#no proofreading we die like noldor

[eri-pl]

A fic in need of a name (I'll be grateful for ides, not necessarily will use, but I'll be grateful) and maybe some proofreading

<2k words. No TWs, very fluffy. Lúthien and Finrod talk about art.

One warning: IDK how to explain, but: my friend dfw and everyone else who sees Lúthien as unfairly treated well by the narrative: I do kind of admire this unfairness in this fic. Also, she has an …intense personality here. Read at your own discretion.

Lúthien looked at Finrod with her strange, Light-filled-but-not eyes. “Why are my songs so boring to you?”

They stood under the stars and the new moon, in a small glade, now filled with nightingales that looked at the princess of Doriath and whistled, as if pleading her to continue.

“I would not call them boring.”

“You do not say it, but they seem dull to you. Dear cousin, you don't need to speak in courtly lies with us. Never. We are not— hypocrites.” She almost said “Noldor”, he could feel it from her. So who was the hypocrite there? The princess continued: “I simply seek to know how to sing better.”

Despite being born from an union of an elf and an Ainu, she was in many ways like a child. All the Sindar were so. Finrod smiled, but didn't try to conceal his thoughts about the conversation. There were some secrets he needed to keep from her keen mind, but if his feelings could be revealed without enraging anyone…  “They are beautiful, but there is never any conflict in then,” he said gently, observing Lúthien's reaction.

It wasn't anger, but surprise. “Why would a song need strife to be good?”

This gave Finrod pause. How could she have questioned something as obvious as one of the fundamental laws of art? But indeed, the ancient songs — from the Journey, and even the early ones from Aman — did not have any strife in them. Just like hers, they were about things and people simply …being. 

He pondered about it for a while, until the answer came to him. “Without conflict, there's no change. No progress. No clear point to end the song.”

“You end the song when you don't want to sing anymore. Or when you want to sing a different one,” said Lúthien in a tone that was half curious and half patronizing. “Besides, we didn't really have time until recently. At least we didn't have anything to measure its passing. Maybe except me and Daeron maturing. Hey! This is a change. Cherries blooming, bushes growing — that's progress. Walks in the woods—” she put the last idea into action, leaving the glade.

Finrod joined her and they went between the tall beeches, on the forest floor filled with violets and niphredili. “A song about nature never really reaches any destination. Flowers grow and die, and then new ones come to life. It's not a true change.”

“You can't simply replace a rose with another, or a yesteryears’ snowdrop with the next springs’ one. Hmmm, you're a Noldo, you do not know flowers well enough to notice them, so maybe you could. But even then: we do change. We grow. I was a child and now I'm a woman.”

Finrod didn't reply and for a while they just walked.

“You need songs that are about sorrow, don't you?” asked Lúthien softly. “Due to— your king and all that.”

“And all of that… Yes. I think we do. We do need art which promises a change mightier than just the turn of seasons, which tells us that the darkness may one day end and makes it almost— makes it possible to believe. And to achieve this, you do need to start with the darkness.”

“I was born in darkness, dear cousin. Under the stars,” she said, gesturing at the sky, but the moon’s narrow crest peeking between the branches spoiled her reference. 

“I mean a different kind of darkness, sweet child of the stars. Deeper. Not a darkness that never saw light, but darkness that saw light and—” Finrod shivered. “Darkness that comes after the light is gone, not before it's born. Darkness without a single star to break it.”

“I don't think I can imagine it. Still, I'm sure there is a way to sing interesting songs without making them all about violence.”

“Not all conflict is violence.”

“But it's all— you, Noldor, absolutely love to argue. We try to understand each other instead.” 

“So do I.” 

They awoke a sleeping deer at a distance, but it didn't run away like most beasts of Beleriand used to, it only watched them cautiously.

“Well, this is true, you don't argue that much. Anyway, maybe that's it. When people meet and get to know each other more, it also grows in time. And it means more than flowers.”

“Maybe. Is that how you see art here in Doriath?”

“No. As Daeron sees it, the supreme art is: you see a thing. Then you see another thing. Then you see them together in a way that awakens new meanings in both of them. And then you weave all that into words with enough alliteration. The same with music: you play a motive, then another motive, and then you marry them to each other. This makes the verse, the chorus and the ending.”

They entered a denser part of the forest and now walked a narrow path, surrounded by blackberries, bushes and ferns.

“What if the motives don't fit together?”

“He would say it means you're a mediocre musician. But… I think if they don't fit you need to find a way to force them. Or, rather, help them. Change one or the other into a different mode. Or change the tuning. Or keep playing the harp but add singing to it and tell everyone that it had been your plan since the beginning.”

“You can't change the rules of art.”

“What force is going to forbid me?”

Finrod laughed. “I don't think it's that easy, but maybe you are right. Maybe there is a way to reconcile both of our ideas. To create art that is not boring, but not violent either. But I do not know where to even start looking for inspiration.” Right now, the bushes clinging to his clothing and pulling on the delicate embroidery weren't particularly inspiring. 

“You always seek something, wandering here and there. I'm sure you will find a lot of wonderful inspiration.”

“Don't you want to travel?”

“Oh, I love to travel!” said Lúthien in a laughing voice. “But in Doriath you can discover wonders too! Maybe the same answers that you seek far away I'll find in here. Or maybe we'll both find sorrow.”

Finrod blinked. That had been a strange turn of the conversation, but not the first of them. “I don't think beauty can exist without sorrow.”

“Then should I wish sorrow beyond measure for both of us?”

“That would be a very Noldorin approach to art, wouldn't it?” he asked half-jesting, but curious.

“Sorrow and strife aren't the same.”

“How are they not? Sorrow is born from loss, and loss is born from violence.”

“When I was a child, I cried about clouds disappearing, because I knew I'd never see any of them again. And yet nobody took them away from me by force. And I wouldn't fight for the clouds, as that would make no sense. So I remembered them. But it's not really the same.”

As Lúthien spoke, they entered a small clearing and, as if responding to her, a small cloud hid the moon and hung above them, backlined with silver. A few others passed nearby: fuzzy dark shapes, but not as dark as— Finrod looked away from the sky, back at the princess.

“You could see clouds in the starlight?”

“Of course. Can't you?” She looked back at him with wide eyes.

“Not with enough detail to miss them. I never looked much into the sky anyway, not back then.”

They left the clearing. The forest was even darker now, but there was a peace to it.

“You Noldor are so strange. I wish I would know you better.”

“I wish I could understand you better too.”

“I have an idea.” Without saying more, Lúthien led him to a small grassy hill, not even as tall as the surrounding trees. A narrow path went upwards. “I'll show you another way in which we entertain ourselves here—well, I do— but first tell me, cousin, what would you want if you could wish for anything?”

“To meet my loved ones again,” said Finrod quietly. “I'm not sure how this would happen, unless— but even then… I'm sorry. You deserve better than hearing about any of that.”

“Only so little?” Lúthien laughed, though it felt forced. “I want everything! I want a love like my parents’, but let it be even more so. I want songs to be sung about me— not only by Daeron — songs that even to you would sound interesting. I want to behold the most beautiful treasure in the world. I want to be free and to fly. I want to sing a song mightier than my mother’s. I want to seek a star and wear it as a trinket. I want—” She paused as they reached the top. “No, now it's your turn. What would you want if you could ask for anything?”

“I want there to be a solution to all that.”

“All what?”

He looked away. “All the darkness I won't trouble you with.”

“If you won't, surely someone else will.”

“Even so, I shall not.”

“Then try not to trouble yourself with it either, at least for now. Only look.” Lúthien lied on the hillside and tumbled down, like a log, if logs could laugh loudly. 

She rose from the grass at the bottom and began walking back. “You are humble and I do ask for so much. But it's alright if I can't have any of that. I'm not stubborn. Well, I am not as stubborn as some believe. But if I can, I do want all of my wishes to come true. And I want to travel. To see strange lands beyond stormy seas, cities both old and young and alien, new countries my mother never knew, never dreamed of… To have my home there. I hope I will not miss her too much.”

“You know such places may not even exist. Except maybe one—” Finrod shivered at the very thought, even though they were miles South from there and under Melian’s Girdle. “—but nobody would ever go there of their own will, especially not someone like you, sweet princess. And about all other lands your mother could surely tell you. After all—” 

Lúthien waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, she saw the world before it was born and sang it into being. It's boring how everybody keeps reminding me about that. But she is also my mother. Of course I desire to reach beyond her, that's how it is with mother's and daughters. Also, how would you know there's no place unknown for her, Noldo? You've barely seen any of Beleriand, and yet you try to tell me how the world is?” Her words were a challenge, but her tone was friendly.

Finrod bowed his head. “That is true. Neither of us have seen much yet. But if you ever find such a place…”

The princess stood next to him again, picking leaves of grass from her hair. “I will surely show it to you. Though you could probably wish for a better guide.” 

Finrod smiled, remembering the chaotic string of excited tangents that the last few days have been. “Many things could be better, your guidance isn't by far the first of them. And anyway I am really glad to be here with you, Lúthien. You are very kind and fascinating. And I'm honored to learn the customs of your people.”

“Like tumbling from tops of hills? It's not a very Noldo—”

“That's the point.” Finrod lay on the grass and let the steepness of the terrain pull him down. 

It felt only half as bumpy as he'd expected, and in its strange, wild way liberating.

[armenelols]

What happened next to Gil-galad the time travelling king?

Referencing this post.

I haven't thought about the AU much; it was mostly a self-indulgent idea I thought of due to my desperate need for more Elrond & Gil-galad content.

But you bet I am willing to ramble about it. Also, sorry it took me this long to answer - originally, I started writing it in the more story-telling way the OG post was in, then read it, disliked it strongly, tried again, was interrupted by having to study, forgot about it, remembered when I had no free time and finally got to it yesterday. Oh well.

So of the things I had thought of, we have several points:

1. His time in the Third Age

2. Did he keep his memories after returning to the First Age?

3. How does the time travel here work?

1. He was mostly trying to cope with the idea that he time travelled. Gil-galad isn't dumb - sooner or later he would realise that in the Third Age, he is dead. More angst ensues. He would probably spend the largest amount of time with Círdan - someone who stayed similar to what he remembered him like in the ages past unlike Elrond who is suddenly an old wise lord rather than a kidnapped baby, but Gil-galad still befriends him. In a way. Elrond is up for an emotional rollercoaster, but then again, so is everyone else. At this point in time, Elladan and Elrohir are already on their vengeance highway and spending much of their time with rangers - not much opportunity for Gil-galad, who is barely into his adulthood, to befriend them. Arwen would be a good choice, but I don't know if she is in Rivendell or Lothlórien; Glorfindel is a dead hero out of a legend and young Gil-galad is way too awed. Other than them, we know next to nothing about the other elves of Rivendell, so depends on what one's headcanons are.

He wouldn't do much in the Third Age in general - he is a time traveller, he isn't supposed to be there, he can't suddenly walk around and announce his presence to the world. He stays in Rivendell. He probably doesn't learn about the past - his future - much because I doubt someone would tell him everything when they don't know what will happen once he gets back. He feels very out of place since his mind is still toned to a different age, although everyone tries to make him feel welcome.

2. Two scenarios here;

A/ He forgets everything, but is left with feelings of deja vu way too often afterwards. He thinks it's foresight - he knew things he wasn't supposed to, things that he shouldn't be able to know. But he does, and when he marches to his last battle, he knows how he will die before he even stands against Sauron. He doesn't back out of the fight.

Kind of like Halbarad during Pelennor.

B/ He keeps his memories and spends the following age in despair over how he is afraid to change the timeline, but wants to change the timeline; but once he tries, the timeline stays the same. Otherwise, it would create a paradox - he can't prevent something that he knows will happen if he knows it because he learned it after it happened. He wouldn't be able to learn it in the first place otherwise. *did I make sense?* More angst. Death feels like an end to the endless loop of being trapped in a life he can't properly control.

3. My idea was related to Ainulindalë, in a way similar to the one Melkor took when trying to change the melody to his own tune. For Gil-galad to time travel, someone would have to attempt something similar - add their own tune to the song of creation. To explain it in a very simplistic way:

The first pic: four E2 quarter notes

The second pic: four E2 quarter notes, with an added C1 whole note

Also shown here in the video for comparison (in case someone has no idea about sheet music and also because I am a dumbass) - includes both pics; as well as a simple D major chord (and after that, D major with an added G2)

If you play a song, the song stays the same even if you add your own touch to it - you don't change the tone of the whole song by adding a tone or two. If you change too much, it's not the same song.

We know songs have power in Middle Earth. Finrod who sung an orcish disguise on himself, Beren and their companions, battled Sauron with a song; Lúthien in pretty much half of her scenes. In my headcanons, they are able to do that because they blend their own song with the song of creation - enough change that Lúthien can pull a Rapunzel with her hair, but not enough to change the course and nature of the world for the rest of eternity *glances at Melkor*

In that case, that would be the way Gil-galad time travelled in the first place - I have yet to think of why (maybe a failed attempt of one of his Morgoth's servants to get rid of him? Idk), but that was also the way he got back - probably with the help of elves such as Elrond, Círdan, whichever minstrel of old was hanging out around Rivendell.

He gets back to the very hour he time travelled from. No one has noticed he was gone. Now he just has to deal with deja vu and foresight or memories.

And win a war or two.

[macabretrees]

Title: Primavera Summary:  Maglor sings the Noldante, and then he doesn't. or  Maglor seeks to end his life at sea, though a sudden change of tune presents him with options he never thought possible. 

A/N: Here’s my gift for @thegreencarousel​! Surprise, surprise--it’s Maglor centric! I took some idea from a convo we had about Maglor and the Songs of power, and exactly what he could do with it! I hope you enjoy this! Merry Christmas! I proofread as best as I could, but I always miss things! 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It must have been on the edge of the sea-shore, with his body half-submerged in the water, and the other damp on the sand did he realize it. When his voice had been lent to other things aside from the Noldante did he realize how frigid the air was, and how cool the water against his waist had been. Yet the tides had been so gentle, like soft hands kindly pushing him back to shore, as if to stop him from going deeper.

He sat up with a new awareness, his voice absent of song for the first time in years. Though the Noldante was less of a song and more of a self-imposed prison. He had seen nothing but his deeds during his seemingly ageless performance and had expected his encore to end at sea. Yet here he was, awake and alive, and less of a wraith than he was a day a before.

He shifted his body mechanically and hissed as his hands brushed against the tiny grains of sand, missing the numbness that came with being entranced in Noldante’s spell.

With a groan, he stood to his feet and braced himself as his legs shook. Part of him feared he would slip back into the water, though he doubted the Lord Ulmo would let him die so easily. For some reason, the water had not taken him, and there was a painstaking urge to know why. Death would have been welcome, but apparently, the Valar had thought otherwise.

Ahead of him, the sky bled a dull pink, and Maglor could not help but stare at the way they illuminated the clouds. It was an art in itself, the reds reminding him of his mother’s bright, auburn hair. He wondered if this second chance included her, though thought against it.

Maglor had no idea what this was, or what had broken him out of his stupor, but if it truly were the Valar, he would not be seeing his mother any time soon.

Though his current state did garner deeper speculation. Had the Valar truly woken him? Why would they wake him? Had it even been them?

Not all strange things had been the fault of their neglectful rulers. Some things just were.

To assume the Valar cared about him enough to rescue him beyond idiotic. He knew better. Though that still left him where he was to begin with.

Why had he woken? Why was he still alive? Why was—

In the ocean, a gleam of silver caught his eye as it rocked gently in the waves. Against his better judgment, Maglor reached into the water and winced immediately as his hands made contact with the waves. Nevertheless, he bit his lip and fished the object out.

To his surprise, it was a harp. His harp. The one he carried with him after he left Eonwe’s camp. The very harp he had used to conduct the Noldante.

He thought to let it drift back into the sea, suddenly accustomed to his new-found freedom. While the Noldante provided a sense of purpose, albeit morbid, it had laid down a path that he could not stray from. In fact, his entire life since he’d left Valinor had been decided for him. Now he had the chance to decide something for himself.

He strummed the strings of the harp absentmindedly as he thought, an action bred of habit. His lips curved as he prepared to sing the Noldante, though shut as he realized what he was doing. Not now. Not ever. He repeated the mantra over and over again, fighting against the very magic that had brought this all on him to begin with. He forgot who his father was, and remembered what power flowed through his veins.

The same kind that could reduce the will of the caster to nothing. The same that had created the Oath.

He contemplated dropping the harp and turning away from it forever. But something begged him to hold on, something yearned him to use it, but for what. All he knew was sadness and pain, guilt manifested into music for the deeds he had done.

There had been times in between that of course, times filled with laughter, joy, and happiness—Elrond, Elros, and Maedhros, Ambrussa as well. And even before that, he had been surrounded brothers and cousins, most of them banished, but together nonetheless.

The entirety of his life had been happy. Unfortunately, he had not seen it until now.

Suddenly he looked at the sky and gasped at its magnificence. Red. Red like his brothers. Red like his grandfather, like his father’s forge, like his mother, like home. And suddenly, a new tune to sing, a new-found purpose.

He sang of his childhood untouched by darkness, of the festivities he celebrated in Middle Earth with his brothers and cousins, of a world with his wife on his wedding day, of his mother’s lullabies, Elrond and Elros’ poor attempts at cooking, his father’s lessons—everything into a song.

The world around him changed as it had when he’d sang the Noldante. But there was no heavy miasma of darkness surrounding him, no agony following his every step. This was healing, invigorating. He felt as if he’d been reborn like every note healed his tarnished soul.

And then he dropped the harp and stared at his hands.

The scar was there, but the pain was gone. A reminder, yes, but a promise for a better future. Certainly, the Valar had not done this. This was something else. This was him.

He smiled to himself and hesitantly grabbed the harp.

Music had created the world, had it not? And was Maglor not the best singer among the Noldor. With that, the elf turned on his heel and resumed his walk among the shore. He would compose his new future.