (which would lead to the fall of Doriath) again would turn our hate to pity. Thingol’s actions may be judged as no better nor no worse than those of Fëanáro’s sons.

Thus is no individual in the first age wholly evil, though the kinslayings and Thingol’s bride price may be held as morally wrong (as are Thingol and Dior’s withholding of the Silmaril). Of punishment, the suffering of the perpetrators would beg mercy, and, indeed, the fates of Maedhros and Maglor may be called apt. The torment of Maedhros as necessary in his role as Lord of Himring in particular may absolve this, and the peculiars of his mental state regarding the Nirnaeth Arnoediad as relative to its inspiration by Beren’s quest further complicate the matter of Thingol’s innocence, and further insinuate that Maedhros’ actions were not entirely wilful.

Inconsistencies between the silmarillion and our understanding of Eru’s plan may be understood through the intervention of men. Beren being the most prominent: his and Luthien’s love, provoking the bride price and then the quest, was doubtless unexpected. The Silmaril’s retrieval being half Luthien’s doing, it is possible that Eru foresaw her completing a similarly great deed (simply the overthrow of Sauron’s tower, perhaps) which he would hold to provoke the Nirnaeth Arnoediad: in his eyes, perhaps, a winning battle. It is, though, Ulfang’s betrayal that ultimately ruins the plan. Thought this text concerns itself only with the fates of elves, of Ulfang it can be said his deed may only be repented should the numenorean fleet side with the Valar in the Dagor Dagorath. Indeed, the End of Days alone brings full forgiveness for many actions of the first age, the fate of the Silmarils being with both entwined.

[meadowlarkx]

Maedhros/Maglor and 26?

26. ...as an apology

Ensconced by the bookcase, Makalaurë strummed a minor chord. The strings shimmered in the shadowy corner, releasing a sound like a sorrowful sigh—like snowfall—like the rustle of leaves in a withering tree. His black curls, disheveled as the robe he wore, blended seamlessly into the shade. Maitimo reflected rather ironically that his little brother had found the only darkened corner in Fëanor’s house: the study where Maitimo spent the fifth day of each week.

The flowing music faltered, and an audible sniffle could be heard.

Maitimo raised his gaze from the tract he was reading for next morning’s lessons and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

The harp was as big as Makalaurë was, but he had managed to haul it across the courtyard and up the stairs. His head was bowed in sorrow near the harp’s shoulder, and with his robe askew he resembled a crumpled bloom or perhaps a slug on a leaf. Still his weeping tugged at Maitimo’s heart.

“Makalaurë…” he began.

“Cease your interrupting,” Makalaurë sniffed. “I am composing.”

Here? Maitimo bit that back.

He returned his attention to the book. His tutor had been explaining some key points of Tirion’s history…

“You would not understand,” Makalaurë sighed. “There are times one must give voice to the emotion that lies in one’s heart, or resign oneself to Mandos’ halls with Grandmother.”

“Is this about what I said earlier?”

“No.”

Makalaurë went on playing. The melody now filled the room, one solitary, desolate note at a time. He started to hum in his beautiful voice, and lyrics threatened upon the horizon.

At the desk, Maitimo exhaled slowly. He hated when Makalaurë was angry with him. He was his favorite, dearest and brightest companion, and Maitimo could not bear to see him unhappy. He was also the most insufferable person in the world. He was very lucky, Maitimo thought, that Maitimo’s tutor had explained the concept of a tactical concession: and that he had Maitimo, who was older and smarter and reasonable in every way.

He closed the book and steeled himself. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Makalaurë cut off the music with a jarring motion of his hands; the strings twanged unpleasantly. “Whatever for?”

Determined, Maitimo rose and went to the shady corner with the bookcases. “I am sorry,” he said carefully (if tersely), “that I said Tyelko was better company than you.”

“Oh, it matters not!! You were simply expressing what you truly felt. You should always be honest and speak plainly. I am not upset at all.” His voice wavered.

Maitimo could not conceal the sigh at this.

Makalaurë wiped away tears and snot with the back of one hand. “You don’t really wish to speak to me,” he pronounced.

Maitimo grabbed the dampened hand. “I’m truly sorry.”

Makalaurë looked hopeful, but quickly disguised it, closing his traitorous eyes to become the picture of noble woe. “Empty words; you are merely appeasing me—"

“I am not. Do I spend all my days with Tyelko? I did not mean it, and I should not have said it. I’m sorry, Káno.”

Makalaurë peeked at him. “Are you?” he allowed.

“Yes.” Maitimo kissed his dark hair, and then his brow, and then his cheek. And lo, victory! everything was well again.

Maglor did not go to Maedhros, at first, when the news came of his return. He shied away from his presence like a shadow skitters from the light. Of course, his excuse was setting things in order in the Mithrim camp before departing for Fingolfin’s tents, but he lingered longer than he needed to—partly because he could imagine how the Mithrim camp might look to Maedhros, and that was humble, poorly-fortified, and rustic, despite the progress he had made in thirty years ruling there. The day drew on and at last, he could not resist the impulse to know, and see.

When Fingon showed him to Maedhros’ bedside, Maglor understood that Maedhros would not be surveying the Mithrim camp a while yet, nor anything else. His brother was asleep amid the furs, so still that Maglor first feared he was dead in truth. His right arm was bandaged and bloody, and his body scarred and windburned and starved. His eyes moved beneath his pale eyelids, as though chasing out some evil, and his breathing beat weakly. Weak himself, Maglor watched and made himself learn every detail, every wound and scar. Fingon, with a sympathetic look that was entirely unwarranted, showed him a chair and some poultices and left them alone.

He did not take the chair, but knelt by Maedhros’ bedside as he had done at his brother’s coronation. His mind refused to understand that Maedhros really lived and might yet wake. What he understood thoroughly was that Maedhros had suffered. It was one thing to know it, to imagine it every sleepless night and every moment his gaze drew towards the dark fortress of those mountains—to think of it each time he told his council there could be no attempt at rescue. It was another to see it.

When Maedhros woke, Maglor knew he would not want his apologies, or his company. He would do better to give them now.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Nelyo, my love, I am so sorry.”

The words felt blasphemous in the chill air: a presumption, however quiet. He kissed Maedhros’ mouth and felt the warmth that still pulsed in his brother, and hoped that somehow, it would carry them all through whatever came next.

[fandomsandfairytales]

Ooooooo I love this idea! I do have to say, it's got me thinking....what about bagpipes for battles 👀

first age elves going into battle with a marching band

[the-elusive-soleil]

I have mixed/varying feelings on the Halenthir scenario of "he thought they were getting married (bc LaCE) but she thought it was a one-night stand" But in such a scenario this is I think the best possible way for it to go:

A few days later, while she's working on preparations to leave Thargelion and lead everybody west, Haleth hears a couple of elves talking about "Lord Caranthir's wife", how valiant she is and how clever and how well-suited to him. It does not occur to her that they're talking about her. She assumes that Caranthir is married and didn't tell her; she's going to eviscerate him for leading her on and making her think he was available and dishonoring his wife like that. (And is definitely not jealous at all, no sir.)

Meanwhile, Caranthir hears a few Haladin gossiping about their chieftain's new lover, calling him beautiful and clearly a huge sap for her. He assumes that they're talking about someone else, some adan, because clearly that's not him. He's hurt and angry, not sure whether this is a case of Haleth having this lover before she wed him and not telling him, or of her just taking up with someone else already.

While he's trying to figure out whether to confront her about this or to just let it lie because she's leaving soon anyway, Haleth comes marching up to him in a fury about the wife he didn't tell her about, and they end up having a towering argument in which all the misunderstandings are, eventually, revealed and cleared up.

(The scene is public enough that both elves and Men write semi-humorous ballads about it. The names changed to maintain plausible deniability for the writers, but at least one version preserves a particular speech pattern of Caranthir's, which is how Maglor and then the rest of the Feanorions find out that their middle brother semi-accidentally married an adaneth.)

[arlenianchronicles]

"Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come.”

I was inspired to draw this when Clamavi de Profundis released their cover of the Oath of Elendil, but then I just left it to gather dust in my folders for months loll As messy as it is, I’ve decided to post it anyway because I really do like it (though I wish I had the energy to clean it up more).

Anyways, for context, it’s yet another scenario with Maglor and Tar-Minyatur! Maglor was wandering around the beach, only for Elros to sneak up on him and bring him back to Numenor. As for how Maglor was caught off-guard, I imagine Elros used a trading ship that Maglor was tracking in the hopes of doing some trade with humans, and he didn’t expect Elros to be there.

Then again, I think it’d be funnier if Elros appeared out of nowhere in his fancy king’s ship, and Maglor just stood on the beach staring at him like a dumb crab XDD

[stitcherofchaos]

@erendur and I were chatting in the tags of my previous post and I had an interesting train of thought sparked by a reply.

What if Maglor had not been born in his family? At first, my og thought was, “he would’ve done much better off in a different family.” But then I got thinking and it turned into,

“What if he didn’t exist at all?”

I just wanted to throw this idea out there to ask what you guys would think occur.

My train of thought imagined it would actually create a domino effect. Without Maglor, Celegorm would have been regent. Uldor would have not been killed by him- and probably would have killed Maedhros. The Noldolantë would’ve not been created. And who knows what would have happened to Elrond and Elros.

How would the Fëanorians do without their emotional support brother? (Especially Maedhros)

Actually, it’s making me think of other scenarios where one character is out of place and it changes the course of the story.

[meadowlarkx]

Thank you so much for such a thoughtful post and response to my tags ❤️ What you've said about looking at the treatment of specific things as opposed to trying to nail down one canon makes a lot of sense. Everyone has their own "read" of the "narrative" from whichever texts they've read (even before improvising on it or trying to rebut or build on it), but considering particular assumptions and difficult topics should still be possible regardless and is important, however they're addressed/redressed or not in everyone's own headcanons. You're really right to point out that the myth we get here surrounding the Petty-dwarves can both rely on antisemitic shorthand and stereotypes And itself raise worthwhile questions--the latter doesn't cancel out the problems of the former or anything like that, but they both can be at work there (which kind of applies to a number of other things in Silm I think depending on the slant you take, part of why it's so rewarding as a story to sit with, come back to, puzzle about etc). I relate to what you added about the fic writing here too. It's so easy to worry about trying to present a complete "thesis statement" on something, especially when you know it's been contentious, and I find personally that anxiety about that really stifles creativity--when fic can just be concerned with telling a compelling story (whatever that means to you), or exploring one aspect of a complicated situation or a particular POV. I've long since given up on trying to have my fics all make a "coherent" universe in terms of tone & headcanon also--thinking why not play around with different stuff! Anyway, you already said it but that's the "transformative" part. Fanworks get to explore what-ifs and specific perspectives/emotions/ideas and they're always going to be telling a different story than canon, even when they're meant to be woven seamlessly in along with it. And that's wonderful, that's like the bedrock of why we're all here, even!

I've been mulling something over lately. It's almost a given that one will find questionable elements to older texts; some are overt and some sneaky even to the modern eye. There are, undeniably, many such elements in Tolkien's work, and they cause a lot of trouble for marginalized readers and for fan creators grappling with it in relation to meta and fic.

That the Silmarillion is a largely-omniscient myth-text narrative, composed from a variety of drafts, the discarded versions of which we also have access to, further compounds the issue. Who has read what? Who samples from what? How deeply do some themes pervade both the text and the fandom? There are discarded portions that raise eyebrows (and thankfully, were edited out at some point). However, there are moments where those discarded portions shine through the cracks in exposition, dialogue and reasoning left in the official composite text by the sweeping style of the narrative. The composite can be seen to still rest on certain narrative and valuational presuppositions of Tolkien's - presuppositions he assumes the reader to share.

In the text, of course some have value or more of it, some have honor or more of it, some overcome darkness while some naturally succumb to it. The narrative certainty in these characterizations rests on these lurking (racist, antisemitic, ableist) presuppositions, and in some cases handwaves any deeper exploration or explanation.

There seem to be two fan solutions to reckoning with a cross-draft-consistent bigoted theme. 1) Write meta that explores its traits and manifestations in the text and syncretizes canon assertions with authorial biases, and/or fic that directly addresses the in-text impact of these biases. 2) With an awareness of the bigoted themes, create headcanons, new verses, and fic that subverts, rewrites, or negates the original theme. The former refuses to allow the presuppositions of the text to become the presuppositions of the fandom. The latter allows (particularly marginalized) fans generative space, fodder to create anew, breathing room, and expanded perspectives. Different functions, parallel purposes, both important.

Because it's fandom, and it's large, and our idea of on-the-side fun and not our job or our marriage, we do not have the same preferences for how we go about dealing with these textual issues or the cohesive pressure to be like minded (even as we recognize the need to deal with them). One person's way of reckoning with textual biases or gaps may strike another as reaching too far from canon to be of appeal. This is a common reaction to headcanons, canon divergences and alternate universes, and crack or humor, particularly in the tolkien fandom. However, personal preference is not a basis for asserting that someone is reading the text wrong, especially when the issue at hand is one of reparative analysis and creation.

I am drawn to the issue of the Petty Dwarves. Most information on them comes in pieces from disparate drafts and satellite texts. Some information was erased entirely from the published Silmarillion. However, many people have noted the continual issues in Tolkien's treatment of the Dwarves, the iterative issues with his treatment of the Petty Dwarves, and rightly begin to link the two, plumb them down to their connecting factor, and begin excavating the silences in the narrative which Tolkien allows to be filled by presupposition.

I have found that people who cite personal preference may bring up canon elements to excuse or disprove certain readings; I would argue that the canon elements cited are less often exculpatory of our faves and more often proof of deeper biases, proof of biased presupposition as a stand in for rich characterization. Let me explain. We hear from the Sindar that the Petty Dwarves are reclusive, aggressive, and territorial (on this they base their initial assessment that the Petty Dwarves are two-legged animals for hunting). We hear from the Dwarves who cross the Blue Mountains later that the Petty Dwarves descend from expelled Dwarves who were the smallest, weakest, most conniving and self-serving, and violent persons. At one point, Tolkien describes the Petty Dwarves as older residents in Beleriand than both the Sindar and the eastern Dwarves, and the original inhabitants of Nargothrond, and it is them who Finrod hires to finish its construction. Tolkien describes the Petty Dwarves as agreeing to do this under false and duplicitous pretenses (for what reason, he doesn't say); later, Mim tries to kill Finrod (again, the narrative is sparse on motive), and Finrod alternately outs the Petty Dwarves from Nargothrond or pays the other Dwarves to turn them out. Tolkien evidently means for this to paint a picture of a group of people who are inherently wicked, cannot help but be so, are hated and pitied (for one does not preclude the other, and all good people should pity bad people, after all), and bring about their own diminishment. There's the in-universe justification for it.

I mean to explore why it is not satisfactory to leave the matter alone at "the Petty Dwarves brought about their own downfall." To begin, why does Tolkien rely on the characteristics he does when describing both the Petty Dwarves and Dwarves in general? These are multiple pieces of bigotry at play, chiefly some old antisemitic stereotypes (which have already been unpacked at length and by Jewish fans who are more knowledgable than I; if other have more to add, please do so). But I will give it a try.

First, Tolkien never pins down why the Petty Dwarves are expelled westward, only vaguely pinning it on their inborn characteristics. One old piece of antisemitism held that Jewish people were smaller and weaker than gentiles; Jewish men are still held to be less masculine, which can be traced from a medieval supposition that Jewish men menstruated. Coupled with the ableism of expelling the stunted and the inutile, Tolkien describes here a sort of itinerant and pitiful scrounger who does not belong in a society to which it cannot contribute and into which it cannot assimilate. The concept of vagrancy and the homelandlessness (consider the antisemitism in the concept of the cosmopolitan Jew, and Tolkien's deliberate linkage of Dwarves and losing their homes), is further connected to antisemitism by the Petty Dwarves being duplicitous, self-serving backstabbers toward Finrod, who Tolkien sets up as innocent and trusting enough to sleep unguarded near Mim, further juxtaposing the two. Furthermore, the gentile assertion that Jewish people are violent is escalated to accusations of blood libel and sorcery. Tolkien may not go that far, but he ties this predisposition for violence into the passage about Nargothrond, and their territorial defensiveness and their aggression toward the Sindar. Jewish people have long been stereotyped as insular, traditional, and cold to outsiders (consider the gentile furor over "goy"). All of this passes under the surface of the text - where Tolkien does not elaborate, this rises to the surface to color the reading.

When fans identify these elements in the text (and realize they are very similar to Tolkien's handling of the Dwarvish sacking of Doriath, or gold sickness, or Dwarvish isolationism as a whole), they begin to investigate the places they show up in text. The meta they write must try to syncretize the canon of what is said with the authorial context applied in the characterization. The fic they write must try to fill in lazy gaps left, and to imagine and then confront the missing exigence to the conflict while refuting the antisemitic presuppositions upon which the text relies in place of characterization.

Because it's fanwork, some people may have concepts that you think miss the mark or push further with assertions than you think is logical. However, no one who is in good faith creating, exploring, or trying to remedy the issues of the text, can be accused of using their ideas as a cudgel against canon or against others. Discussion is welcome, when it is conducted in good faith as well.

Relying too heavily on the surface-level assertions of canon to shoot down these musings at times verges upon what I have described above: leaning into the in-world justifications of hierarchy and subjugation to excuse the real-world hierarchies upon which these presuppositions are built. It is not so important how or when the Sindar realized the Petty Dwarves were people: what matters is that Tolkien created a character group, designed to be hated and pitied but never respected, onto whom he mapped real world stereotypes, and set them up in events where these stereotypes lead. It's highly worth considering why we are defending portions of text that are inherently bigoted. The whole broth here is the issue, but people are quibbling over whether they've fished out a potato versus a turnip.

[welcomingdisaster]

thinking about various doriath scenarios and i am struck with the concept of maglor taking pity on the twins entirely unknowingly, at first. elrond and elros are quite young by elven standards, and the feanorians are certainly not close in friendship with the people of sirion; i can easily imagine maglor not knowing elwing has twin sons, or children at all. or perhaps he knows, but not in the particulars; perhaps he finds the royal chambers empty and assumes the children have fled, as their mother had before them, perhaps again with the gem.

perhaps elrond and elros know too well the story of their uncles to tell their names, or perhaps they're simply shell-shocked, too frightened to speak, and do tell their names to the blood-soaked company that surrounds them. perhaps elwing had prepared them to run; perhaps they are in common clothes, servants' clothes.

perhaps some regret seizes maglor then; perhaps he weeps. someone feed the children, he says, someone get them out of the rain. perhaps it is easier, when they are no one at all.

[instantdinosaurtidalwave]

desperately want to write a LotR fic wherein someone somehow gets their hands on a Silmaril, very much does not want to keep the Silmaril, and goes out of their way to find Maglor and throw it at him like a hackysack. If set in First Age Arda, then they'd find the nearest Son of Feanor to much the same effect.

For extra crack in the Third Age scenario, Eru has seen fit to undo the Oath, possibly as some form of parole for good behavior, and so Maglor has taken to hucking it right back at whoever found it because why would I want this these things have been nothing but trouble for me and my family you keep it

also i want this to happen before the Ringbearers leave for Valinor just so they can all bear witness to this at least once.

[doodle-pops]

Seconds Chances Are Worth Living For

Maglor x human!reader

Request: Hi can I request an fic (or onehsot) where a human finds Maglor wondering the beach where he threw the silmaril and they help him? - anon

Warnings: human!reader, light angst with happy ending/comfort, depressed and gloomy Maglor

Words: 1.3k

Synopsis: Nobody ever said second chances in life were easy, nor were changes necessary to bring them.

“Will you not come with me?”

His heart twisted painfully; your words lingered in the air like an unwelcome odour he desperately wished to dispel. Too often had these haunting words surfaced in his mind during the agonizing days of solitude. Too many times, he found himself yearning for them to materialize into reality, yet he remained resolute in his pride, steadfast against the prospect of accepting forgiveness. Deep within, he longed for the warmth of a fireplace, enclosed by walls of solace and finality—enough respite from the harshness of the ocean waves and the mournful cries of seagulls.

His posture, detached upon the rugged rocks, nearly melding into the static structure, remained unmoved. On the contrary, you stood unwavering before him, your gaze fixed upon his threadbare form draped in the remnants of shame and despair. It was a clash between an immovable object and an unstoppable force, and you were determined not to be the one to yield. Whether it was destiny or the cosmic alignment that led you to his desolate presence on the shores of Forlindon, you were resolved not to depart without pulling him away.

Defiance surged through your veins as you continued to face his statuesque figure, yet you restrained yourself from encroaching upon his personal space.

“If you stay another hour, you may succumb to fatal illness,” you pleaded, voice above a whisper. A strong gust of wind roamed the shores, prompting you to curl your cloak around your shoulders tightly to your body. There was a faint chattering of your teeth as you gathered the courage to speak up again. “Please, there is a cabin not too far away from these shores. The least you can do is come with me for something warm to eat and drink, perhaps a warmer change of apparel?”

Maglor’s gaze stretched into the distance, fixed upon the horizon, while his fingers gracefully danced through the air, as if caressing an unseen harp. Murmuring unfamiliar words, too delicate for mortal ears to grasp, his lament echoed the sorrows of a bygone era when the world was in its infancy. This was the poignant scene that unfolded before you: Maglor, singing with a voice textured like sandpaper, tears encrusting his eyelids, lips weathered and parted, fingers weaving through the invisible threads of melody, and eyes reflecting a profound abyss of desolation.

In a single glance, your heart welled with empathy, and tears threatened to spill from your lashes. In a burst of compassion, you implored and beseeched him to find solace within the confines of your cabin, offering a glimmer of hope to bring an end to his eternal torment.

“Please,” –you stepped closer, dwarfed by his largeness despite his malnourished physique– “I’m not asking you to stay forever if that is what you believe I seek. I only wish to help you—”

“Why?” He spoke or rather, croaked!

“Well…” you fumbled, stunned at his ability to communicate after minutes of attempting to capture his attention. “Because it is the right thing to do.”

“Why?”

Flapping your lips like a fish and furrowing your brows to mimic confusion, you stammered, “W-Well, I mean—You shouldn’t be alone out here in the element…suffering. You deserve a warm bed and comfort.”

“Why?” You never imagined that reaching out to aid a person would become so difficult. Indeed he was proving to be an unmovable object, but you were willing to be that unstoppable force who spoke wisdom into him.

For a fleeting moment, your gaze descended from his lean countenance to the weathered rock upon which he perched, his nimble fingers still weaving through the breeze in search of a haunting melody. A serene ambiance enveloped both of you, juxtaposed against the impending unease hanging in the air. The turbulent seas clashed vehemently against the headlands and platforms, while the sky hinted at an impending tempest, prompting you to ponder earnestly on what he sought from you amid the impending cataclysm.

Rubbing your cheek to battle against the frost nipping at your skin, you pinched your lips, then scratched your head as though an oncoming headache was surfacing. “Because I want to help you and I believe you are in need of help. My mortal compass would not rest well knowing that I left someone out in the element to suffer when I could relieve some of it.”

“And…what if you are…” He never finished his words for his throat seized up on him, but they lingered in the air ringing obviousness to what he was conveying.

“Wrong? Then I will learn a life lesson to not trust strangers who are on the brink of death.” Releasing a chuckle as you crinkled your nose, you looked at him once more. “I rather spend my time helping someone in need of it instead of having restless days and nights knowing I left you to suffer. If I am wrong…—everyone suffers differently, the good, the bad and the indifferent. What matters is that I helped; what you choose to do after is your choice and path.”

For the first time since your encounter, his lacklustre gaze fixed upon your earthly form, shrouded in ebony. His eyes meticulously studied every nuance of your being, from the strands of your hair down to the contour of your chin, even discerning the intricacies of your skin that radiated vitality. It was a quality of his that had languished in purgatory for countless eons. Compelling his lips to part, his pallid complexion yielded, producing droplets of moisture that emerged, imparting a semblance of colour to his wistful countenance. “But…am stran…ger.”

Resisting the urge to physically shake him by his shoulder before being beyond complex, you huffed and widened your eyes, tears threatening to spill as your emotions swallowed you. “Yes, yes! I know you are a stranger! You could be a sea creature too for all I know, who crawled out the depths of the ocean to lament his sufferings to the surface world! But none of that matters because I know a suffering person when I see one because I too… Please, let me help you. Don’t…give up without trying. Let me help...”

Maglor drew in a slow, measured breath before exhaling. It felt as though some divine intervention, dispatched by the Valar to alleviate his torment, had arrived in the form of your unwavering determination. Perhaps the burden of his endless years wandering the shores had become too much for even the Valar to bear, prompting their counsel for his return. Alternatively, this could be yet another vivid dream, a product of years spent attempting to conjure solace. Regardless, it all seemed serendipitous.

Though he longed to inquire about his fate should he accept, the strength to articulate a single syllable eluded him. As his eyes locked onto yours in search of sincerity, he grappled with the duality of seeking both truth and deceit, yearning for the former.

Setting aside his infamous pride, swallowing it like a scalding-hot, white rod, a new chapter unfolded. The courage amassed since ancient days returned, instilling confidence in his actions. However, the lack of physical strength betrayed him, causing his legs to give way, sending him tumbling into the damp sand. In that moment, he felt an overwhelming desire to weep at the transformation he had undergone and the shame he carried. Your arms delicately extended, encircling his waist, as he clung to your figure. From a once-great prince to a desolate wanderer in need of mortal compassion, Maglor held onto you as you struggled to lift him onto his feet, leaning his weakened body against yours.

“All is fine, I have you. Just walk with me, small steps and we shall get there safely and securely,” you softly reassured as you carried him towards a new beginning.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @ladyenchanted @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster @hermaeuswhora

[lamemaster]

The Magician

Request: I feel like it's required for phantom of the opera to be maglor lol! A mask and cloak to hide ears, the light of the Trees,(which could also be why s/o thought of him as an angel!) and his scarred palm. Singing his hauntingly beautiful tragedies into the night, that is where our 'Christine' learned to sing. How very fitting. *Low key inspired by silmapens art of him doing theater*

Pairing(s): Maglor x Reader / (Spoiler) x Reader

Genre: Phantom of the Opera au (hehe)

AN: Fall event yayyyyy~ (Also the way I had half of this thing written before the request is not real. We share the same brain cell anon)

The Shadow, the Wraith—there are many names for the phantom that haunts the halls of Kalis Hala. A sprite whose steps echo at the untimely hours of the night.

Some call him a spirit, others claim he is a man from the East with long, flowing hair, while whispers tell of a doomed elf.

But the theater and its ghost remain inseparable. Entwined in rumors is the Shadow, whose words and music transformed a ramshackle puppet shop into the most esteemed theater in the kingdom.

A legend that holds within it the dreams of hundreds and the tears of thousands. Its backstage hums with the chatter of its artists, its seats brimming with patrons that multiply with each passing day.

Behind the rich, velvety curtains, you stand, clutching a letter. From your confidante, the one whose angelic voice, heard by many, is yet to be linked to a face. The one whose name is engraved on the door of Box Five.

His voice found you in your darkest hour. In the attic of discarded props, you first encountered his mournful notes. And that was how you met him. Ghost to many, the Magician to you.

But tonight, as you prepare to face the crowd for your debut as the lead singer, your heart pounds with uncertainty. In your grasp lies the Magician’s letter—his demands and requirements for tonight’s show.

Your name, written boldly as the lead—a demand that unsettled many. For an unknown nobody from the company to take center stage. Amid the glares and whispers, you murmur his name.

With your eyes closed, you conjure the fleeting image of his flowing black robes of mourning, his nimble fingers wrapped in silken veils, an unchanging presence during your secret meetings. His voice, unlike that of any mortal. His songs that could make you weep, laugh, or slumber at his will.

In the middle of the second act, your eyes find him, and your heart skips a beat.

With renewed fervor, you sing for him, a smile threatening to break across your lips. The rest of the show passes in a blur. As soon as the final note fades, you rush to your changing room, as fast as your feet will carry you.

In the crowded hallway, full of sweaty, euphoric actors, you somehow end up in his arms. You drink in the sight of him as his arms wrap around your waist.

The knight of your dreams.

Tonight, he has decided, tonight will be the night he reveals himself to you—his angel, away from Valinor. The bearer of his songs.

Maglor had watched you perform from the rafters, from the safety of rooms unknown even to the oldest patrons.

Tonight, when the world craves to hold you, he will be the one to claim your time and affection.

And perhaps, in time, you will come to love him—his mask, and beyond. The scars of the Silmaril may yet be healed by the kiss of your lips. You are his salvation.

He waits for you in your changing room, hidden behind the mirror that leads to his secret tunnels. Tonight, you will see him in your reflection.

Barely resisting the urge to claw at his mask, Maglor waits. Any moment now.

From minutes to hours, to the pale sprinkling of dawn, he waits. But you do not come.

His mind races with scenarios—wild, maddening thoughts. Has someone dared lay claim to his prodigy? Did he not make his intentions clear to the patrons?

It isn’t until later that he sees the reason for your absence. The gleaming knight of Rivendell. Once Lord of the House of the Golden Flower—Glorfindel. Seated in the box closest to you, his gaze fixed on you, your careless, fleeting glances in his direction tinkering with your faltering notes.

Your changing room, once overflowing with roses from Maglor, is now invaded by the cheer of the Golden Flower.

With clenched fists, crescent moons imprinted on his palms, Maglor watches as you effortlessly fall into the arms of the golden lord, who tucks back your wayward hair with aching familiarity.

"You must meet him," you prattle cheerfully to the blurred figure of your phantom. "Glorfindel is a friend. A savior. I wouldn't be here—"

Your words die in your throat as an unseen force seizes your lips, silencing you. Panic floods your chest as you look to the Magician. The usual warmth in his presence has been replaced by a chilling cold.

"You skipped four notes tonight," he declares, his voice like ice. "Is this the time for such cheer?" His words echo harshly in the attic.

You stare at him, helpless. It had never crossed your mind that your Magician—the source of your music and song—could wield such cruelty. He had always been your muse, never your fear, despite the rumors that clung to his name.

"Do not succumb to distractions. Stay away from the lordling." His sneer cuts deep, giving you no chance to respond. "Do you understand, my Lark?" he asks, finally releasing the grip he held over your words.

Gasping for air, your gaze meets his, laced with the sting of betrayal. The bond you had so carefully built with the shadow of Kalis Hala now feels fragile, fractured. Beyond the veil, you see him pacing, agitated.

"He is a friend, like you are," you plead, your voice soft. "Glorfindel will cause no harm. He is dear to me." Your words carry the weight of memories—of the time when the elven lord had saved you from the plague that ravaged the village of your birth. "I will not falter again. There will be no err in my music. Not because of him."

"I am the owner of this theater. I am the source of your fame, the music in your words. It would do you well to remember that, my Lark. Do not dismiss my words so willfully." His voice hisses like a venomous snake, fury so intense it feels as though centuries couldn’t contain it.

"Now throw away those jarring yellow flowers and rest for the night," he commands. The rage evaporates, replaced by the familiar tenderness you once knew, leaving you bewildered by the ghost of the opera.

You do not reply. Nor do you offer him reassurance. You will not abandon your friend over an unwarranted tantrum.

That night, you ignore his words for the first time. Leaving the pearls untouched on your dresser, you pull on your shawl and slip into the chilly night, finding yourself on the director’s mare, racing toward the manor on the outskirts of town.

In his arms, you are delightfully human. He can feel the steady rhythm of your heart, and his thumbs trace the warmth of your flushed cheeks. Unbothered by your sweat-slicked brow, Glorfindel presses his forehead gently against yours. "You were marvelous," he whispers, his voice full of elvish delight.

You truly were. Your songs, your voice, the graceful movement of your limbs in perfect sync with the dancers—it was something he would never forget.

Perhaps Lúthien was the fairest elleth to ever walk on Arda, and her dance enchanting enough to lure Beren. But to Glorfindel, you surpassed all legends. He loved you for reasons he couldn’t fully explain.

Why had his reborn heart bound itself to a mere mortal? A woman he had plucked from the very brink of death, whose faint pulse he had nursed back to life.

He loved you because, when everything else in Arda seemed to wither under the corruption of darkness, you lived. You clung to life—and to him.

His thoughts are interrupted by sudden screams. Chaos ripples through the theater, and the sickly sweet smell of death fills the air.

On the stage lies the broken body of a guardsman, crumpled and lifeless. A note is stuffed into his frozen mouth, his face twisted in eternal terror.

Words, elegantly written:

The Elven Lord must return.

The message leaves you pale and trembling in Glorfindel's arms. Your eyes dart around the empty stage, scanning the deserted seats, dread curling at the edges of your mind.

And then as if the familiar sense of dreadful choking returned with the burning gaze of your Magician. His presence- unwavering in the shadows, prowling in on your world.

[saurongorthaur9]

I love ur posts about sauron💖💖

Do you think if sauron had to fight all 7 sons of feanor, would he win? He's most powerful creature in middle earth after morgoth right?

And whatever skills they have (politics, singing, administration, hunting...) sauron has every single one of them.

Aw, I'm glad you enjoy my hyperfixated ramblings on my favorite Dark Lord <3

As for the hypothetical scenario, I think your question hinges on a couple things: 1) what "fighting" means, and 2) at what point in time it's happening.

One, we know that Sauron isn't the best at physical combat. The few times we see him participating in some type of physical combat, he doesn't come out on top. I think if all seven Feanorians ganged up on him at once in physical combat, the Feanorians would probably win.

On the other hand, if it was more of a political battle, or something other than a physical combat, I think Sauron would have the edge. We know that's the battlefield where Sauron truly excels. We know he can be outwitted there - we see it happen in LOTR - but that takes most of Middle-earth absolutely greatest and wisest minds to do. But I think Sauron would have the edge over the Feanorians for several reasons.

I think Sauron would find the Feanorians fairly easy to manipulate. First, they've got the constraints of their Oath, which Sauron would absolutely use against them. And second, from what we know of the individual Feanorian's weaknesses, I think Sauron would be able to exploit those. Maedhros tends to be too trusting; it's how Morgoth captured him in the first place, and he also trusted Ulfang, which was a large reason why the Feanorians lost the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Then you've got the three Cs, who all tend to be rash, impetuous, easily angered, and not great about thinking through their plans. Sauron, who is known for his patience and using the rashness of others against them, would absolutely eat those three for breakfast. Maglor's flaw seems to be that he's too passive; I think he'd be harder for Sauron to manipulate, but he tends to just follow his other brothers even when he doesn't agree with what they're doing. And we really don't know too much about the Ambarussa, but they seem similar to Maglor in that they tend to be more passive and just follow their more impetuous brothers.

All of this to say: I think Sauron would have an absolute heyday playing mind games with them, manipulating them, turning them against one another, and generally playing with them like a cat with a mouse.

A second, more minor, point is what time in history this hypothetical fight is taking place. If it is right after the Feanorians arrive in Beleriand, I think Sauron would have an easier time with them than later in the First Age when they've established themselves and are acting a little less impetuously after they've lost a few battles. I still think Sauron would win if it was a fight other than physical, but I think he might have a bit of a trickier time with it.

TLDR: Sauron would lose in a physical fight against all seven sons of Feanor at once, but if it was some form of mental or political fight, the Feanorians would be toast.

Thanks for the ask!

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Kinktober 2024 - Dirty Talk (Humiliation/degradation & bondage/shibari/suspension)

Maglor is forcefully rid of a few illusions by Daeron of Doriath.

Prompts: Dirty Talk (Humiliation/degradation & bondage/shibari/suspension)

Pairing: Daeron x Maglor

Words: 560

Warnings:Vulgar talk, reference to genitals, humiliation, bondage

Gritting his teeth in defiance, Maglor willed his muscles to relax.

He knew not with what dark spell Daeron had imbued the slender lianas that constrained his limbs, but he was too proud by far to struggle vainly against their hold any longer.

Dangling a mere foot above the mossy ground, he was unable to so much as shift his weight into a more comfortable distribution, much to the visible enjoyment of his ungracious host.

“What happened, Mighty Singer?” Daeron purred provocatively. “You’re not gagged, are you?”

The power of the wood dweller’s voice buffeted the bound Elf like a strong, fragrant wind, but Maglor merely glared wordlessly. He’d not give Daeron the satisfaction of getting him to beg.

“Not so mighty now, are we?” Daeron went on as he let his long, slightly rough fingertips drag along the beautifully chafed skin of his guest. “As ever, you Ñoldor bite off more than you can swallow. Was this not your idea?”

Breathing in slowly through his flaring nostrils, Maglor puckered his lips to keep from bursting into impassionate speech despite his firm resolutions not to engage in this absurd game.

“What did you expect?” Daeron whispered into his ear in a dangerously warm, sensual tone. “Did you imagine I’d take you out into the forest and bed you on a blanket of soft moss?”

Maglor narrowed his eyes suspiciously—he was appropriately wary of the insidious might of seduction and devastation Daeron’s singsong words held, but he couldn’t close his ears and mind to them even if he wanted to.

“Is your megalomania so out of control that you envisioned a scenario where I feed you sweet berries while I feast on your body, licking my way from your shapely ankles to your cock? Did you foresee that I’d let you take me against an old tree, our breathless voices startling the night birds out of their lofty perch?”

“Vulgar,” Maglor hissed, feeling the organic, verdant ropes holding his legs open cut into his swelling flesh as the corrupting magic of the fantasy his captor had conjured up seeped inexorably into his bloodstream.

“Ah, you’re still with me then. Good,” Daeron crooned, combing his fingers through Maglor’s unbound hair so skilfully that he drew a needy whine from the one who’d hitherto given him nought but sullen silence.

“My prince,” he added in a mocking tone that made Maglor gnash his teeth with fury—it was humiliating to be kept thus, immobilised and helpless, while that wicked wood siren purled like a poisoned stream, filling his mind with lurid, lewd visions of mindless abandon.

At that moment, he hated Daeron almost as much as he wanted him.

“You truly thought you’d have me on my knees, begging for your cock?” Daeron laughed as he saw the fiery glint in Maglor’s luminous eyes. “You’re on my home turf now, beautiful, and I will do to you whatever I see fit. How does that taste?”

Maglor was about to bare his teeth when Daeron’s lips pressed against his ferocious snarl in a kiss devoid of seduction or artifice.

“Like hunger and hatred,” Maglor replied in a hiss, craning his neck to pursue that ill-mannered mouth as it pulled away.

“Quite so,” Daeron cackled and sang the bonds tighter yet. “You’re mine—better get used to it! It shall be a long night!”

@tolkienpinupcalendar <3

Thank you so much for reading!

☞ Masterlist

[hirazuki]

Impressive WIP list, my friend! May I know some more about "Eönwë's camp"? (Yes, I am predictable x))

Thank you!! ("impressive" lmao more like I have the attention span of a hamster XD) And absolutely nothing wrong with being predictable, so are we all ♡

I fear that I've misled you with the title, though... Eönwë's camp is the setting, yes, but our favorite herald doesn't actually make an appearance ^^; It's a what-if scenario at the end of the First Age, of what if Mairon, after his plea to Eönwë failed, was making his escape from his camp at the same time as Maedhros and Maglor were sneaking in to take the Silmarils, and they briefly crossed paths. Here's a snippet:

“Third tent on your right,” he says in a low voice. “That blue one.”  Maedhros does not thank him, and Mairon does not wait. He turns his back – and if that is yet another unwise decision, it is merely the latest in a long line; he has been acting out of character since waking up with salt water in his mouth and seaweed in his hair and loss in his throat and his soul, and, if anything, he should thank Maedhros for grounding him, for his presence has shaken him up and brought him to his senses – and continues making his escape. He curls his left hand in front of his abdomen, fingers ready to call forth a spell – just in case. (He is without his sword; they took it, and he cannot risk being caught to reclaim it, though its absence is carving into him with every step as surely as if it was the star-forged blade itself.) “They’ve put the fire out!” he hears a new voice whisper. “We don’t have much time until – brother, who was that?” Mairon tenses.  “No one,” Maedhros says after a heartbeat, his voice low and even. “Come, they’re this way.” He hears their footsteps making for the tent he indicated. Later, sitting at a table in a room full of things he despises, driven there by road-weariness and the need for information, he will overhear how the last of Fëanor’s sons reclaimed their Silmarils only for them to burn their hands, the eldest throwing himself into a fiery chasm. And, in his dark corner, he will imperceptibly lift his flagon of wretched dwarven ale – the only drink to be found at wayside inns this close to the mountains – in acknowledgment of the only member of that race in whom he had glimpsed a similar spirit. And he will allow himself a moment of sentimentality to think of him, falling into the earth, and of Fëanor, who was consumed until nothing was left but ash, and wonder if, in the end, fire always calls back its own. Much, much later – at the end of everything, with fumbling fingers and crumbling rock and the melting of metal – he will remember this. But this is the First Age, still, if only barely, and for all his powers and his skill, Mairon cannot tell the future. A smile cuts across his face – in gratitude and relief, for all its sharpness – and he reaches the edge of the camp, becoming one with the shadows.