in-the-havens

[in-the-havens]

Can Sauron stop being horrible for five seconds? No.

[in-the-havens]

Annatar being maia of order has an uncanny potential.

Like, imagine this fact affecting everything and I mean literally everything he does.

Casually dropping his cloak onto the nearest chair, it lands in a perfectly folded stack.

Putting his teacup on the table, accidentally forming a flawless golden ratio with the objects nearby.

Any space he inhabits eventually begins to resemble a sterile hospital room, seemingly organizing itself without effort.

Meanwhile everyone around are like "how on earth are you doing that"

[in-the-havens]

🌷

[in-the-havens]

What If Glorfindel Joined the Fellowship of the Ring?

[in-the-havens]

Things that probably happened some time during Fellowship of the Ring: Merry and Pippin tell Boromir things about hobbits, but as a game of "one of us only tells the truth, the other one only lies", and Boromir has to figure out which one is which. Both Aragorn and Gandalf smile knowingly at the things the hobbits claim, but they're not telling. Gimli will argue that everything they're claiming sounds like bullshit, but there is no claim so wild and outrageous that Legolas wouldn't contemplate that it could plausibly be true.

The only thing that keeps Sam from interrupting and telling everyone which claims are outright lies and which ones have been taken so out of context that they sound like bullshit is the fact that Frodo clearly finds this amusing, and Sam can't ruin something that can still get a little fragile smile out of him.

[in-the-havens]

Dood

[in-the-havens]

thoughts

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What if.. Glorfindel joined the Fellowship,,

[in-the-havens]

Elves (and a maia) doing shenanigans

[in-the-havens]

Being A Modern Reader In Valinor and Finrod Falling For You

A/N: New and fresh content for the other golden puppy. It’s a shame that I barely give him solo content 😫. Enjoy!!

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➳❥ When you first met Finrod elbow-deep in herbs and bandages, fumbling with a jar lid that wouldn’t open no matter how hard you tried, he had wordlessly stepped in and popped it open like it was nothing. Giving you a curious smile as you muttered, “Thanks, Hercules.”

➳❥ And that was pretty much how you caught his attention. He didn’t ask what you meant, but you noticed the gleam in his eyes as he tucked the name away like a precious gem. It wasn’t long before he started calling himself Hercules when no one else was around. Only to smirk even more when you had finally explain further.

➳❥ You has ended up as Elrond’s assistant, ever since you randomly dropped into Valinor, for a while by then—though the term ‘assistant’ was generous. You had some knowledge of modern medicine, and while elves didn’t get sick the same way mortals did, wounds still happened, illnesses sometimes lingered, and your way of thinking brought a fresh angle to his work.

➳❥ “So we’re just going to slap crushed leaves on it and let the hibbie-jibbie magic to the rest?” you’d asked once, squinting at an ointment Elrond had made. He gave you a tired dad look and said, “Yes. Everything you said.” You’d snorted and muttered something about old-fashioned remedies, but the results were hard to argue with.

➳❥ Finrod had the tendency to overhear your sarcastic comments in passing, causing him to laugh. “You say the strangest things. Do you mock everything, or only things you care about?”

➳❥ You told him you mocked everything, including death, especially death, and that had gotten a spark of recognition in his gaze that startled you both. He’d fought in Beleriand, and there was a weariness buried deep in his spirit that still responded to depths of his humour.

➳❥ Eventually, he took that as an excuse to start visiting more often, claiming he needed herbs from Elrond or to ask Celebrian’s opinion on something trivial. Every time you’d glance at him, he’d be watching you like he was trying to puzzle out a language only you spoke.

➳❥ “Your eyes do not look at us as though we are legends,” he remarked one afternoon, leaning on the doorframe while you argued with Elrond over whether boiling instruments was more effective than bathing them in alcohol. “It is oddly refreshing.”

➳❥ He asked you once, “Why do you not use the proper forms of speech? You speak as though the words fight each other.” You raised an eyebrow and told him, “Because life’s too short to sound like a Shakespearean actor at every turn, mate.”

➳❥ When you started calling him mate, he would repeat it back to you with cautious confusion, leading to you spending the next ten minutes explaining that no, it didn’t mean you were flirting with him. Probably.

➳❥ After that, he made it a point to use modern slang in ways that made no sense at all. “I am simply vibing,” he said once, seated elegantly on the edge of the healing house roof. “Do not disturb my vibe.” Just hearing modern slang rolling of his tongue sounded to foreign. He was still too posh for it—but it was great laughter for your soul.

➳❥ It was even funnier when it came to using idioms. “Breaking a leg out there! Knock ‘em dead! Slay!”You had his brows reaching his forehead because “Why would you say such negative words when meant to encourage?”You needed to sit him down to explain that it was an idiom and not to be taken literally. So now you had him telling others the same phrases.

➳❥ You once made an offhand comment about being a ‘gremlin with a medical licence,’ and he asked if it was some form of a mortal healer’s rank. You refused to clarify. And so, he called you Gremlin of the Healing Hall with a suspiciously affectionate tilt to his voice. “Good day, Great Gremlin of the Healing Hall.”

➳❥ When it came to him being into you, you didn’t realise—mostly because he was an elf prince who’d died fighting a werewolf and you were someone who just happened to be spat out from the sky on a random day. The math didn’t math.

➳❥ But then there were the small things. Like how he brought you plants from other gardens ‘for study’ but then beamed when you placed them near your workbench. Or how he remembered that you hated the feeling of linen bandages and found you cotton ones. How he leaned in when you were talking, like he was memorising your tone.

➳❥ “You are…unrefined,” he said once, and you laughed. “Come again?” He shook his head. “No—I like it. You cut the shape of the world differently than we do. It is…sharper. Clearer.”

➳❥ You have caught him once attempting to write a list of your modern idioms in Quenya. You watched him struggle to translate “barking up the wrong tree” with such solemn intensity you didn’t have the heart to stop him.

➳❥ Elrond knew, of course. He raised an eyebrow every time Finrod showed up with another “urgent question” about Celebrian’s tea preferences. “He likes you,” Which only made you shrug. “Yeah, well, he’s got odd taste, and I feel sorry for what he’s got to put up with.”

➳❥ You and Finrod do, from time to time, end up in a heated discussions about ethics in medicine—something about whether you could replicate vaccines in Aman or if that was even necessary—and it ended with him looking at you like you’d hung the stars.

➳❥ “You are not like Bëor’s people,” he said quietly, after. “There was wonder in them, yes, but you carry knowledge. Woven like a weapon into your humour.”

➳❥ Once you fixed his dislocated shoulder after a sparring match and he had the audacity to flirt while grimacing. “Your bedside manner is very commanding,” he sweetly seduced, through gritted teeth. “I feel scolded into recovery.”

➳❥ You slapped his arm and told him, “You’re not dying, stop being dramatic.” His grin was bright enough to put the sun out.

➳❥ One evening, you were exhausted and cranky and snapped at him when he asked a completely innocent question about the use of antiseptic. You regretted it instantly, but he only gave you a slight nod, and later brought you a cup of some herbal tea you’d once offhandedly mentioned helped you sleep.

➳❥ “I do not mind the rough edges,” he said, when you muttered an apology. “They make the bright parts brighter.”

➳❥ You gave him a nickname once—called him ‘Goldilocks’ and he froze like you’d kissed him. The next time you said it, he smiled so slowly it made your heart hiccup.

➳❥ There was a moment, once, when you were both sitting side by side after treating a minor injury someone brought in—a child with scraped knees, nothing serious—and he looked over at you, quiet and thoughtful, and said, “I wish I had met you then. Before the world broke.”

➳❥ He showed you music from his past, old songs sung in languages older than time, and you continued to teach him more idioms and slang for him to translate. Even talking about your world’s inventions and discoveries.

➳❥ He once asked if there was a special or different way your people show affection for someone they liked, or how they confessed and showed their interest. Very smooth and subtle. You obviously caught on and even gave him advice which only made him shine brighter with a plan in mind.

➳❥ “I’d have just called you Sparkles and made fun of your hair,” you replied, not looking at him.

➳❥ You caught him watching you during a feast, romanticised, but like he was trying to understand how you existed in this world and fit nowhere and yet thrived regardless. Like you were a marvel in a very small, very messy package.

➳❥ “You are not of this place,” he told you once. “And yet I find myself wondering if perhaps this place is better for having you in it.”

➳❥ You told him he was being weirdly poetic and needed to tone it down before you started writing terrible sonnets. And of course, he turned it around to offer help.

➳❥ You never made it a big declaration, but there was one time he reached out and squeezed your hand under the table during a feast, and you didn’t flinch or joke or pull away. That, for both of you, said enough.

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[in-the-havens]

Being A Modern Reader In Gondolin And Ending Up As Turgon’s Therapist

A/N: I felt like I was drunk when I wrote this yet hella proud at what I whipped up. Decided to give something humorous for our dear King. I rarely ever write for him. I hope you all enjoy this for Turgon!

Warning: crack, modern reader in Middle Earth, humour, a teeny bit of dark humour

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˚₊‧꒰ა You didn’t mean to fall into Middle-earth, obviously. One minute you were lying in bed reading The Silmarillion and judging the characters’ decisions with crisps in your lap, the next minute you were standing in the middle of Gondolin’s great square in your hoodie and socks, blinking at a bunch of impossibly pretty elves aiming spears at your face.

˚₊‧꒰ა After the initial panic, miscommunication, and someone declaring you a ‘Maiar of questionable attire,’ you got bundled up and dragged before King Turgon like some kind of weird little cryptid. You weren’t even allowed to finish your sentence explaining that no, you weren’t a threat, just very confused and maybe a bit chilly.

˚₊‧꒰ა They didn’t know what to do with you. You were clearly mortal, clearly odd, and very obviously not from around here. And by the time you were brought to Turgon, you were muttering things like, “Am I in some Renaissance fair simulation?” you’d already convinced three guards that you were a travelling jester, a wandering scholar, and someone named ‘Dave.’

˚₊‧꒰ა But when Turgon tried to question you and you started rambling—a chaotic mix of sarcasm, panic, and unsolicited psychoanalysis of his family issues — he sat there like you’d slapped him. Then nodded slowly and said, “Thou speakest...strangely. But perchance...wisely?”

˚₊‧꒰ა You laughed. Right in his face. “Dude, I have no qualifications for this.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “I have known many with qualifications who have spoken far less sense,” he’d replied dryly.

˚₊‧꒰ა Thus began your absolutely absurd new role in Gondolin as the king’s unofficial therapist. You got a cushy room in the palace, daily food deliveries (even if you missed chocolate and cheesecake terribly), and a schedule that consisted mostly of Turgon showing up unannounced at weird hours with what he called ‘matters of import’ and what you called ‘your weekly emotional constipation’.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Are you certain this is wise?” he asked once, after you interrupted one of his lengthy metaphors about destiny and doom with “Bro, just say you’ve got trust issues and call it a day.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Absolutely not wise,” you said, “but it’s either me or that stone you’ve been brooding at for the past hour. I’m cheaper and marginally more entertaining.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You had zero training in psychology, but you did survive an apartment with a compulsive liar and three philosophy majors, so you considered yourself mentally prepared.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Thou art unlike any healer I have known,” he muttered once as you handed him a mug of herbal tea and told him to sit the hell down and stop monologuing like a Shakespearean ghost.

˚₊‧꒰ა You spoke with modern slang and didn’t bother adjusting it, which confused everyone, especially Turgon. You’d say things like “Bro, that’s a red flag if I’ve ever seen one,” and he’d nod solemnly and ask if red banners were a sign of ill fortune in your realm.

˚₊‧꒰ა Your sense of humour didn’t help either. You told him straight-up that his entire family needed therapy, a good punch-up, and maybe some hugs (though you weren’t going to provide the last bit personally because you had boundaries).

˚₊‧꒰ა “Have you ever considered that maybe your obsession with secrecy and control is rooted in unprocessed grief and inherited trauma?” you asked him once while playing with a fidget spinner you’d had in your hoodie pocket the whole time.

˚₊‧꒰ა He blinked slowly. “What…is that device?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “An artefact of my homeland. Helps me not scream.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He genuinely called you “Wise Counsellor” in public once. You choked on your tea and told him if he didn’t stop, you were going to have a full existential breakdown in front of Idril.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Then would that not be an honest expression of thine inner torment?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Man, I swear to God.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He would spend hours pacing while you lounged sideways in an oversized chair, biting into whatever Gondolindrim pastry you’d nicked, nodding thoughtfully and going, “Sounds like a classic control freak scenario to me. Have you tried...not bottling up every emotion until you explode and ruin everyone's lives?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “I am the King of Gondolin,” he once said with great dignity.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah,” you replied, “and kings can cry too. It’s character development.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Your slang confused him but delighted Idril, who started repeating your phrases with a weirdly accurate tone. You once heard her tell Maeglin “Pipe down, drama queen,” and felt equal parts proud and terrified.

˚₊‧꒰ა Of course, because of that, Maeglin did not like you. You called him “Captain Red Flag” once and he’s been glaring ever since.

˚₊‧꒰ა “You mock what you do not understand,” he sneered at you during one particularly tense council.

˚₊‧꒰ა “No, I mock what needs mocking, and mate, you’re about five bad decisions away from an evil monologue.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Turgon did take a strange comfort in your irreverence. You didn’t grovel, didn’t put him on a pedestal, and instead talked to him like someone who just happened to be in charge of an entire city and probably needed to calm down before he gave himself an aneurysm.

˚₊‧꒰ა Sometimes he’d get really intense, talking about the Doom of the Noldor and his burden as king and the weight of fate and prophecy. You’d just squint and say, “Right, but when’s the last time you slept?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Sleep is a gift the weary may not always claim.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that or else I’d smack you with this pillow right to sleep…Your Majesty.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You once started writing down some of his problems on a piece of parchment just to map things out, and when he saw your modern shorthand and diagrams, he genuinely thought you were some kind of prophetic scribe.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Why are there tiny arrows drawn between ‘uncle trauma’ and ‘overcompensation’?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “It’s a flowchart, Turgon. Get with the programme.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He didn’t understand your dark humour at first. When you said things like, “Yeah, if I had to run this city I’d simply launch myself off the tower and call it a day,” he’d look vaguely alarmed. You had to explain you weren’t actually suicidal, you were just a bit ‘normal’ and fundamentally tired.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Thou hast a most perplexing way of making light of thy suffering,” he once remarked.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, it’s either that or scream forever. You’re lucky I’m funny.”

˚₊‧꒰ა The guards got used to you wandering around in odd clothes muttering to yourself and asking things like “What’s the elvish equivalent of a panic attack?” or “If I wanted to prank someone with glitter, where would I find glitter in Gondolin?”

˚₊‧꒰ა You didn’t try to sound wise or mystical. You gave blunt, practical advice that was shockingly effective. When he stressed about Maeglin being weird and secretive, you just said, “Maybe stop being cryptic yourself and just ask him what’s eating him before he grows into a fully-fledged villain.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Thou thinkest he might turn to darkness?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “I mean, his name literally means ‘sharp glance’ or some edgy nonsense. He broods like it’s his job.”

˚₊‧꒰ა At one point you got into a row with Salgant who thought you were a disgrace to the court. You told him his shoes were ugly and his trumpet playing sounded like a dying goose. You were nearly exiled until Turgon calmly said, “If thou removest my counsellor, I shall be left alone with my thoughts. I do not wish that.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You found out about the whole “Doom of Mandos” situation and yelled at Turgon for about fifteen minutes. “Why is everything in this realm so bloody doom-laden? Haven’t you lot considered just…not dying tragically for once?”

˚₊‧꒰ა “It is not within our power to escape fate.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Have you tried therapy? Oh shit wait, that’s me. Guess I’m doing a shitty job.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You once gifted him popcorn—after you snuck into Galdor’s kitchen and showed the cook how to take kernels and turn it into tiny puffs of goodness—and told him “Here’s a treat and a weapon. Throw it at the heads of people who annoy you while munching on them.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Glorfindel was mildly obsessed with your vocabulary and kept trying to use modern phrases incorrectly. You once heard him call Ecthelion “a total babe magnet” and nearly choked on your tea.

˚₊‧꒰ა Turgon became oddly attached to your honesty. “You never bow to me,” he said.

˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, I’m allergic to kneeling. I look young but I got old people joints. Hear that crack? Good, I’m old in my youth.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “You are not from this world, so very peculiar, and yet you offer comfort as if you know mine.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, that’s called trauma bonding. Happens when you hang out with enough emotionally repressed people.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He genuinely thought you had powers for a while because your advice, despite being phrased like Twitter memes, tended to be eerily on point. You told him it was just years of reading fanfiction and overthinking relationships that made you an expert in elf drama.

˚₊‧꒰ა One night he came to your room after a nightmare about the fall of Gondolin. You let him sit there quietly while you poured him a drink and said, “Listen, I don’t know how all this is gonna go down, but worrying yourself sick ain’t gonna stop it. Just means you’ll be fretting when it goes wrong.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Thy words are…bleak.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Yeah, but they’re not wrong.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Idril liked you a lot because you make her laugh, referring to her as “the only sane person in this whole glittering nonsense of a city,” and she’d smirk knowingly and say, “You’re not wrong.”

˚₊‧꒰ა You made Turgon take breaks. Actual breaks. You told him he had to have at least one day a week where he didn’t talk about doom, walls, or hidden kingdoms. You’d go on walks and point out birds and say things like “That one’s got main character energy.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Eventually, you stopped correcting people when they referred to you as the king’s seer or counsellor. You figured if the shoe fit (and the pay was good), you might as well run with it.

˚₊‧꒰ა You never forgot where you came from. Occasionally you’d sit alone and mutter things like, “If only Tumblr could see me now.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Turgon once asked, “If thou wert to return to thy world…wouldst thou miss this?”

˚₊‧꒰ა You stared at him, deadpan, and replied, “I’d miss the drama. And the elves. But mostly the food. Sorry.”

˚₊‧꒰ა He actually laughed. A proper, unrestrained laugh. And you knew in that moment you’d accidentally become something of a friend to a man no one else could really talk to.

˚₊‧꒰ა You were still convinced you were going to get someone killed one day with your “advice,” and you told him so regularly. “One day you’re gonna do something I said and it’ll go so wrong, and then it’s on you, sunshine.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “Then I shall accept the blame. But I would still hear thy counsel.”

˚₊‧꒰ა “You’re all mad, but at least you’re funny about it.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Somehow, absurdly, you became a part of Gondolin. A strange, mortal voice in a city of legends, blunt and sarcastic and completely lacking in reverence—but exactly what Turgon needed. Even if he’d never admit it in public.

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[in-the-havens]

What if I Had Stayed in Valinor?

Sometimes, in the quiet of the night—or what can be called night beyond the confines of time—I wonder: what if I had not followed my people to Beleriand? What if I, like so many others, had stayed in Valinor?

Honestly, it is difficult for me to imagine. Not because I was particularly devoted to the idea of leaving, but because my very nature resists the thought of "staying when all have gone." I was raised with a sense of responsibility—for my people, my family, my friends. When the Exodus began, I did not hesitate—I knew I could not simply stand by and watch as my brothers and sisters departed. I did not leave out of thirst for adventure, nor out of a desire for vengeance (I was not as close to Finwë as his sons were), but because I knew my people needed me.

But let us imagine that I had stayed.

What would my life have been? Most likely, I would have remained in Tirion, in my father’s house, living as I had before the departure. I would have walked in the gardens of Lórien, spoken with Aiwë, perhaps composed new songs. From time to time, I might have visited Telperion and Laurelin, lost in thought, wondering why things had to end this way.

But I would have known that beyond Helcaraxë, my friends, my kin, my people were suffering. That they were fighting, that they were being slain. I would have known that my brothers and sisters were dying, that someone, somewhere, was crying out for help.

And what could I have done?

I might have gone to Manwë, begged him to intervene. I would have said, “They suffer, they fight, help them!” And he would have sighed, looked at me with his clear eyes, and said, “The time has not yet come.”

I know that answer. I have heard it before.

Then I would have gone to Yavanna, pleaded with her to send new gifts, something to strengthen Beleriand. And she would have said, “Arda is wounded, but I cannot heal it without the will of Eru.”

I would have gone to Námo and asked if there was hope. He would have answered, “All fates are already woven into the songs.”

In other words—sit and wait.

What would I have become? At first, I think, I would have simply suffered in silence. Then, I would have begun to grow angry. Not at the gods—for they act as they see fit—but at myself. Because if I had been there, perhaps something would have been different. Perhaps someone would have survived. Perhaps someone would not have made a fatal choice.

I know it is an illusion. One Elf does not change the course of history. But it is hard to rid oneself of the thought that perhaps... just perhaps...

Gradually, I would have lost my taste for life.

Oh yes, I could have become a great sage in Valinor, gathered knowledge, written books. But what is the use of wisdom if there is no one to pass it on to?

I would have looked at the stars and thought: “Where are my people now? Where are my friends?”

I would have listened to the wind and heard in it the cries of those slain by Morgoth.

And one day, I think, I would have simply faded away. Stopped speaking, stopped composing, stopped attending gatherings. In the end, I would have become a shadow, an echo of what I once was.

Or perhaps, one day, I would have simply taken up a sword and gone where no one expects to find Elves. Perhaps I would have sought out Ulmo, cast myself into his waves, begging to be carried where my blood could still serve a purpose.

And if not… if I had stayed, truly stayed, to the very end?

Then I would have met Eärendil when he came to Valinor. I would have looked upon him, listened to his tale—and I would have felt ashamed. Because here he was, a lone half-Elf, coming where none of us could, pleading for aid—because we were not there when we were needed.

And when at last the Valar decided to act, I would have stood before the host, and they would have asked me: — Lord Finrod, will you go with us?

And I would have silently nodded.

And when we arrived in Beleriand, I would have walked its lands, gazed upon the ruins of Nargothrond, searched for traces of those I had known, and realized that it was all already over.

And then I would have asked myself: was it worth staying?

Conclusion I do not regret my choice.

Yes, I died. Yes, I suffered. Yes, I witnessed destruction and sorrow.

But had I stayed, I would have suffered even more. I would have spent eternity in waiting. I would have known that I could have been there—but was not.

And now? Now, I know: I did what I was meant to do. I protected the one who had to survive. And though my fate was harsh, I will never doubt that I chose rightly.

Stay in Valinor?

No. That was never for me.

[in-the-havens]

Do we leave Middle-Earth to its fate? Do we let them stand alone?

[in-the-havens]

Hobbit AU where everything is the same except Maglor shows up to yell at Gandalf and Thranduil about the stupidity of going to war over a shiny rock. He’s also disappointed in Bilbo, Bard, and Thorn, but they’re all Second Born, so he’s not sure how much history they know.

They leave the Arkenstone unguarded in Thranduil’s tent for approximately five seconds and when they come back, Maglor is sitting on Thranduil’s fancy chair wiht his arms crossed.

Just… imagine the look on the face of Thranduil (a survivor of Doriath) when he walks into his tent and there’s a SON OF FEANOR sitting there with the Arkenstone in front of him. FUCKKKKK.

No one is certain how he got in there. The guards never saw him.

At this point, everyone in Middle Earth had assumed he was dead, because there hadn’t been ANY sign of him since the Sinking of Beleriand.

Gandalf doesn’t know what’s about to happen, but he knows it has the potential to provide great entertainment (or end in tragedy, but either way, he’s looking forward to it). He’s looking forward to telling Elrond and Galadriel, because he’s certain they will have highly emotional (and very different) reactions.

Bilbo doesn’t know why everyone fell silent when they walked into the tent, so he just politely bows to Maglor and introduces himself as “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

Maglor gives him a funny look - because he knows that offering your service to a Fëanorian is a really bad idea - but he decides the funny little creature looks too innocent to scold, so he smiles and bows his head. “Well met,” he says. “A star shines on the hour of our meeting.”

Thranduil internally screams at the word “star”

Then Maglor just starts shouting at Thranduil and Gandalf, calling them all fucking stupid. He asks Thranduil if he enjoyed the Kinslaying at Doriath, since he’s about to do the same fucking thing (‘It’s not the same!’ Thranduil argues. “Oh really?” Maglor asks, “You’re not about to go into an underground Kingdom to flush out the native inhabitants, ALL OVER A ROCK”)

Bard and Bilbo are looking at each other like ‘do you know him?’ ‘no, don’t you?’ (Bilbo is highly upset because he’s considered an elf that could be so rude or that there was any such thing as an elf with a ‘hobo aesthetic’)

Thranduil is, of course, offended to be compared to the Feanorians, so he shouts back that those are bold words for someone who came to claim the Silmaril for himself.

Maglor stands up - and he’s taller than all of them - and just picks up the Arkenstone in his bare hand.

Everyone goes silent. Thranduil is waiting for him to start burning. Bilbo is seeing their chance at using the Arkenstone to prevent battle slipping away. Gandalf knows what’s coming, and he’s having a BLAST.

“YOU THOUGHT THIS PIECE OF SHIT WAS A SILMARIL?”

[in-the-havens]

Maglor’s Fate theories ranked from least to most absurd

(with links to relevant AO3 fics because I know you’ll love that)

Eventually died, possibly during the sinking of Beleriand. Seems to be implied by Mandos mentioning that he will have Fëanor’s sons in his halls (Maglor is not mentioned separately from the others who definitely died)

Will wander forever unable to return home due to his unfulfillable Oath. Eventually fades from existence, his physical body slowly decaying due to the Marring of Arda until his spirit is left to haunt the shores. Fulfills the “your deeds will forever be a matter of song” part of the Doom.

Eventually pardoned long after the Third Age and builds his own makeshift raft to get there. Alternatively called “Nerdanel bullies the Valar to get what she wants.”

Tossed into the Void along with his father and brothers as punishment for their crimes as per the wording of the Oath [x]

Hunted down by Sauron as petty revenge (maybe at Celebrimbor, maybe just at the Feanorians in general, maybe just because Sauron got bored) [x, x, x, x]

Living in Rivendell during the Third Age, probably under the name Lindir. Fits with “The Lost Road” where he was said to live with Elrond for a while after the First Age. [x]

Cohabiting with Daeron and possibly Nimloth. Maybe they eventually sail. Maybe they don’t. [x, x]

Beach hermit who is dragged home against his will by Elrond at the end of the Third Age. [x, x, x]

Beach hermit who grudgingly befriends Cirdan this could end well [x] or it could end in tragedy [x]

Bonds with Bilbo over maps (and pastries). Bilbo did not initially know who this strange hobo Elf was, but once he figures it out Bilbo manages to trick him into reuniting with Elrond [x]

Tossed into the Void as per the Oath, but is rescued by the sheer determination (and stupidity) of Elrond Half Elven. [x]

Rescued by Eönwë, his ex boyfriend. Yes I am ranking my OTP as absurd. No I am not accepting notes. [x]

Tom Bombadill. That’s it. That’s the theory. [x, x, x]

Convinces the men of Gondor to jail him for his crimes and becomes a sort of pseudo-prophet for the Gondorians for centuries. Eventually yelled at by Elrond. [x]

Joins the Fellowship of the Ring, not because he wanted to, but because it sounded like no one else who volunteered was actually qualified [x]

Shows up during the Hobbit to yell at people about the foolishness of going to war over pretty Jewels [x]

Becomes Homer, the blind Greek playwright. May or may not also be Shakespeare.

Lives on through the modern age, eventually decides that five dollar monthly margaritas at Chili’s are better than Valinor.

Kidnapped by Earendil (on orders from Elrond). The Valar allow it because if Earendil is okay with him then can they really argue??? [x]

Actually Celebrimbor: There’s a reason Celebrimbor wasn’t mentioned in the original drafts of the Silm and was thrown in as an after thought, and that’s because Elrond and ‘Celebrimbor’ took advantage of the fact that most of Nargothrond died to create a cover story for where this ‘new’ Fëanorian came from.

Killed during the Third Age, by a werewolf who is actually Finrod [x]

Befriends some dude named John Ronald Ruel and tells him stories that the Oxford professor eventually adapts and turns into an epic tale. Discrepancies in the canon can be attested to JRRT deciding to “improve” things.

Actually JRR Tolkien himself, after writing down his crimes and ensuring that his crimes will never be forgotten, he eventually allows himself to die. Discrepancies in the canon can be attested to confusion brought about by damage from his Oath and ensuing madness.

Crablor

[in-the-havens]

Feanor and his family.

Finally got to do fanarts with elves from Tolkien universe. Starting with my favorites - Feanor and his sons.

[in-the-havens]

Fingolfin