#maglor x daeron

[searchingforserendipity25]

Experimental Exchanges of Oral Traditions Among the Eldar | On Ao3.

Maglor/Daeron. Explicit fic. For Silm Smut Week @silmsmutweek, prompts from Day 3 and 4 (self & craft/lore, magical and supernatural elements, dom/sub, toys & props, shades of teacher/student).

Their first conversation- discussion, truly - happened very swiftly after meeting, when Daeron asked with his best sly courtesies if there were any texts written on the feats of the Noldor in Beleriand already, and Maglor had barely looked up from filling his brother's wine goblet with an absent-minded, "O, I am sure we will get to it in time; but I am not sure there is much use holding with written memory anymore."

Daeron had set down his own goblet a little more harshly than was polite. Matters had devolved considerably afterwards.

After their Flight - their Siege, their Exile - the Noldor had taken to reconsidering their relationship with material crafts and immaterial memory-keeping. This, Daeron gathered afterwards, varied greatly between those that had crossed the Helcaraxë and those that had taken to the sea on stolen ships. 

Whether it was a deep commitment to vanguardist theory, the wary wisdom of a cavalry chieftain, or pure idleness, Maglor rarely cared to jot down anything of his works to paper. In his father’s Tengwar or Daeron’s Cirth, or the notation systems of his invention he found much to admire unstintingly; but he did not keep diligently to the rituals and methods of writing down his work, either.

He was all for living memory instead, a passionate teacher far more than a careful scribe. Teeth and tongue, memory and enchantment, these Maglor valued far above ink and parchment in his own art. 

The smiling, arrogant warrior that had argued with Daeron on the merits of communal chants over carved walls had been ruined altogether. All the same, he was proven correct in one thing only. Maglor's bone-deep and infuriating certainty that he would live on to remember and keep remembered all the songs and lore of his people proved true at the last, and past the end of all tales he could claim a right to tell.

It was because of his dues owed to minstrelsy that he had not dashed himself against the shore, all the long years of Beleriand’s catastrophic sinking. He had clambered over many a sinking cliff instead - sang the salt-spray away from his path, raised himself up through the torment of the Starkindler's judgment whenever he started to sink into drowning.

 Deliberate, he went up and onward, survived the end of his own lament, and in so doing made certain it would be kept alive always.

 Daeron, however, had spent that time rather busier preserving the ancient waters and forests of the Eldar with enchantments of hiding and protection, and setting down the history and poetry and lore of the Sindar instead. Songs ought to be recorded, deeds fell and great, the voice of the sea put to carved bark before it faded. It was enough that the record existed, he felt; though at times he liked to bring them out and read them to the birds that came to sit as an attentive audience to the recitation, and sang the melodies entangled in the verses backs at him in their own chirping trills.

Daeron was not much impressed with tales kept ever-changing by painful fits of divine madness and punishment , nor the regret that kept Maglor from setting down the last edited version of his laments. Any aimless wandering could be a pilgrimage, if the walking-song was worth singing; but this windswept, sea-bound dedication to mourning rituals was wildly irregular, too.

Daeron, too, was fearful, of the finality of the finished epilogue, the lingering silence and written word. There was great terror to be faced once the ink with all its dear lost names was dried, and not a letter more could be changed nor altered.

That had been no reason not to invent the letters, and was now no reason not to write in it. To sing at all was a fearful vocation; that was why it had to be sang, that was what they were for.

 And that was all the more cause for Maglor to follow his exalted example. Him alone was rightly named Daeron's match in the craft; and the evil of his deeds did not unmake his obligation or absolve him from his duties. To write did not make ancient lore less or more foolish, nor the past kinder; but he wrote so it might be hoarded. If that was greed, then Daeron was covetous indeed, but wise about it.

That was Daeron's covetous demand, when their paths crossed, and their conversation turned once more to familiar lines turned bitter with the alteration of the years.

He could speak with him of the futility of alphabets and records in isolation, the grief that absented itself from any audience and yet demanded to be retold. He could concede to sharing wine and gathered berries with Maglor, to walking in shared purpose for a time. If not, he would not have call him from the through the wrecked shores to the deep forests, and bedded him in the grass.

But he would not, Daeron told him very clearly, keep company to those terms of service to song as Maglor employed. He could not have him truly, and would not, until there was a thing finished and complete in itself to be had.

He had no patience left for anything less than a dedication to perfect records. Differences in stylistic approach and cultural memory be damned - he, too, was a high master of the craft, as high and higher, and remained so as much due to his song being sung and by the fact of his wisdom replicated and captured on wax and parchment, etched his own Cirth upon hollow trees and painting on the walls of dry caves. The alphabet he had designed was a matter of pride, still, and never more necessary, kept alive into perpetuity.

It was all very well for Maglor to argue, high-minded and eerie-eyed, that every living thing was a vessel to the memory of its wounds and loves, and the singer  in exile the living vault of the dead - but he could not be permitted to think to live like this was to do true service to either the dead or the craft.

There were standards, even in exile. Lore and art were their own craft, with their own principles - what were minstrels for, if not to outlast the past and keep it alive in proper and decent fashion? Changing the length of mourning cantos and solemn ballads with every day's new and renewed grief was not tolerable minstrelsy.

That there was nothing decent at all in Maglor was not Daeron's concern, as long as he could still sing.

To sing alone was not enough. Maglor had forgotten it, set aside that vocation in preference of foul, foul works, but that did not mean that it had forgotten him in turn.

To be the best of singers one had to give one's over to be heard, written, read back to him, the principles applied to him still. The thankless sea did not count; and a song had to be heard, even if only by the birds, for it to be made true and final all the way through. Daeron meant to uphold these principles and see them upheld, even if discipline must be called for.

It was not justice, but justice was not his craft. Punishment, absolution, the fate of the many - these things he had only trusted to his ling and the stars. The stars had pronounced their sentence, and Maglor kept himself alive to suffer it; Daeron did not think to contest the matter.

Maglor thought him strange and wonderful for this hierarchy of concerns; but Daeron had never been prince nor warrior chieftain. He, at least, was under no false impression that his worth to the Music rested anywhere else than in preserving it.

Maglor raised up his scorched hands in wry defense and self-accusation: Daeron was not moved. Heavenly punishment was not an excuse to be considered, and if anything only a greater encouragement to perfect his dedication to the art.

"If you cannot decide upon it, nor write it yourself, I can do both with my own hands, " he said dismissively. The offer alone blanched Maglor's cheeks of all colour with shame; but Daeron had not much patience for that, either. "Though you will have to decide upon the final form of your works, and dictate them."

"Dictation alone will not suffice, for such a task," Maglor said, the deep, soft-edged timber of his voice turning softer and rougher. Sea-voiced, he could not hide the tide swell of his desire when he looked upon Daeron's righteous visage, the deep-rooted steadiness of his devotion to lore-craft. "Your demand is just and sensible. I am certain I can find a means to apply myself to the challenge of it at last - under the guidance of Daeron, among all singers the most masterful."

Daeron did agree. It was a sound notion: the means, he felt strongly, were justified altogether by the righteousness of the ends. His lady Lúthien, of whom he sang still with terrible fondness and terrible grief, would be well-pleased. She had always encouraged him to advance beyond the set order of things, to be ever inventive with his minstrel's art.

This work would be burned, afterwards. They had found an uneasy middle ground in that - a final version of Maglor's laments, set down in Daeron's script by Daeron's brush. And then it would be burned: for it had been the way among the the cavalry warriors of the Gap to burn their dead.

But first, the ink had to be crafted, and then ground down. The fur of the brushes hunted, treated, oiled and carefully sewn. The paper was thick, made to last, spread out in a scroll. Daeron had for an archive many dry and enchanted places; this would be but another bound manuscript, kept through the Ages undamaged.

At times he rested, and with the hand that did not hold the brush laid a grounding touch upon Maglor's head. He ran it through his loose curls, touched his cheeks to feel him working to keep Daeron's cock warm and full and well-tended. 

Maglor looked at him desperately, flushed and stuffed. His fingers, clasped tame and terrible behind his back back, clenched convulsively at times; otherwise he was very careful to be still as Daeron worked, and eager to please him as he rested.

Silenced for once, he swallowed hungrily, drank deep of his taste, was eager to have his stifled sounds fucked quiet when Daeron found a moment to ease his eyes and indulge himself in grasping the hair at the back of his neck and forcing himself in deeper into the tight throat that held him.

"Enough," Daeron said gently, drawing away and stroking his taunt neck until the shuddering passed. He was not without pity; the lantern flickered wearily, and the joints of his fingers ached with a steady scrivener's pain. "Not long now to finish for tonight once this lay in complete." 

Daeron brought the tip of the brush to Maglor's mouth, stroked his mouth idly as he wetted the tip in him. Ink-stained, he panted against Daeron's knee, chased after the touch when the brush passed, tender and slick as a kiss, over his lips.

"Daeron," he rasped, entreating. "It is not well done. I have forgotten, I am certain I did it better once. The meter is all wrong: and the version is not that which is ought to be-"

"It is as I set it down to be," Daeron said, and made it a final thing. 

Maglor's protesting mouth swallowed in a gasp when Daeron pressed his fingers into its wet heat, smearing the ink on his tongue, easy and possessing where his cockhead had been.

He held himself uncaring of words spoken while at work, uninterested in red-rimmed glances and shaking whimpers; Maglor knew it well by now.

It inflamed him all the more, fed the rushing dizziness of his mind's work and his body's submission. A fine balance must be kept, to keep him grounded and attentive - the vast scope of his thoughts pliant to Daeron's grasping mind, all the disharmony and force of the voice of the sea studied at length, learned slowly, with science and care.

It inflamed Daeron no less, in truth. He grasped firmly at his hair, pressed back inside his yielding mind, rocked into his mouth, and Maglor sank into his thrust, took him with a moan, rocking on his knees to take him deeper before Daeron grounded him down with a stern hand.

Daeron waited a moment longer before looking into his eyes and heart. His blue-black mouth stretched obscenely around Daeron; but more obscene by far was the bright glint of his eyes, and the gratitude of his savage, aching spirit at being made bare and made tame.

 Kneeling before him and under Daeron's high desk, Maglor gave himself over to translation in surrender. Laid out clear and plain as the paper and the ink, the wide expanse of his mind was singularly open and singularly focused on the words, the tempo, the transcribing of his compositions through hands not his own. 

He waited until the slow, easy rhythm of thoughts and mouth had been found again. When Daeron picked up the brush again, Maglor applied himself likewise, tongue and memory and throat, all joined in purpose. They went at a good pace, all things considered; but Daeron made certain to be thorough with every letter, careful with the lines of his Cirth, for the due honor and dignity of the thing. 

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

holding out for the sequel where beach hermit Maglor and MIA-since-FA400 Daeron freak each other out by meeting in some suitably obscure place

I will never forgive Tolkien for chickening out and just straight up writing Daeron out of the tale of Beren and Luthien, and from the rest of the stories of Middleearth for that matter, and for no good reason. There are so, so many other, far more interesting things that Tolkien could have done with Daeron's character, but nope, instead he just writes him out of the story entirely. He could've, like, had Daeron be captured by the enemy and taken to Angband and when Beren and Lùthien go there they find him and bail him out, like cmon dude you can do better than that.

[thelien-art]

Hello! May I please request Daeron/Maglor with rainbow flag? Daeron is trans and bi, Maglor is broadly queer. Thank you! I love seeing your Pride artworks every year.

+ trans for Anon + ace for @tiesanjiaoshenanigans

Thank you <3<3<3 - used this as an excuse to try some half Maia Daeron design :):)

🏳️‍🌈CELEBRATE PRIDE WITH ME🏳️‍🌈 - send in a character or a ship with a pride flag and I´ll draw it

[fistfuloflightning]

I am soooo sorry

[melestasflight]

Maglor and Daeron play music together in Himring.

An original illustration of a scene from A Secret Chord created by the amazing @navyinks

Commissioned for @polutrope - one of the most thoughtful Slim-writers. Fic snippet below the cut.

I close my eyes and listen for my heartbeat. It is strong but steady. I listen for his breathing and when I hear it like a ripple over water my heart skips. I exhale steadily into the pipe and as my fingers move over the holes I imagine they are his fingers on my arms, trailing down my trunk, my hips, my legs. When I open my eyes to look at him I know he is imagining it, too.

He rests the lyre against his knee and joins its notes to mine. Though we sit apart I can feel the vibration of the strings as heat spreading through me. He raises his voice in song, a hymn of praise, and I can feel the breath of his singing, the movement of his lips all around me. My melody quickens, and his harmony keeps time, becomes richer, more complex, even as my playing turns frenzied, erratic, but he ties my notes together, he makes it into music. A long, piercing vibrato, the rush of a vibrant glissando, and we are falling apart in each other's Song. Sound becomes the touch of calloused fingers around my wrists, the colour of his flush, the sweet taste of his seed, the scent of my desire.

from A Secret Chord

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

I actually headcanon their return at the end of the Dagor Dagorath, with the two unaccounted for silmarils. Maglor and Daeron rocked up half a dozen ages late with Starbucks and the most sort after objects in middle earth.

Tbh, I used to think Maglor had a wife, but after many observant people (to which I’m quite grateful) pointed out that it is only said that he “was wedded,” a new headcanon was born:

He was unmarried until the dawn of the Second Age. He decided to make the effort to survive the sinking of Beleriand, wanting to punish himself for his actions with eternal loneliness. He then one day met another lonely and depressed minstrel named Daeron, who also sought self-punishment in exile. Across many centuries, they fell in love and wedded, finding a happiness that neither of them thought they would ever find.

Elrond eventually learned of this, and thus scribbled a vague note in his history books that his foster father was wedded at some point, but intentionally did not elaborate.

Eventually, in the Fourth Age, Elladan and Elrohir convinced Maglor and Daeron to accompany them on the Last Ship to Valinor.

[carmisse]

Of Makalaurë and Daeron.

"You promised not to do it again!"

And he seems to speak to nothingness, the opposite in front of his person does not answer him or even look at him, his companion only watches the light of the chandeliers.

Realizing that he is being ignored on purpose he reaches out his hand and pulls on the other's arm, hopefully looking him in the eye.

"Makalaurë!"

This time he shouts. He can feel the frustration seeping into his bonds, he hears the sound of metal at the end of the corridors, the rest of his in-laws are preparing to go next to Doriath, where the proud and clumsy Dior guards the cursed Silmaril.

"It's my nephew, let me talk to him. I can talk some sense into him, Makalaurë."

But the named one does not hear him and denies before humming in that sweet voice of his that captivated him some time ago, before his heart turned dark all over and the oath was still young in nature.

"Shelter him in his room. Don't let him wander until I return."

The guards slowly approach.

look around and see Maitamo, he is angry; he has been angry since Findekáno's death. A hand lands on his shoulder, it is a sworn member of Makalaurë, his personal escort.

"Follow me my prince, don't do anything foolish."

But he refuses and begins to circle his husband, Makalaurë puts on his helmet but does not look at him with defiance, he begs him through his gaze not to intervene, to stay out of the way.

However, he cannot simply step aside, not when it is his people, it is the elves he knew and who recognize him as a scion of Elu Thingol and Melian.

He watches in horror as the one he loves goes to murder again for a jewel, he wants to save him from that doom.

He sings, he dares to do it, there is no other way, however Makalaurë answers him; wrathful and imposing. His men take him by the arms, they begin to drag him.

"Maglor!"

He shouts this time, struggling to free himself; but he is held down and carried into the room he shares with Makalaurë.

This time there is anger in his own voice, he insults him without remorse, weeps as he thinks of what will happen. He does not want to lose any more of his family, his parents are gone, his sister is dead and his nephew is doomed.

"I'm sorry."

It is Telvo's familiar voice, there is remorse in his thinking, but he still sheathes his sword and prepares himself like his brothers. As he looks through the window he sees the atack Doriath.

[polutrope]

maglor, daeron, and 11! (romantic or platonic)

Hey, I finally managed to write some humour-fluff with one of these prompts!

Post-canon Aman, Daeron/Maglor featuring Fëanor, with a special guest appearance by Nerdanel. 2.7k words (!!). Rated T. On AO3.

For the prompt "because he is the son of his father".

* * *

To Canafinwë Macalaurë (Maglor), esteemed colleague, from Daeron, chief minstrel of the Eldar and loremaster of Alqualondë, greetings. 

Let me begin by expressing my regret that I have not attempted to reach you sooner. My time has been so full since coming to the Blessed Realm, you would not believe! There is simply so much to discover here, so many extraordinary people to meet, so much to learn. But I have been primarily occupied with gathering the lore and wisdom of my people—I still cannot comprehend how the Teleri of Aman kept no written records for five ages. 

I have recently returned from a journey to the Telerin fisher villages along the northern coast where some of the more reclusive of my folk reside, and it brought you to mind. Have you been? I think you would like it. Though perhaps you are quite sick of the sea, I do not know.

In any event, I would say that we two are long overdue for a visit. Do not worry—I will come to you. I have been meaning to make the journey to the country around Formenos and this is an excellent excuse. So, it is likely that I will already be on my way (on foot, as usual) by the time you receive this letter, but I thought it would be rude to show up unannounced. I do not wish to intrude on the privacy of your family, especially at this time.

I will be staying at the inn in the village and will send a messenger when I’ve arrived. I look forward to seeing you there. 

For the third time that afternoon, Maglor flipped the parchment face down and dragged a thumb along his jawline.  

“What is so strange about it?” asked Nerdanel. “You have a great deal in common. Minstrelsy. Arrogance. Legendary self-pity.”

Maglor glared. Without averting her gaze from the vase taking shape on her pottery wheel, Nerdanel smiled smugly. Then, twisting up her features, she asked, “But what did he mean by that bit about ‘especially at this time’?” 

“I assume he means Father’s return.”

It had been over a year since Námo had dismissed Fëanor without the slightest fanfare or warning, not even to his family; but it had been done so quietly that others were only beginning to hear of it. Fëanor, who was greatly enjoying being alive again and did not wish to have any drama spoil it, was keeping his existence as private as possible.

Nerdanel bit her lower lip. “I suppose that’s considerate of him.” She sighed. “I am surprised you have not corresponded at all before this. How long since he sailed to Aman?”

“I have no idea,” said Maglor, throwing up his hands. As a matter of fact, it had been one hundred forty-five years and seven months that Maglor had held off on being the first to reach out, but he did not tell his mother this. 

“You were acquainted in Beleriand, were you not?” 

“Yes,” Maglor hissed impatiently. “We met, once.” 

“Only once? Endor is large but I would think in several millennia of wandering you might have run into each other, no?”

Maglor glared, again. ”No. Only once.” Nerdanel gave him that gentle but withering glance every mother everywhere gives when she knows her child is lying to her. “All right,” he admitted. “Yes, we crossed paths a handful of times.”

“I see,” said Nerdanel. “You slept with him.”

“What!” Maglor slammed the desk and whipped his neck round to face her. 

“Please, Lauro, you may be thousands of years older than you were when I first learned to recognise the meaning of that blush on the tips of your ears, but it is as obvious as ever.” She flicked her eyes at him again. “You really ought to grow out your hair again. You have such nice hair. Well, did you last part with Daeron on good terms?”

Maglor bit down on the flesh of his cheek. Sneaking off before sunrise was impolite, certainly, but it could have been worse. It also could have been better. 

“Neutral terms,” Maglor answered, and sighed. What was the use of discussing it? He could not very well refuse an invitation from the minstrel of the Eldar and loremaster of Alqualondë, and Daeron’s tone made it clear that he knew as much. 

It was Maglor’s suggestion that they meet in the morning. To have it over and done with, but also because he was less likely to make a regrettable decision by the light of day. 

After glancing longingly over the list of the sparkling wines, Maglor settled on black tea. Daeron ordered the same, and a tray of scones. 

“How long until you are allowed back in Eldamar?” asked Daeron, marking the end of meaningless pleasantries and the beginning of awkward unpleasantries.

“What?” said Maglor. Tea sploshed from the spout of the teapot as he set it down. “I am not banned from Eldamar. It is my choice to live here.”

“Oh, my mistake. I suppose I assumed since you made the decision to sail here that you yourself deemed the term of your exile ended.”

Maglor huffed. “I live here because I like living here. Besides, I didn’t—” he started to say. “Never mind.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I chose to sail.”

“So she did find you!” Daeron laughed that bright, musical laugh that had never left Maglor’s memories. It sent a rush of warmth through him, momentarily distracting him from the realisation that—

“Wait. You told her where to find me?”

Daeron winked. “I figured if anyone could force you to board a ship West it was Galadriel. She was right, you know. It’s not really up to us to decide how we ought to atone for our mistakes, is it? Anyway, what was the judgement of the Valar?”

“That my self-imposed exile was more than sufficient punishment and I am forgiven.”

“Hah!” Daeron clapped his hands. “She must have hated that!”

“She did,” Maglor said. “And she hated the subsequent release of the rest of my family even more. She’s convinced that was my doing, and she is not alone.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the rumour. That you sang before Mandos. I never believed it. Not even you could sing a song like that.” At the allusion to Lúthien, Daeron’s eyes clouded like one who is far-off, walking in wistful memories. To Maglor’s surprise and embarrassment, he felt a prickle of jealousy. 

“Yes,” said Maglor, “and that is another reason I don’t visit Tirion—let alone the other cities of Eldamar. People do not like me there.”

“The Valar do seem more willing to forgive than our own kind, don’t they? Your father for example! That was a surprise!”

“Mm, yes.” Maglor brushed a few crumbs of scone from the tabletop. 

“How is he?” asked Daeron.

“What?”

“The great Curufinwë Fëanaro. How is he since his re-embodiment?” 

Exuberant, thought Maglor. Delighting in life, more brilliant than he ever was, inspired, and positively overflowing with the most eloquent and heartfelt apologies. 

“He is well.”

“Really? Wonderful news. Will he return to Tirion, do you think?”

“I do not think so, no.” (What Fëanor actually said was, “Oh no! Not this time. This time I am staying well away from it all! With all due respect to our noble kindred, I have no interest in getting myself entangled in that marble-domed, gem-encrusted pit of vipers.”)

“A shame,” said Daeron. “Though I can understand the impulse. It must all be a bit tedious for a brilliant mind like his. I find it a bit tedious myself, but well. My talents were needed in Alqualondë. And then the High Kings approached me about my newest position, and I am sure you of all people understand that one does not simply refuse an invitation to become the official minstrel of the Eldar.”

“No,” said Maglor, swirling his tepid cup of tea. “No, that is not a title someone simply refuses.”

“In any case, I was wondering— Well, I’ve become familiar with his works since coming here— It is difficult not to when half the library of Tirion consists of his works and those building upon them— What a relief none of it was destroyed! It is fortunate that the Noldor value lore and wisdom as highly as they do— I think I would have made a good Noldo, you know— Funny, you would have made a good Teler—”

“Daeron,” Maglor interrupted. “What are you getting at?”

“Sorry.” Daeron knit his excitedly fluttering hands on the table in front of him, then looked into Maglor’s eyes. “I’d like to meet him. Your father.”

The first elf Maglor had courted had been a gorgeous, silver-haired Teler. In addition to being one of the most talented flautists in Alqualondë, Halorniel was charismatic, clever, and had an excellent sense of humour. It was with great pride that he had brought her to dinner with his family for the first time. 

It was with burning envy that he had watched her held thrall by his perfect, brilliant, and captivating father through the entire evening. Halorniel was the first, but not the last; just as Maglor was the first, but not the only of his brothers to suffer this indignity. 

Maglor had all but forgotten about this consequence of being a son of Fëanor when Fëanor himself was alive and available for comparison. Until Daeron had expressed his enthusiasm to meet Fëanor. 

Maglor also realised that, despite setting the early morning date, he had held out hope of reigniting something with Daeron. How foolish, to imagine the loremaster of Alqualondë and chief minstrel of the Eldar had had any interest in him, the Noldor's notorious hermit-bard. 

Not even an intellectual or artistic interest, it seemed. Maglor was not sure that Daeron or Fëanor had noticed when he rose and left them together in the sitting room several hours ago, having been left out of the conversation for at least a half-hour before that. 

He had spent some time walking in the gardens, and accepted Maedhros’ invitation to help with pruning the grape vines to distract himself. But, incapable of focusing of the task, he kept cutting back too far, and had been somewhat brusquely dismissed. So he found himself back at the house and listening outside the window to the excited exchange of ideas between his father and Daeron. 

“It is extraordinary,” said Daeron, “I could find no commonalities, no relation to any other linguistic grouping in Arda. It is almost as though the whole people came from outside.” Daeron laughed. “Which is of course impossible.”

“You think so?” said Fëanor. “I am not so convinced that Arda is the only place in Eä with speaking peoples.”

“What do you mean?” said Daeron, a charming tone of wonder in his voice.

Maglor could practically hear his father’s self-satisfied smile. “I have created an instrument that can allow one to see across great distances in the heavens—well, my grandson invented it, but I have improved upon it—and I have discovered that there are other bodies like to Arda throughout Eä.” He lowered his tone conspiratorially. “I have not told anyone besides Telperinquar, lest the rest of the family think I have gone mad, but I do not believe the Quendi and Atani are the only Children of Ilúvatar. I believe there are many—dozens! hundreds!—of other peoples, with their own cultures and traditions and languages.”

Daeron gasped. “Do you think they know of us?”

“Perhaps,” said Fëanor. “Perhaps. I intend to find out. I am devising a language based on the principles of music, since music is after all the language of Creation and underlies all things, that could be reduced to simple waves of sound capable of travelling across the vast distances required to— Say! You might be just the person to help me!”

Maglor punched the side of the house. They both fell silent.

“Did you hear that?” asked Daeron.

“Yes.” Fëanor paused a moment. “Probably nothing. But what do you think? I know you must be terribly occupied with your various roles, but your expertise would be invaluable.”

Maglor did not hear Daeron’s answer, for he was trudging through the garden, away from the house, with his fists clenched at his sides. When he reached the river, he kicked the bank and let out a petulant cry of frustration. 

“So I am going to stay in Formenos!” said Daeron, beaming. “To help your father with a project.”

Maglor grunted and did not look up from his book. “That’s nice.”

“You are not pleased.”

“Very clever observation,” said Maglor, and flipped a page.

Daeron sat down on the bench beside him, his hands folded over his knees. “Hm. Have I offended you?”

This got Maglor to look up. He shut the book. “Yes, actually. You have.”

“How?” Daeron’s thick silver-grey brows beetled over his deep-set black eyes and sharp nose. His pink lips gathered in a little pout. 

“You are arrogant, presumptuous, and a shameless abuser of friendship.”

“Abuser of friendship?” asked Daeron. His laughter was disarmingly nervous. “I admit I can be the first two, but what friendship have I abused?”

“Ours!” Maglor cried, and came close to hitting him on the head with his book. “You used me to befriend my father, and now you are—” Maglor gestured helplessly. What? Claiming his father’s attention? Taking Maglor’s place? That sounded absurd, when he actually considered it. “I know what your project is. I heard you. You are going to help him devise a language. A language of music. Hah! It is as if he has forgotten—” Maglor broke off, suddenly aware of the tremor in his voice.

“What!” Daeron seemed genuinely taken aback. “You clearly did not hear all. I told your father you would be better for the task. He’s afraid to ask for your help. He does not think you have forgiven him.”

Maglor felt as if he’d been struck in the chest with a hammer. “Oh.”

“Have you?” asked Daeron.

“What?”

“Forgiven him?"

There was a long pause. Maglor rested his chin in his palm and considered. He had. Or he had thought he had, a long time ago, when it was just him and his musings and the sea, and forgiveness seemed easy. But he’d never expected Fëanor to live again. He’d never expected to see him again, thriving and well. He resented him for it. He resented all of his family, he realised, for the healing he’d never received. The healing of which he’d deprived himself. 

“No,” he said at last. “I haven’t.”

“There, you see,” said Daeron, and he took Maglor’s hand. Maglor’s fingers naturally fell into place between his. “I see how it looks that way. That I abused our friendship, as you say. I think I actually used your father’s re-embodiment as an excuse to finally write to you, and to pretend it wasn’t because of you. For that I have deserved your accusation of arrogance—or pride, at least. I did want to meet him, and I am glad I have, but…” Daeron sighed. “I know how it is. To have had no rest. Our situations are obviously different, so I won’t presume,” he looked at Maglor and a smile played at the corners of his lips, “I won’t presume to know what it is like for you, but I think it is much harder to start over when you’ve just kept on living and living without pause. I hoped that coming here would help you. That’s why I told Galadriel where to find you. But I suppose—well, I know now—that it’s not simply a matter of being whisked away on the Straight Road and having all your pain trail behind—mmph!”

The end of Daeron’s sentence was trapped in his throat, for Maglor had grabbed his face in both hands and planted a kiss firmly over his mouth. The utterance of surprise turned to a honeyed whimper of delight as Daeron graciously received the kiss.

Maglor pulled back, smiling. “I’m glad you’re staying." He patted Daeron's pinkened cheek. "Though you may find my father no longer requires your assistance.”

Daeron shrugged. “I think I’ll stay awhile anyway, if that’s all right with you.” 

“I’ll allow it,” said Maglor, and kissed him again. 

On AO3

I should mention the idea of the 'Telerin fisher villages' comes from this beloved Fingon/Maglor fic by mangacrack.

[elvain]

the kinslayer in the woods

            Maglor’s world had come to an end a very long time ago. In its wake, he had built himself a new life, silent as it was. But the silence was welcome to Maglor now, for it reminded him that there was nothing left for him anymore. There was no oath, no brothers, no jewels, no wars. He was alone and he was silent and it was as it should have been. He awoke alone and redressed the burn on his hand, which had never healed from the agony of his Oath.

            One morning, Maglor awoke in his small hut, redressed his hand, and found that his life was no longer silent.

-

read the rest on AO3.

[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

[cilil]

Summer Stories

AN: For some reason the roadtrip prompt just screamed DaeMags at me and inspired this silly little scene. I decided to dedicate it to @polutrope as a thank you for running Silm smut week which I'm really looking forward to ^^

Prompt: Roadtrip | Daeron x Maglor Synopsis: [Modern AU] During one of their jam sessions, Maglor has a strange request. Warnings: /

"Are you serious?" 

Daeron looked up from his ukulele with a frown and saw Maglor staring down at him, his arms crossed. 

"What? Can't I do my practice session before our gig tomorrow?" 

They had decided to coordinate their summer gigs and turn it into a fun trip for the two of them – playing music together day in and day out, relaxing at campfires, just hanging out... a dream come true. 

Except for one thing, it seemed. 

Maglor shook his head. "Anything but this," he said sternly, nodding towards the offending instrument. 

"That bad?" Daeron chuckled and placed his ukulele in its case. "Damn. One might think you have a personal vendetta against those." 

"It's... ugh, never mind. Just do me a favour and play something else, alright?" 

When he merely looked at him with both eyebrows raised, Maglor added, "I'll buy you as many drinks as you want after the gig." 

"Well then." Daeron closed the case with an exaggerated sigh. "Deal. But you better get me something good or I'll bring it right back for the next one."

Sorry, IDNMT convinced me that this is alright XD Thanks for reading!

[fellowshipofthefics]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Daeron/Maglor | Makalaurë, Daeron & Maglor | Makalaurë Characters: Daeron (Tolkien), Maglor (Tolkien) Additional Tags: Post-War, Secret Identity, Angst, Ambiguous/Open Ending, the past haunts the narrative, tagging sucks please have this as it is goodbye Summary:

In his exile, Maglor has become wholly accustomed to silence. One day, that silence is broken.

[fistfuloflightning]

So. Someone a bit ago commented on one of my fics (or here, not sure) about my penchant for odd Tolkien rarepairs. I myself forget just how many I have, so here’s the rundown and why I like them:

Maedhros/Maeglin (just. the angst. of being buried under your mistakes and finding a kindred soul to share that same burden and heal together. soulmates. who might’ve even met during the nirnaeth. and they’re definitely switches your honor)

Celegorm/Aredhel or Celegorm/Dior (or Dior’s reckless/headstrong stubbornness reminds him of Aredhel and there’s a lot of angry/bittersweet proxyfucking and guilt and ‘I don’t know who I truly love anymore’)

Maglor/Luthien (beauty for beauty’s sake. and honestly anyone but beren. luthien getting involved with the war to protect her murderbard boyfriend and actually putting a dent in morgoth’s forces. mags trying his hardest to protect her as much as the silmaril she won back for him)

Curufin/Finrod (sending your husband to his death (that he knew abt but didn’t tell you) and screwing up your sons and living the rest of your shortened life regretting soooo. many. things. and then having to deal with them after mandos. a bitter beautiful chaotic mess that can only end in tears)

Fingon/Varda (don’t ask: even I’m not sure—something something gil galad’s associated w/ stars and no one knows who his mom is and I like me some valar with greek god leanings)

Aegnor/Haleth (battle bros to lovers, bc haleth won’t take no for an answer like andreth did 😒)

Argon/Amarie (falling in love with your cousin’s ex was not the intention after being the first one killed/sent back. but she’s finally moving on from finrod and you’ve grown to care for her company more than you thought…)

Daeron/Beren (beren didn’t deserve luthien—this started as a joke but these two seriously deserve each other in all their squabbling glory)

Mablung/Nienor (they just. deserve happiness and peace. and lots of adorable peredhel kids. please)

Eowyn/Merry (same as above, but they have the benefit of having an entire shire to rebuild and different cultures to find wonder in and grow to love as much as their own)

idk I might be missing some but these are my thoughts on my main Tolkien rarepairs

[thecoolblackwaves]

Yes, it's incest. I know. Not gonna explain my reasons for shipping it though I blab about it on my blog often enough. I'm not trying to start a ship war or any drama I am just curious! For the record I think Russingon and Daeron x Maglor are both really cute ships though not my personal cup of tea and I love that there's so many fan works out there for them!!!! Keep sharing what you love, it's beautiful to see happiness and creativity ❤️

[eri-pl]

Silm reread interlude 2: more Lay of Leithian [canto 4-5]

Canto 4

Again: Beren is sick to upfront pay for the fact of Luthien loving him. Huh. OK.

But we get the beautiful line: "and in his doom was Lúthien snared, the deathless in his dying shared; and Fate them forged a binding chain of living love and mortal pain".

Beren learns new things and gets more elflike, for lack of a better word. Also, they do dance and… if I haven't read LaCE, I might have had some assumptions about what happens here in between the lines. TBH because this is an early text, I'm still not sure how to read it.

Dairon (Daeron) is angry and jealous and curses Doriath with silence. Also, snitches on Lúthien for having a lover (this wors is used in the text, I do not claim that they are lovers in the modern sense, but I don't have a better fitting word for this. "boyfriend" seems too anachronistic and not intense enough.).

Thingol's crown described: it's silver and green. And his people wear armor.

More beautiful lines (similar as in the published Silm): "what I sought not I have found and love it is hath here me bound".

Also, a declaration of how strong the love is, which does our favorite "nor X nor Y" scheme, best known from a certain ill-fated oath: "nor rocks nor steel nor Morgoth's fire nor all the power of Elfinesse shall keep the gem I would posess".

[But Beren doesn't swear to harm anyone, also it's romance not greed so it's not bad. Just sounds cool. TBH I think the nor/nor/nor was a common literary thing in the kind of poetry Tolkien based his writings on. It feels like it.]

Dairon calls Beren "baseborn mortal", which is quite a burn.

The Ring of Barahir is described. Speaking of it, I am really curious what does this design mean and why does this ring look like this, it is really strange tbh.

Melian calls Thingol out on being prideful.

Thingol ignores her and sends Beren on a quest, nicely echoing his words: "A treasure dear I too desire, but rocks and steel and Morgoth's fire from all the powers of Elfinesse do keep the jewel I would posess."

The Sindar laugh at Beren and we get a recap on where the Silmarils came from. Feanor kindled them slow[ly], which is interesting. Oath of [sons of] Feanor mentioned, but by narration, not by characters. Also, it's said to be sworn in mandess.

Beren laughs at the Sindar, bitterly, and agrees to the price and walks away like a boss "he turned, and thrust aside the ring of guards about him, and was gone".

Luthien cries and is afraid. Thingol is certain that Beren will die.

"But Melian smiled, and there was pain as of far knowledge in her eyes; for such is the sorrow of the wise."

Relateable. But, excuse me for correcting the Professof himself, I would kick out the "for", for rhythm and made the last line a new sentence.

Canto 5

Lúthien talks with Melian, we got the most alliterative of lines: "and dare the dread in dungeons dim", I love it!

Dairon snitches at Lúthien again. "Thingol was wroth and yet amazed; in wonder and half fear he gazed on Dairon". I love the description. Again: Thingol is the not best, nor the worst, but definitely the most psychologically realistic, slice-of-life-ish guy in the Silm. And agais: "In angry love and half in fear Thingol took counsuel".

Lúthien is imprisoned in a treehouse: "up she clomb" (it means "climbed"). I love Tolkien's arbitrary past tense forms. She forgives Daeron, because ha makes sad enough songs about it (no, Maglor, a song can work with "sorry I snitched on you", not with "sorry I murdered your family", you need to, idk, stop murdering people is a good start)

Luthien does magic, which has a very fairytale description."'At middle night,' she said, 'in bowl of silver white it must be drawn and brought to me with no word spoken". Also, she gets a spinning-wheel! Daeron doesn't snitch on her anymore, "though his heart feared the dark purpose of her art". Mmm... scary!Lúthien!

She sings magic songs, also we get one of the few Tolkienian examples of one of my favorite things/vibes, which is "darkness but good" (or at least not evil): "another song she sang, of night and darkness without end, and flight and freedom."

Darkness without end, you say? Haven't we, umm, heard this idea somewhere already, Professor? I have thoughts. I do have questions. Sir.

So, on one hand: Feanor with sons goes to chill at the edge of the Void, but after he became, umm, more questionable, "everlasting darkness" is the scariest thing he can think of. Also, here darkness seems to be a good thing. Also, accordint go that one text, early Mannish tales have darkness, or at least "beyond darkness" as clearly positive.

On the other hand (which I do not posess anymore) you have scary darkness-spiders and "Darkness" used as a term for extreme-scary-unknown even in the context of the Valar.

On another hand, you have "darkness" used as symonim for "evil" in narration, I think, even in places where the narrative frame is nonexistent. But let's ignore this a little. :D [Also, "shadow" but it's not the same thing.]

OK, so … I do have thoughts. I should probably pull them into a separate post when/if I figure out what precisely those thoughts are. TLDR something about/around the Gift of Men, but I'm not sure, I can't pinpoint it well yet. Or maybe I can but I'm afraid to. Unclear.

And also also, coming back to the reread, of all the Elves, it is Lúthien who sings of darkness. Hmm.

And for a less interesting, and more lighthearted song, we also get a list of "longest things", including Uinen's hair and my favorite chain, Angainor "that ere Doom for Morgoth shall by Gods be wrought, of steel and tornment". Because of course, as a half-Maia she is allowed to put some foreshadowing in her songs.

BTW what was Tolkien's problem with the 's possesives? I mean, what was the problem of Tolkien with it? :D

We get a really weird poetic choice where two lines end on "dark". Also, Lúthien's hair grows long and pools on the floor (I imagine it roughly like the dress of Morticia Addams)

Short-haired Lúthien! "and cut the hair about her ears, and close she cropped it to her head". And her hair is now darker (less gleaming?) Also, "she wove a web like misty air of moonless night". I absolutely love the mix of "what I am afraid of" (spiders, darkness probably) and "what I am fascinated by" (Edith) that Tolkien does here. But I do have peculiar emotional connections sometimes, I guess it doesn't work well for everyone. But. I love dark!beautiful!spider-ish!Luthien. She needs a fanart.

Also, speaking of fanart, we get a description of her clothing, which is white dress and blue mantle with jewels that look like golden lilies? I think? The language is difficult. OK, sir, we get it, she is as cool as you can write. I am not laugh— no, actually I am laughing a little (yes, yes, the way I described her in the previous paragraph, I know). But ok. And tbh it does make sense with her color palette.

And in the notes we get a suggestion that Thingol couldn't believe that Lúthien actually loved Beren without any weird spells doing that. Which explains a lot of his bahavior tbh, but, Your Highness, maybe you could have asked your Maia wife to have a look at this and tell you if there's some magic going on?

OK, enough for one post.