#i could continue with elros's children

[maglor-my-beloved]

Bedtime Stories

Characters: Elrond, Elros, Maglor, Maedhros

Words: 295

Warnings: none

Read on Ao3

“It’s bedtime, little Stars,” Maglor cooed softly, and the two Elflings pouted at him.

“Can’t we play a little longer?”

“I am afraid not, but if you go to bed now I will tell you a story before you sleep.”

Soon they were both in bed, wrapped in soft blankets, looking at him expectantly. Maglor tried to think of a story suitable for children, perhaps one his mother had told him when he had been young, but thinking of his mother only made him miss her, fiercely and desperately, and he had to fight back tears.

“What is the story, Atya?”

“Once… once upon a time,” Maglor began, with no idea where he was going.

“Once upon a time,” a raspy, gentle voice behind him said, “long before the rising of the sun and moon…”

“Wasn’t it very dark then?”

Maglor’s chest ached as he remembered how Nelyo used to tell bedtime stories for him and his brothers when they could not sleep, how Curvo had interrupted him with questions and how Tyelko had rolled his eyes and told him to shut up so the story could continue.

Maedhros sat on the bedside and smiled. “It was not, for the world was lit by two great Trees, one gold and one silver, that waxed and waned over the course of a day.”

“Glowing trees?”

“Yes.” Maedhros’ smile took on a sad edge. “They were beautiful. Now, while these Trees still shone, in a land across the sea there lived a young prince, as old as you are…”

Silent tears ran down Maglor’s face as he listened to the story his brother wove, and only when it was over and the children asleep did Maedhros’ voice break, and Maglor saw that his brother, too, was crying.

[swanmaids]

She visited her son’s empty grave on his birthday every year, and the following day she would spend mostly in bed. Her husband was always loathe to leave her when the night fell then, but the Star of High Hope had no choice.

And so, twenty years after the death of Elros Tar-Minyatur; on the morning after what would have been his five-hundred and twentieth birthday, his mother recieved a visitor.

Turgon greeted Elwing with a fierce embrace.

"Granddaughter," he said simply.

"Grandfather," she replied, "I am glad that Eärendil sent for you to come."

She was. Her husband had always spoken of his grandfather fondly at Sirion, and when she had met him after his rebirth, partway into his service at Alqualondë.; she found that she liked him too. As a girl, she had opened the gates of Sirion to the remnant of the Gondolindrim in exile in spite of whatever deeds they may have committed before, and as a woman she did not find it difficult to apply the same logic to their former king. And it was good to have company on this most painful of anniversaries, if only to force her to leave her bed.

Turgon brewed them each a mug of black tea, the slightly misshapen mugs a gift from Finrod, and they sat side by side to drink them on the stone steps of the tower.

"It is not his choice which hurts the most after all this time," she said abruptly, after several silent minutes. "My husband was close to choosing the same. All that I have heard from Númenor tells me that he was a wise and beloved king, and that he was unafraid of death, and I believe it. No- it is that some days I feel as though I failed him, as his mother."

There was no judgement in her grandfather's face. She continued.

"I look back on that awful day, and I do not know what I could have done differently. When the minstrel came to me with the Fëanorian terms, Sirion was ravaged. He did not bring my children before me, and I thought them slain already when I jumped. And most days I do not blame myself for our sundered fates, but on days like today it pains me, knowing that I sought to die while my sons still lived, and that almost all of their lives I missed." She spoke quietly, and her voice did not break, but her eyes misted over all the same.

Turgon nodded slowly, as though gathering his thoughts before he spoke. When he did, his voice was steady.

"When I lost my wife to the Grinding Ice, the next night I left Idril asleep in our tent and walked out into the snow. I sought to die, and it was only by the grace of Aredhel and my brothers, who heard me leave and sought to drag me back, that I did not.

"For a long time, I believed myself evil for such a thing. My daughter had just lost her mother, and now I sought to take her father from her too. It took me a long time to accept that she held no grudge against me for it. When my city fell and I saw the scope of my failure, again, I set my mind to fall with the tower, and I did. You know that I was longer in the Halls than many. I could not bring myself to accept the forgiveness of my people, nor my daughter.

"I think we have both known despair, granddaughter. Perhaps we have known it better than many. I would not have you hold yourself evil for it. Elros was accounted wise among his people- I am sure he would not wish for you to think such, either."

Elwing managed a watery smile, at that. She leaned on her grandfather's shoulder, and they waited together for Eärendil's ship to come in.

inspired by @arlenianchronicles amazing and very painful art of Turgon and Fingon after Elenwe's death.

also fits the @spring-into-arda back to middle earth month prompt 'embrace'.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

The curse of being loved

This ficlet is my peace offering to @sortumavaara.

I have not forsaken your blorbo. I swear... I'm just not good at writing him lol

@elanna-elrondiel you wanted to be tagged. @cilil this is your fault for enabling and encouraging me!

Characters: Elrond, Elros, Elwing, Maglor, Maedhros

Words: 1,5k

Warnings: Sadness, Eldritch powers, kids are creepy, self-realisation, murder, canonical slaughter, canonical kidnapping

The first language Elrond had ever heard was the breathless cries of amazement and captivation at perceiving, and he’d understood it at once even though he didn’t yet comprehend the power inherent to that instinctive reaction of bone-deep awe.

As was expected and natural, he was loved and cherished by his parents, and, if he noticed that their level of watchfulness went beyond that of others, he did not think anything of it.

Why would he have? He’d never known any other way of being treated.

Likewise, he’d never really questioned the strange appeal he and Elros seemed to hold for almost any other adult in the dismal camp of refugees. They were twins, a two-pronged beacon of life and hope, and it made sense that those who’d previously suffered such pains and deprivation would feel inexorably drawn to the soft, open faces of young children.

Elrond was aware that—in a world full of lurking danger and dark doom—he was vulnerable and precious to the adults in his life, not least because of the importance and wisdom of his genitors who were still utterly besotted with his charming smiles and pleading glances.

As time went by, though, he soon learned how to capitalise on that undeniable weakness in that self-forgotten, profoundly selfish way that was typical for toddlers.

Thus, he observed the reactions of those surrounding him with dispassionate curiosity, adjusting his mannerisms and voice in a myriad of discreet, nigh-imperceptible ways to consciously exacerbate the strange, alluring, corrupting effect he had on people.

In time, and almost despite himself, he started to tilt his head in a way that made his eyes gleam and his skin appear fragile and translucent like the finest porcelain, having ascertained through trial and error that this made it patently impossible for anyone looking at him to avert their eyes or deny him even the most outlandish request.

Barely out of infancy, he was continually perched on someone’s arm like a wondrous bird wrought of unconfessed wishes and stardust—back then, he was blessedly ignorant of his own lineage and the terrible might it conferred to him, and he shamelessly basked in the attention and admiration with which he was unceasingly showered.

Slowly but obdurately, all his motions grew thoughtful and elegant long before other children his age had outgrown the phase of rambunctious chaos, and yet, neither he nor his brother was ever truly ostracised or mocked by their peers for their peculiar charm that invariably turned rational sages and ferocious warriors into blabbering fools.

They were loved by all they met, and they hadn’t yet made any experience that would push them to worry about something as self-evident and wholesome as the simple fact that people seemingly never grew tired of watching them play or listening to them talk, no matter the subject and its relative importance.

Growing older and fairer with every passing day, Elrond before long was overcome with the unshakable sensation that the people around him drew an unfathomable, indescribable sense of soothing and even healing from their every interaction with him, and so he pushed aside his nascent qualms at having praise and gifts bestowed upon him without measure or restraint.

Still, he felt adored, respected, and valued in his community, and he began to feel responsible for those who had taken such generous care of him in return. When he grew to his full strength, he vowed, he’d prove himself worthy of all the affection that had been heaped upon him for as long as he could remember.

One fateful day, though, their mother—in their father’s absence—threw herself into the arms of the sea, desperate tears channelling her bright gaze into a deadly beam of cutting devastation that would sunder her from her sons forever.

Elrond was too stunned to even cry out—he didn’t understand. How could a woman whose very purpose in life had been to coddle and adulate her sons do something so cruel and reckless?

Of course, he did not get the time to further muse about these confusing, contradictory truths in peace, though, as a stranger approached him, his long-fingered hands extended as if to promise with his whole body that he meant him and his brother no harm.

Was it instinct or habit, Elrond would never be able to determine later on, but, abandoned by his father and bereft of his mother, he shamelessly angled his face upwards to catch the flickering light of his childhood being put to the torch in his wide, wet eyes.

Robbed of all his anchor points, he fell back on the hitherto unquestioned, flawlessly reliable magic that coursed through his veins—pushing Elros behind him, he moulded himself into the most appealing version of himself to cow the ominous, looming threat by innate enchantment alone.

The stranger chuckled softly. “I used to do that,” he confessed in a soft, melodious voice that seemed to chime like a thousand golden strings. “Nelyo was always the pretty one, but I was ever able to coax and coerce people by a mere glance or a whispered word.”

Elrond flinched back as if struck. Why did this atrocious confession echo through his whole being, sending nauseating waves of shame and guilt crashing into his soul?

There was something so callously, insultingly veracious in that careless quip that Elrond felt his mask of puerile purity slip, revealing the deep-felt shock and sudden fear lurking underneath to the merciless stare of the murderous intruder.

“You truly are of Melian’s blood.”

Frowning, Elrond shook his head in a vain attempt to dispel the gossamer threads of dark and dangerous magic the man’s voice wove around his frantic mind, choking all sense of self-preservation and caution out of it mercilessly.

“Who are you?” he asked, feeling Elros’s cold hand press against the small of his back as if to encourage him or hold him back.

The fearsome foe hesitated for a heartbeat. “Maglor,” he then sighed. “Call me Maglor.”

At once, Elrond pounced on that minuscule mellowing. Stepping forward fearlessly, he put out his slender, tiny hand and conjured up his most enthralling, hypnotizing smile. “I’m Elrond, and this is my brother Elros. You wouldn’t harm us, would you?”

Wearily, Maglor—who was drenched in blood and covered in mud and miserable memories—let go of his blade and wiped his pale, empty palm across his sweat-sheened brow. “No,” he finally grunted. “I know not whence the spell you’ve put upon me has issued, and I like it not to find such power in one so young, but I admit that all bloodlust has drained from my heart. Come away, there is nought here for you but death and starvation.”

“You hexed him,” Elros whispered as they were led out of the camp. “There comes another one, can you do it again?”

In truth, Elrond was shaken to his core. After a bountiful childhood at the bosom of his parents’ people, he now came to understand that he wielded a fearsome and potentially perilous power.

He yearned to seek out his mother’s wisdom or his father’s stalwart support, but he knew not where they were, and he doubted that he’d ever be reunited with them.

Too many epiphanies—much too weighty and woeful for a mere child to fully fathom—hit him at once, and he longed to curl up in the warm, protective arms of those who’d gathered around his bassinet and his naïve games to cheer and comfort him at every turn.

From the foul fumes of burning wood and smouldering stone emerged a figure—tall and stiff as a moving tree—and Elrond closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall every single instance in which he’d tricked someone into giving him an undeserved treat or forgiving a careless trespass upon their peace and property.

“Káno, what do you think you’re doing?” the newcomer rasped impatiently.

“Speak to the child,” their new minder, already half won over, replied in a clipped voice that turned his words into a hailstorm of icy shards. “You’ll see that I had no choice in the matter.”

With a scoff, the red-haired demon turned and stalked away.

“He’s afraid of your talents,” Elrod cheered under his breath, and Elrond let him believe that the battle he was about to fight without even knowing his weapons was already won.

He’d have but little time to become consciously aware of his skills and hone them sufficiently to save their lives, but he’d not burden Elros with the devastating knowledge that they’d be on their own and at the mercy of their parents’ enemies henceforth.

When Maglor turned to lift his orphaned captives into his unyielding arms, Elrond leaned his soft cheek against the worn, dirty fur collar of his cloak in a gesture reminiscent of a defenceless kitten, seeking shelter and warmth.

“Leave it to me,” he whispered. He’d not only make these murderers spare their lives—he’d make them love him.

Again, this was an attempt at breaking me out of my writer's block, so there is no event, no Masterlist, no context...

Lots of love from me!

[lordgrimwing]

Babysitting #01

Maglor didn't flinch when his office door swung open, hitting the doorstop on the wall with a bang. At the law firm of Fëanoro & Associates, slamming doors and raised voices were no uncommon thing. He considered it the natural consequence of working with his father and all six of his brothers (Amrod and Amras were just paralegals at this point, but there was no question that they would join the firm after graduating) in a single building. He continued typing on his chunky keyboard until he reached the end of the paragraph of the settlement document he was redrafting before looking up.

"I need you," Maedros said without preamble, the customary mildly annoyed expression he wore anytime he wasn't talking to clients or judges replaced by actual frustration. "To do something for me."

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," Maglor said, already knowing that he'd do whatever his brother asked and just end up staying even later at the office—it wasn't as if anything was waiting for him back at his apartment.

"She brought her children," The hand not gripping the edge of the door curled into a fist at his side.

“Who did?” One of the first changes Maglor made when he came on as an attorney was to hire some good secretaries. He did not pay that much attention to any of his brothers’ schedules these days.

“That Elwing woman, the pro bono case Celegorm talked me into.”

“Oh,” He was quite familiar with the details of this particular divorce if for no other reason than Maedhros complained about it at least once a day for the past month. The woman in question, a young peredhel from down south, was apparently prone to worrying over every detail and calling her attorney in a panic when she needed reassurance that everything would get worked out. 

“I cannot work with children touching everything in my office.” His brother continued, shoulders tense. 

He thought he knew where this was going. “And you need me to…”

“Just occupy them with something. If they aren’t around to interrupt and distract her from what we’re doing, I’ll be done in an hour, two at most if this girl keeps asking inane questions and insisting on accounting for every possible mishap in the formal papers.”

Maglor signed out of his computer and pushed his chair back from the desk. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Though the tone didn’t suggest it, he could see his brother’s gratitude in the faint softening of his frown before he turned away. “Come on.”

They walked quickly down the hall to Maedhros’s corner office. At the large wooden desk inside sat a woman with bleach-blond hair styled in a vaguely windswept way. She looked up anxiously when the door swished open, her bottom lip slipping out from between her teeth as she quickly tried to compose herself. She looked even younger than Maglor expected: less like the 23-year-old mother of twin 6-year-old boys and more like a child herself. The boys in question had their faces and hands pressed against one of the windows, staring out at the city below them.

“This is Maglor,” Maedhros said briskly to Elwing. “He will keep an eye on your children until we finish.”

Maglor smiled at her to smooth over his brother’s tone. “We’ll be just down the hall.”

“Thank you,” She said, still looking like a nervous wreck, and turned to her children. “Elros, Elrond.”

They turned from the window to look at the adults. Maglor was surprised to see they were identical and couldn’t help but recall how Amrod and Amras looked as children too. Even 20, most people outside the family had a hard time telling his brothers apart, though Amrod’s hair was getting slowly darker as the years passed. These twins did not bear any resemblance to his brothers, of course, beyond the fact that they were both identical sets. Their features bore such a mix of races as to make it impossible to guess at their heritage other than some combination of elf and human.

Elwing continued. “This nice man is going to take you to do something much more fun than listening to Mommy and Mr. Marillion talk.”

Maedhros’ upper lip curled back slightly in disgust at the use of his legal last name and probably at the reference to his brother as a man. Fëanor’s family held to the traditional values of the Noldor elves and preferred using more elvan terms. Personally, Maglor did not care much one way or the other if he were called an ‘ellon’ or a ‘man’, but everyone argued less when they all went along with tradition. He ignored his brother’s reaction and turned to the boys as they approached him.

“Yes,” He grinned at them, crouching slightly so he was not looming so far above them. “We can find something much more fun.” 

“Do you have toy boats?” The first boy asked, holding hands with his brother who looked much more reluctant to talk with the stranger. “I love boats.”

His father kept a model of the boats the Noldor used to sail across the sea thousands of years ago in his office, but Maglor doubted Fëanor would appreciate them interrupting him to see it. “Let’s go see what we can find,” He said instead. At the very least, he could use one of the secretary’s computers to look up boat images or videos. If that was all it took to keep these children occupied, he would count himself lucky. He recalled Amrod and Amras being quite the handful at this age.

The first boy tugged the second along as they left the office. “I’m Elros,” He said and then pointed back at his brother. “He’s Elrond. It’s okay if you don’t remember, no one ever does.”

“I’ll do my best.” Given Elros was wearing a green t-shirt and Elrond a blue, he would have no trouble telling them apart. “What do you like most about boats?” He asked.

“You can go anywhere on a boat!” Elros exclaimed with obvious glee. “You can sail all over the world and visit all the countries and go on adventures. Who doesn’t like boats?”

“I’ve met a few hobbits who don’t.”

Elros rolled his eyes. “Our dad’s met all kinds of people on the sea, even hobbits!”

“Our dad’s a sailor.” Elrond piped up in a tiny voice. 

By which, Maglor knew he meant their father was in the navy. He’s apparently been involved in some heroics a couple years ago which was somehow making the divorce more complicated than it should have been when two peredhil got married far too young and finally realized they shouldn’t stay together. According to his father, most people got married far too young these days, especially the elves. Fëanor spoke quite freely about the vices of marrying young when Curufin was going through his own quiet divorce five years ago. The then 23-year-old law student dutifully murmured his agreement with everything said as his now ex-wife took their child and drove away. Sometimes, it was better for everyone if couples didn’t stay together.

He wondered if these boys knew their parents were getting divorced. “That sounds very exciting,” He said instead and left it at that until they reached the front desk and he told the secretary that he’d be commandeering the unused computer so Elros could show him his favorite kinds of boats.

He did not particularly care for sailing himself. He’s gone out on the ocean a few times: their father insisted they all have at least an appreciation for the type of boats the Noldor used. He found the constant movement made him nauseated. Despite that, the next hour and a half passed surprisingly quickly as Elros, with a little support from Elrond, talked his way through picture after picture of various ships.

He looked up with surprise when he heard Maedhros’s voice. “Yes, yes I am sure that is everything we need to put in writing. Yes, Eärendil will be on leave next week and we’ll get everything signed and put away and it will all be official, and you do not need to worry.” 

His tall brother guided Elwing through the doorway and into the front lobby. From his tone and expression, he was on his last thread of civility.

“All finished?” Maglor asked, standing up quickly and giving the children a gentle push toward their mother to distract her from whatever she was worrying about and his brother’s bruskness.

“Yes,” Maedhros said with conviction. 

“Yes,” Elwing said with relief. “Mr. Marillion you’ve been so helpful, thank you. I feel so much better with adding those last couple things. I really do.” She turned to Maglor. “And thank you for looking after Elros and Elrond. I hope they weren’t too much trouble.” 

“None at all,” He assured, thinking about the documents waiting in his office.

“Thank you again, Mr…” She trailed off, clearly fishing for his last name.

“It’s Marillion too, but please just call me Maglor. There are far too many of us in this firm to use our last name.”

With that, Maedhros ushered her and the two boys out through the glass entry doors. 

“Is she getting custody?” Maglor asked when his brother turned around.

“Yes,” He answered, sounding entirely done with it all. “Full custody, the father didn’t even push very hard for visitation rights.”

“She doesn’t really seem like the kind of girl who should be raising kids on her own.” Maglor mused, watching through the glass as Elwing fumbled and dropped her car keys. When she bent over to retrieve them, her phone fell out of her purse to join the keys on the asphalt.

Maedhros snorted. “She’s done it for the last six years. The father will still pay child support, so a divorce isn’t going to change that much.”

“I suppose she loves them, at least.” Love did not play heavily in any of his siblings’ childhoods. Their father approved of results far more than people. Their mother appreciated that he and Maedhros were old enough to help when their siblings came along but was quite ready to continue with her career in the intervening years. People always talked about the importance of parents loving their children, though, so it seemed like an appropriate thing to say.

His brother shrugged, unconcerned. “She certainly worries.”

“How so?”

He turned back toward his office and Maglor followed by his side. “She wanted an addition to the agreement stating who should take the kids if she suddenly died or disappeared or was kidnapped and held for ransom by some eco-terrorist group, or if the police couldn’t definitively prove her ex wasn’t involved. I had to sit there for the last 40 minutes while she called every contact on her phone and asked if they would take them.” He threw his hands up with frustration.

“And did she find someone?” Maglor asked, curious.

“No! They all had the good sense not to answer or else say those were ridiculous things to worry about and told her to calm down and they’d talk later.” Maedhros looked as though he’d wanted to tell her a good deal more than that.

“She just gave up?”

“No,” He repeated, turning suddenly into Maglor’s office and flopping into one of the cushioned chairs for clients to sit in for more relaxed discussions. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.  

Maglor sat next to him. “You could get some nicer seats in your own office, you know, rather than using mine.” He chastised without any real intent. He liked when his brother stopped by to unwind a bit during the day.

Maedhros chuckled but didn’t answer. His office hardly changed in the ten years since he claimed the space after passing the bar.

“So what happened?” Maglor pushed.

“It’s past 6:30, I just wanted her to get out.” He said without opening his eyes.

“And?”

“I said I’d take them.”

Maglor laughed at the thought of his brother volunteering to look after children again. “Really?”

“Signed it and everything. Legally binding now.” Maedhros said, looking utterly unconcerned.

“Russ,” He switched to one of the names that he only used when lightly teasing his older brother. “That means you’ll have to raise two more boys if she suddenly and mysteriously dies.”

Maedhros inhaled sharply, a mockery of surprise, and said, “Pray that she doesn’t, Laurë. Pray that she doesn’t.”

[thevalleyisjolly]

A lot of fan depictions of Elrond often depict him as primarily culturally Noldorin, which is understandable.  He was an important figure in Gil-Galad’s court, to the extent that he was appointed his vice regent if you go by Unfinished Tales, and he was one of the bearers of three Elven rings.  Periodically there will be some meta or fic which dives into his connection to the Mortal side of his heritage, but most depictions frame him as culturally one of the Noldor.

What I’ve never really seen (although I’ve admittedly been on hiatus for a few years) is much talk about the implications of Elrond being regularly depicted as culturally Noldorin, which is often attributed to the influence of Maglor and Maedhros.  I think that’s a pretty logical assumption to make, but it’s also quite a horrifying and sad one if you deconstruct it.

Because Elrond and Elros are sons of Elwing, and a significant portion of their heritage is from Doriath.  Not only that, but they and their mother were the last survivors of their entire family by the end of the First Age, something that was almost entirely the fault of the Fëanorians.  And then the Fëanorians came and slaughtered their people again, kidnapped them, and Maglor at least raised them for a while.

So the implications of saying that Elrond culturally identifies with the Noldor because of Maglor’s upbringing becomes that much more horrific because it also (unintentionally) says, “his family and entire people (the Sindar of Doriath) were attacked and murdered en masse twice, and the murderers kidnapped him and his brother as young children and raised them in their (the murderers’) own culture such that as adults, at least one of them continued to identify with that culture before any of the other lineages and history that should also have been his by family, by upbringing, and by right.”

And it’s not that you can’t enjoy Noldor!Elrond, but it’s just odd that you seldom see any approaches to Noldor!Elrond which acknowledge the inherent fucked-up-ness of why he would be culturally Noldorin.  There are so many avenues you could take it down too.  Maybe Elrond reclaiming Noldorin culture for himself in a positive way, discovering the non-Fëanorian experiences and histories and choosing them for himself, or even coming to terms with Fëanorian expressions of Noldor culture.  Maybe Elrond having a difficult time processing his relationship with his heritage, caught between the culture he was raised in and the other cultures that he never got a chance to grow up with.  Maybe Elrond working through various conflicting feelings at different stages in his life, because there are no such things as easy answers or “right” ways to feel when you grow up forcibly disconnected from your family and culture.

I personally like and headcanon an Elrond who identifies a great deal with his Sindarin heritage and who makes an effort to reconnect to that part of his family history.  I think there’s some textual support for it, such as in FOTR in “The Council of Elrond” when he briefly summarizes his genealogy and he puts a great deal more emphasis on his descent from Lúthien through his mother Elwing than he does on his patrilineal descent through Eärendil.  But that’s also a personal preference - as always in fandom, you do you. 

To be clear, there’s nothing wrong with seeing Elrond as culturally Noldorin.  It’s a very common perception of the character and even if it didn’t have textual basis, everyone’s still entitled to enjoy their own readings of the character.  I just think there’s often a missing dimension when we talk about Elrond’s relationship to culture (whichever one you believe he identifies with most), which has its foundations in and cannot be extricated from the trauma of the Third Kinslaying, no matter what love grew afterwards. 

[elennalore]

Tolkien Secret Santa Advent Calendar Day 4: Singing

A Silmarillion fan fic for @officialtolkiensecretsanta

Title: First Winter

Rating: G

Characters: Maedhros, Maglor, Elrond, Elros

Summary: On the first day of winter, Elrond and Elros want to hear the snow song their mother used to sing to them - but they can't remember the words.

Read it on Ao3 or below:

The first snow began to fall that afternoon. The twins ran around in the courtyard, trying to catch snowflakes with their tongues. Their joyful laughter had made Maglor leave his desk and come to the balcony to watch them play in the yard below. He appeared beside Maedhros like a ghost; he hadn’t heard him coming.

“They shouldn’t be so happy with their situation,” Maglor commented bitterly. He never said anything like that when the children were within hearing distance, but now they weren’t, and his face twisted into a grimace. “What are we going to do with them, Mae?”

“Hush, let’s not think about it now. Let them play, it makes me nostalgic. Do you remember how we, too, used to catch snowflakes when it snowed in Valinor?”

“It never snowed in Valinor. You’ve got false memories.”

Maedhros frowned thoughtfully, as if questioning his own mind; then he shook his head. “No. It really happened. Once or twice, but it happened when we were children. Approximately their age, I suppose.”

One of the twins, Elros, noticed them standing there and waved. “Come down here! It’s snowing!”

Maedhros turned to speak to his brother: “Shall we?”

Maglor wrapped his cloak around him and nodded, his expression grave and joyless. Maedhros missed his laughter, but this was still better than staying alone in the study, so he was content.

The twins ran to Maglor as soon as they had descended the stairs. They found him less frightening of their two kidnappers, Maedhros knew. In a way, it made things easier for him. Less chance for developing a real affection. Now the twins jumped up and down with their boundless energy and tugged Maglor’s cloak.

“Snow! Snow!” they shouted in unison, joy bubbling in their voice. And then: “Sing to us! Sing to us!”

Maglor froze. He stepped away from the twins, and his face was ashen as he looked at Maedhros. “I don’t sing,” he muttered, and Maedhros pitied him.

“But it’s the time of the snow song!” Elrond exclaimed.

“Mother always sang it when the first snow arrived!” Elros added. “But mother is not here, so it may as well be you!”

“Sing to us! Sing to us!” they cried again in their endless enthusiasm.

Maedhros stepped closer, and the twins became quiet, staring at him, wide-eyed. “He’s not going to sing,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “He doesn’t want to sing anymore.”

In the evening, they had gathered around the fireplace – a mockery of a real family – when Maedhros heard soft humming. The twins were humming a foreign tune, and the simple beauty of the melody made his heart ache. He could see falling snowflakes and soft blanket of snow with his mind’s eye. This had to be the snow song they had been talking about.

To his surprise, Maglor began to hum the tune along with them. He turned to watch his brother in awe; he had not heard his melodic voice after Sirion. Of course, this was not fearsome battle-singing, but quite the opposite: there was healing woven inside the melody. Maglor’s eyes were closed in concentration, and a faint smile had appeared on his face.

“I know that melody,” Maglor told them when the tune ended, looking astonished. “Daeron sang it during Mereth Aderthad.”

“It’s the snow song!” the twins exclaimed in unison. “But we don’t remember the words,” Elrond added, and the smile on his face faltered.

“We have forgotten,” Elros continued and grasped his twin’s hand. “We only remember the tune of mother’s singing.”

“I remember the words,” Maglor said from his armchair, and without further ado he began to sing.

When the song was finished, Maedhros’ eyes were filled with tears. In the next round, the twins had learned the words and joined the singing, shyly at first, but growing in confidence as the song went on. Maedhros thought he heard a fragment of the music of the Ainur in their harmonic voices, and for the first time since Sirion his mood was lifted.

It ended too soon. The song was over, and the room fell silent. Maedhros was too stunned to give them an applause.

At last, the twins broke the silence. “Again!” they exclaimed with palpable joy. “Let’s sing it again! Uncle Maedhros, you can join us, too!”

“I’d rather not,” he said and found himself smiling through his tears. “I prefer listening to you. It was very beautiful.”

“Perhaps we can sing it again to uncle Maedhros,” Maglor suggested.

In Valinor, when everything was still well, their family used to go wassailing at the end of the year. They had gone from door to door, singing carols and bringing cheer in the light of the Trees. Their father had been so proud of his growing choir. Now Maglor quickly arranged a similar ensemble. He asked Elrond and Elros to stand in the middle of the room. Then he took a candle lantern from the table and went standing behind the twins. In the dim room, the warm candlelight illuminated their faces. Maedhros took a better position in his chair, knowing that he had an important role of being an audience.

Maglor started the song, and the twins joined him at once. Three voices of extraordinary beauty filled the room again. Maedhros felt like the time had stopped, and something moved in his heart.

This time when the song ended, he found himself clapping and cheering. Elrond and Elros ran merrily to him and wrapped their little arms around his waist. At some point – he didn’t know when – they had become a real family.

[grey-gazania-fic]

Family

Elrond has an uncomfortable conversation with one of Maedhros' followers. Rated G.

Elrond was bored. His brother was tucked up in bed with a fever, a cough, and a runny nose, and Maglor had forbidden Elrond from sitting with him; he was worried that Elrond, too, might fall ill. The troubles that come from trading with Men, he’d muttered, shooing Elrond away.

Elven children did not get sick.

There would be no lessons today. Elrond could tell already. Maglor was busy tending to Elros, and Maedhros had not been at breakfast that morning. At Amon Ereb, absences were their own kind of language. Elrond likely wouldn’t see Maedhros today, but he knew that if he did, the eldest son of Fëanor would look right through him with hollow, shadowed eyes.

With a sigh, Elrond tucked the book of Quenya poetry he had been reading into his pocket, and then he wandered down through the kitchen and outside. It was a beautiful autumn day, crisp and sunny with a gentle breeze, but he took little joy in the weather. For a while he amused himself by attempting to juggle a trio of rocks, though he had little success. But as he ambled along the side of the keep, his attention was caught by a soft scraping sound. Curious, he followed the noise.

Rounding the corner of the outer wall, he found Galwen perched cross-legged on a bench in the sun, her hands busy as she used an unfamiliar blade to shape a short length of wood. He moved closer, intrigued. He hadn’t known that Galwen did anything other than hunt and patrol.

“What are you making?” he asked.

She didn’t answer immediately, but dragged her knife over the wood a few more times before setting it down beside her.

A bow, she signed.

Elrond tipped his head, studying the wood more closely. It was curved like a bow would be, but it was very short, much shorter than the bows the people on patrol used. “Who is it for?” he asked.

You.

“Me?” His eyes widened. “Are you making one for Elros, too?”

She nodded, and then lifted her knife and returned to her work. Elrond knew he should leave her be, but he was too interested to walk away.

“What’s it made of?” He knew that yew was favored by bowyers, but he doubted that Galwen would use such a fine wood for a child’s bow.

She set her blade aside once more, but the sign she made was unfamiliar.

“I don’t know that one,” Elrond said, shaking his head.

She seemed to think for a moment, and then her hands moved again. The tree that makes syrup, she said. Then she repeated the earlier sign.

“Oh! Maple.”

She nodded.

Impulsively, he moved closer and sat down on the empty end of the bench. “I didn’t know you made bows.”

Galwen closed her eyes and exhaled through her teeth in a rough sigh. I make all the bows here, she said. And I do not mind if you watch, but I cannot talk and work at the same time.

“Oh. Right. I’m sorry,” he said. He forgot that, sometimes, though he always felt bad about it afterwards.

She returned to the bow, and he sat meekly beside her, watching with interest as the weapon took shape beneath her deft hands. More questions were buzzing in his brain, but he was aware that he had already pushed Galwen’s patience about as far as it would stretch. He wasn’t afraid of her the way he had been when he was small, but he knew, too, that she was not particularly warm or gentle.

continue reading on AO3

[vault76]

here is my contribution for @officialtolkiensecretsanta !! it is for @maglorslostsilmaril !!

I really hope you like it, I had so much fun writing it and it challenged me in a way I haven’t been in a long time. I would be sinning if I didn’t also thank @adanedhel for his amazing suggestions, support, and editing.

Happy Holidays!

“My first composition is finally done, Father,” Elrond announced, producing his lyre and playing its entirety to Maglor who gave his son his undivided attention. It was an absolutely beautiful piece that captured the skill of its composer and even gave attention to the acoustics of the room where the performance was being given. When finally the piece was complete, Maglor allowed his tears to flow and embraced his son as his own father once had upon hearing his first piece. After a moment to collect himself, Maglor finally spoke.

“My son, you have created something out of nothing which is an act of the Gods. I am proud of you and I have always been. However,” when he paused, Elrond raised a perfect eyebrow, “this may be your first solo composition, but it is not the first thing you have ever composed. Allow me to tell you a story…” 

--

Light blooming through the stained glass window danced in blue, green, and red across the strings of Maglor’s harp as his fingers plucked them one at a time, letting them resonate through the room one at a time before sighing and trying another note. It had been months since he had last attempted the exercise and that one ended much the same -- with disappointment, self-loathing, and a bad mood when it had been meant to lift his spirits and invoke a sense of pride and accomplishment for art well-made. 

Coming from artists, such as his father who demanded perfection from himself as well as his children, made Maglor even more frustrated with the next note that, while beautiful and harmonious as any G that had ever been plucked, it felt like another pointless waste of time. 

As he moved to get up from the stool on which he sat, Elrond and Elros toddled into view with curious eyes. It was about the end of the twins’ regularly scheduled afternoon naps, and they had both been more and more curious about the goings-on in the music room. Feeling his heart elevate from the sight of his young sons, Maglor remained seated and watched.

It was Elrond whose tiny fingers reached up for the strings first, very gently, too gently to create much sound at all. Elros was a bit more adventurous with his little hands but still so gentle. Maglor watched them with a mix of curiosity and discomfort, as he was concerned that their little hands could throw the instrument out of tune or worse yet, their soft fingers could get cut on the strings. 

Deciding that enough was enough, Maglor did rise from his seat to collect his sons. As he did, Elrond strummed a chord that made Maglor pause. He glanced down at his son who was giggling and continuing on, and carefully guided both children away from his harp, but not before playing the chord himself and feeling the wheels of inspiration turn.

--

Maglor sat again in the music room, playing the chord again. He had found that it wouldn’t leave his thoughts and had inspired a completely new composition. It came to him more and more as he practiced, allowing himself a more trial-and-error approach versus striving for perfection in one take. Soon enough he was fully in the moment with his fingers fast on the strings and pleased with the progress he had made. It was played again and again, each time a more perfect version showed itself. 

It slowly became a family affair. Elrond wanted to help more after recognizing his contribution -- he was given a triangle to add where he felt appropriate. Elros was certainly also included as he had the task of handling the tambourine. Both took on their roles with absolute delight. What was first a very fun game soon was handled with the utmost of seriousness for the two small children -- Elrond did not have to be instructed where to add in his triangle, and Elros was given a percussive solo with his tambourine. Instead of an afternoon nap, the children asked for their instruments. It was a point of great pride for Maglor to be able to pass on his love for music and poetry to his sons. 

--

“... and so you see, my son, it was you who gave me that spark of inspiration to continue to create. If I inspired you, it is because you inspired me all those years ago. I do not see that composition as mine; I see it as ours. And, it goes without saying, that you and your brother are my most valued compositions of all. I may not be your sire but you are my son, and every breath of mine is spent loving you.”

[lesbiansforboromir]

What are your opinions on Maedhros and Maglor’s relationship with Elrond and Elros? Or just opinions on the four in general. How has Elros’s childhood affected him later?

With the caveate that I really have not internalised much elf lore and I'm certain there's first age sources that could inform all of this better;

I think it does say somewhere that 'love came between them' and it's always more interesting to assume an eventual non-antagonistic relationship. But it does have to be complex with the incredibly fraught situation and motive of their adoption in the first place. Maglor's wishes in this are in no way altruistic and he has a lot of needs from these children that cannot have been comfortable to grow up around.

And then there's Maedhros, whom I would say is initially incredibly resistant to the idea and only bends to Maglor's wishes because he has reached such a point of desperation and direness that he cannot bring himself to curb Maglor's actions in this, especially because he knows how fevered Maglor's need for some kind of redemption is.

But still, Maedhros views Elrond and Elros in the same way as he viewed Elured and Elurin, namely as the reasons their doom is continuing to weigh on them. The oath did not demand Elured and Elurin's deaths and in committing that act Maedhros I think believes they sealed their fate where convincing Elwing is concerned. I think he thinks if they had only not committed such an atrocity, she would have offered up the silmaril more reasonably and they could have avoided a second massacre. And yet also he believes it was the oath's intention that they kill the boys all along anyway! To say Maedhros is obsessed about the hyper-specifics of the oath at this point and yet also entirely hopeless that his understanding will help even a bit is an understatement, but he keeps going on anyway.

And now Maglor has taken two more children and Maedhros sees yet another machination of the oath to fulfil it's fateful and doomed purposes. And they argue about it constantly initially! Maglor's point being; how can you know leaving them there was not the evil choice and by safeguarding the boys we are thwarting some doom that will now never come?

Maedhros can only be silent, because the answer to that question is 'if that were the case, then we wouldn't have been able to safeguard them in the first place' but he knows the end of that thought is Maglor declaring that therefore their choices are meaningless anyway and there's no good to even argue about it. Which he would be right about, but the thought is too volatile for Maedhros to hold onto for too long.

So it shakes out that Maglor is their carer and the boys, who are just children and who therefore will assimilate easily to any situation that promises safety and warmth and affectionate care in desperate times, do grow to love him in a way. Maedhros endeavours to keep his distance, but just through the necessity of travel and unfortunate familiarity of he and Maglor caring for younger elves together, a rough and unspoken bond forms between him and the boys as well. How all this shakes out? Couldn't tell you honestly, but it's messy and complicated and not at all good for children.

[tar-thelien]

Chapter eleven; Looking For Light In The Darkness

Chapter notes:

Elros and Elrond ask a lot of questions and Elrond gets advised to seek Maedhros out about his nightmares

words: 1037

“Why are your fangs smaller than Maglor and Maedhros´s?” Elros asked Erestor when he took the older one yawning, a day after Maglor had left for patrol. They were sitting outside on one of the less used stairs, leading to a small private garden.

“The same reason yours won´t be as big as theirs.” Erestor answered shortly as he looked through the papers he had made the twins write.

“So, you´re a child?”

“No.”

“But you´re younger than them? And not full grown?”

“I´m closer to you in age than them, but not a child.”

“Oh,” Elros answered looking down at the stones in his hands. He had dirked them up from the dirt below their feet, uncaring for the mud on his palms and under his nails now, “why does everyone here speak another language when they don´t think we´re there and even sometimes when we are there?” he continued after some time.

Sighting Erestor sat the papers down and took his head in his hands, “because most residents here are of the Noldor whose native language is Quenya, whereas yours would be Sindarin.”

“Why do we learn Tangwar then?” Elrond joined looking confused, “isn´t that the script for Quenya? And you make us write in Quenya with it too.”

“Tangwar, is not only the script of Quenya, although that´s what it´s used for the most, and because that´s what Kano prioritizes because of your lineage.”

“Our mother is Sindarin,” Elros cut in.

“Your father was of the Noldor,” Erestor answered curtly glaring down at the two children.

“And Atani.” Elrond said quietly, “I don´t know what that means, but Maglor said that.”

“Humans,” Erestor answered with a small thrown, “it means human. Elrond are you okay, you don´t look the best.”

“I had a nightmare, is all,” the young peredhel mumbled as he sank his head down in between his shoulders.

“Tell Timo. He knows how to help with it, he helped me sometimes, and Elveo,” Erestor answered with a sigh, slowly touching the child´s back with a hand to roll comfortable circles, right before he stood up and left the two children for themself.

“I´ll leave after lunch, so Maedhros will take care of you for a day or two. I´m on my way to warn him now,” he called after himself, as he disappeared through a door.

“He´ll probably bite your head off,” Elros adds soon after Erestor left with a shrug, “he got pretty large teeth. Larger than Ada´s and Egalmoth´s. Do you think they´re bigger than Maglor´s and everyone’s else’s?”

“I had a bad dream,” Elrond murmured looking down at his slippers, feeling colder as the dark shadow was looming over him when the door opened, only made more prominent by the fireplace at the furthest wall in the red haired elf's office.

He had tried to wake Elros but his brother had just slept on, only half waking once mumbling something about a hedgehog at the bottom of the sea and that if Elrond couldn´t sleep he should go bother a grown up, since they knew how to help.

“Why did you come here?” Maedhros asked not moving away from the door frame, as he looked down at the Peredhel with a raised scarred eyebrow, “I´m sure there are others you could have gone to.”

“Erestor left this day. After lunch. He said you knew,” Elrond murmured grabbing his nightshirt with his hands to calm himself down, “that he would warn you.”

“Well, he didn´t.”

“No.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“There wasn´t light under your door, but there was light under this one.”

“This is my door too.”

Elrond nodded with a down turned head trying to keep his wet eyes away from the grown elf so Maedhros wouldn´t see them, not answering verbally, afraid he would begin sobbing.

“Well?” Maedhros pressed tilting his head, and torso, as if his neck was stiff and his whole body had to follow so as not to fall apart, to the side as if trying to catch sight of the child´s eyes.

“Erestor says you have nightmares all the time. Th-a-at´s why you´re-re so angry and-nd tired and some-e-ti-times disappear,” Elrond stuttered out.

“So?”

“T-That mean-ns you can he-h-help.”

Sighing Maedhros crushed down in front of Elrond spreading his arms out, “come, we will go to the kitchen and see if there´s anything warm to drink. My Amme always did that when I was upset as a child,” he explained as Elrond answered by spreading his own arms out with a look of wonder and amazement in his teary eyes at Maedhros´s words as he was lifted up by the tall elf.

“What was the nightmare about?” Elrond only shook his head as he looked down without further answer, holding tighter around Maedhros´s neck with his arms as they went down the first set of stairs, on their journey to the kitchen.

“I don´t want to go to bed, you should read me a story?” Elrond murmured in Maedhros´s arms as he was yet again carried up towards the family wing, if it could be called that, holding a half filled mig with streaming honeyed milk he had been slurping on. The kitchen had been too cold and the grown elf had been quick to see the half elven child trying to hide his shivers as he sat on the bensh he had been placed on.

“You don´t think that will wake Elros?”

“Then you can read for me in your room, there´s probably lots of exciting things, there were in Ada´s room you know. He had a story for each thing in there!”

“Then, don´t you think you should be the one telling me stories?” Maedhros asked with a small laughtinng huff, “how did you get out of your room anyway, isn´t the door supposed to be locked?”

“Maglor forgets to lock the door most of the time. Sometimes me and Elros will go out in the halfway when´s he´s playing in the night. Elros acts out what he thinks will happen if he kicks the door. And Erestor thinks it´s bad for the mind. I do too.”

“Then I´ll make sure Maglor keeps forgetting when he gets back.”

---

Elrond´s dream varies from PTSD from Sirion to foresight, this one being foresight as he wouldn´t have gone to Maedhros otherwise - probably about Maedhros´s death, even if it was just a feeling, as I don´t see why he would have sought him out otherwise if he has Elros, but then again Elros might not be that interested in graphic horror stories. Also Elrond was drowsed with sleep and didn´t fully understand he went to Maedhros for comfort up til he began crying.

Elveo = Star like (M): Quenya; a name Maedhros comes up with for Ereinion in my other fic

[wizardheart83]

Rings of Power Analysis Part #5

Back to this format cause aesthetics

Durins 4 and 3 Vs Míriel and Palantir

Both are sets containing a ruler and an adult child. In both cases the ruler has access to mystical knowledge beyond the reach of most people ( the collective wisdom of past dwarf kings and Palantir’s palantir).

No moms, nowhere no sir, except Durin 4’s whose memory is a stick in the fight between him and his dad and everyone gets more beat up for it.

In both cases the adult heir to the throne is being hemmed in by the actions of their father.

Because of Palantir’s reforms Míriel walks a tightrope trying to be faithful but project agreement with the majority of her people. Because Durin 3 is holding onto the status quo that has worked well for his people and allowed them to thrive, his son Durin 4 feels frustrated and unable to enact plans he feels could bring them still more success. Durin 4 walks a tightrope between loyalty to his king and loyalty to himself and his friend. Interesting differences:

The royals in our two plots are asking fundamentally different questions.

Can khazad dum advance? vs Can Númenor be saved?

Both kings seem to be landing on “no” or maybe “not like that” but in different ways and by different means.

Palantir’s last scene shows him confused but hopeful, still believing that his daughter can turn the people to the old ways and save the island. But he doesn’t think that going to middle earth will help, and he believes it will be ruinous for at least Míriel.

Míriel and Palantir are/ were partners, carrying the secret of the wave and grappling with hope and fear together as Palantir declines, leaving Míriel alone, but not by his own choice.

King Durin has presided over a time of positive and rapid change and his rejection of Durin 4’s plan is seemingly based in the belief that that can continue without the risks associated with mithril.

The Durins are increasingly adversarial as the season goes on. They have different values and can’t bridge the gap, despite love and fealty binding them. Durin 3 in a sense abandons Durin 4 but it’s a pained act, he takes no joy in it .

Thus Durin 4 like Míriel, ends the season with a future in some serious doubt.

I’ve been tracking ambition in these, and of the two, Durin 4 is more openly ambitious but it’s debatable. Miriel is queen regent, vulnerable and powerful in equal measure. she’s on the tightrope over a populist uprising that could take the line of Elros off the throne for the first time since Numenor was founded and if she fails every still living soul she’s ever known or seen or had a passing thought about prior to Galadriel’s arrival dies horribly. Durin 4’s home will at best be more awesome, if he succeeds, or at worst stagnate (as far as he knows).

Míriel has more to lose, so what she personally wants is necessarily secondary to what she feels she can do without failing at her one very difficult job.

The above makes it hard to judge coloring in the line status as well … shall we call that “lawfulness”?

What does this show have to say about the tensions between being a good king and being a good father? Palantir has, we can infer, lost the ability to see Miriel by his end, to the extent that he can’t tell it’s not miriel in the room, but he talks clearly to his heir. Durin 3 turns his back on his son after looking him in the eyes and removing the symbol of his status as heir. (god this show has stuff to say about fathers, so much, but that’s another post)

The fates of these kingdoms and of the two adult children of their once rulers will be something to watch.

Both are at the end separated from the ones who incited much of the upheaval in their lives, our final pair Elrond and Galadriel. Look for that one tomorrow, probably. Then maybe some attempt at a conclusion but the show is in its earliest days so don’t count on that, this is a time for questions more than answers I think.

Ps if Durin 4 and Miriel parallels are your thing, this may interest you

[lordgrimwing]

Friends And Family #06

Rain drummed against the roof in a steady rumble. Outside the old and wavy glass of the window panes, a summer storm drenched the land in sheets of rain. Grasses and brush not flattened by the downpour danced in the wind. The creaking of the trees couldn’t be heard over the wind and rain, and the heavy clouds forced the day into a premature dusk so forest was hardly visible beyond the yard.

Elros sat cross-legged on the rug next to Elrond and Celebrimbor, elbow on his knees and chin propped up on his hands. He disliked storms like this. He no longer had nightmares about the storm that swallowed his parents when storms raged outside, possibly because he couldn’t fall asleep with all the noise. At least the rain and wind were bad enough today to keep most everyone else inside too. 

Elrond leaned his head against his shoulder and yawned. “I’m bored,” He murmured.

Celegorm sat in a chair next to the fire, taking advantage of the light it cast to whittle away at a block of hardwood that was starting to look like an animal. He nudged Amrod with his bare foot.

The redhead looked up from the peas he was shelling into a wide bowl. “No,” He said, knowing exactly what his older brother was conveying. “I’m doing the peas. If Mae and Pa survive this and make it back home, I’m not going to be the one he accuses of having idle hands, again.”

“Yeah, we’re busy.” Amras agreed after swallowing a mouthful of peas.

Celebrimbor elbowed Elrond. “Sheesh, not so loud next time. Are you trying to get us put to work? This is the longest I’ve sat down all week! Pa’s had me digging out a spot for the new kiln so much I think he’s decided I’m some kind of mole. I didn’t think that’s what Papaw meant when he said I could start working with him at the forge.”

He glanced furtively toward the kitchen where his father was sharpening and cleaning an assortment of knives, from heavy ones used to butcher animals to the tiny, curved blade Nerdanel used to unpick stitches (usually when it was time to unhem clothes as the three children grew up into their uncles’ hand-me-downs). He sent him scouring the house for an hour to find any lost knives that somebody forgot to return to their proper places. Luckily, Curufin gave no indication that he was listening to them.

Maglor walked out of his and Maedhros’ bedroom. His braids, done in two loose lines down either side of his head, were still damp from his dash to and from the barn to tie the doors and window shutters closed to prevent the wind from blowing them open. He'd changed to dry clothes that gave every indication that he planned to spend the rest of the day relaxing. He had the soaked shirt and pants draped over an arm. Dragging a chair over from the table, he joined his brothers by the fire. 

“Ma wants those for supper.” He reminded Amras as he laid the clothes over the back of the chair to dry.

The redheads looked at each other.

“Shell faster.” Said the younger twin.

“Eat slower.” Suggested the other. 

Maglor shook his head and took his fiddle and bow down from the mantle above the hearth. He looked down at the children on the rug, “What are you three doing?”

Elros shrugged.

“Nothing,” Elrond said.

Celebrimbor groaned. “You’re the worst,” He muttered, standing and mentally preparing to be put to work around the house.

“Well then,” Maglor continued. “Brimby, since you’re up, bring the music box out here. This kind of weather calls for some entertainment.”

Finding this task far less onerous than what he expected, Celebrimbor hurried off to do as bidden. Maglor leaned against the wall and began testing the tune of the old instrument. Elrond and Elros moved over to sit by his feet. 

“Can I play the dulcimer?” Elros asked, perking up from the slump he’s been in since the clouds rolled in.

“Certainly,” The musician began sawing out a simple tune to warm up the fiddle and the audience. 

Celebrimbor returned then with the box Maglor kept his collection of instruments in to avoid them getting lost or broken in the often boisterous home. He’d already claimed the pair of joined wooden spoons Curufin carved a few years ago to replace the pair ruined by one of Celegorm’s half-feral dogs after someone—Celebrimbor—forgot the instrument outside. He left the box in the middle of the half circle around the fireplace. 

Elrond and Elros came over to claim their favorite instruments. While they were distracted, the youngest child stole Elrond’s spot closest to the warm bricks around the fire.

The kitchen door banged open and a sopping-wet Maedhros and Fëanor came in with an angry wail of rain-soaked wind. The eldest son’s thick hair was plastered to his face and back as though he’d gone swimming fully clothed. Their father didn’t look any better, summer linen shirt clinging to his arms and chest and clutching the satchel of tools in a white-knuckled grip. 

Celegorm looked up from his whittling as they entered. Amrod and Amras kept their intense focus on the shrinking pile of peapods. Curufin paused sharpening long enough to glance over at the pair. Maglor lifted his bow in greeting, letting his young accompaniment take over for a few moments.

“How was it?” He asked.

“Wet,” His father answered laconically, dripping all the way to Nerdanel's and his room. The door closed with a bang behind him.

“That bad?” Maglor asked his older brother.

Maedhros nodded. “You know Pa.”

They were not prepared for this degree of downpour when they left to check the charms and sigils placed at important locations around the homestead and other areas and trails the family frequented. Nerdanel warned they could expect rain in the afternoon, but Fëanor was confident they would return well before that. 

They had not. Several charms needed to be repaired, the feathers and string worn away by the weather and small, nibbling animals. Then Maedhros’ large gelding became oddly spooked by something hidden in a dark thicket. After investigating the spot and finding nothing out of the ordinary, Fëanor insisted on building a basic sign to keep foul presences away until he could craft a proper charm to block the beast from its newest foothold on the mountain. The rain came as Maedhros hung the twine and bone charm high in a tree. The horses made their displeasure with the turn of events clear on the ride back to the barn, the patriarch muttering with them.

Fëanor did not like getting wet.

His hair leaving a thin stream of water behind him, Maedhros sloshed across the main room to his bedroom to change. “I like how that’s sounding,” He added over his shoulder, nodding to the fiddle as he disappeared to get dry clothes. 

“There’s more where it came from!” Maglor called after him before turning his attention back to the song. He tapped his foot to help the children keep time with him.

Amrod drummed his fingers on the bowl. Amras shelled peas in rhythm. Celegorm murmured his version of the lyrics as the wooden dog took shape in his hands.  

Maedhros came back wearing only his damp underpants, wet boots held tightly in his hand and dripping clothes thrown over his other arm. Clearly having the same idea as Maglor, he tossed the clothes over the back of a chair and then carried the chair over to the fire by slipping his arm between the slats in the back. Celebrimbor scrambled aside to make room for him and almost dropped the musical spoons. The boots went on the hot bricks, though not so near the flames as to risk damage. In no hurry to leave the warmth of the fire or the companionship, he sat between Elros and Celegorm, long legs filling up the space as he crossed them.

The music picked up as they settled down. Celebrimbor caught the rhythm again after giving a few spoon taps at the wrong time. Elros leaned his shoulder against Maedhros’s side as he strummed the dulcimer’s strings and picked out an occasionally offkey accompaniment to the fiddle. The large elf smiled and wrapped an arm around him, careful not to bump the instrument with the end of his arm. He combed out small tangles from his hair with his fingers.

The music bounced along.

“Curu,” Celegorm called, having run out of his crude version of the song. He tossed the block of wood at his younger brother after he didn’t look up when called. 

Curufin rubbed his head and shot the blond a mildly peeved expression.

“Get over here.” 

Celegorm skillfully caught the rag his brother balled up and threw before leaving the knife sharpening behind. Tucking his knife into his breast pocket, he unfolded the oily fabric and laid it out on his knee. Smirking, he patted the knee and looked up at Curufin, inviting him to take a seat. Uninterested, Curufin slapped the back of his head where he kept his hair shorn close to the skin and leaned against the way instead, arms folded across his chest.

Celegorm put on a hurt look. Curufin threw the wooden dog at him. Amrod and Amras snorted. Celegorm ducked. The dog bounced across the floor, the noise the closest thing it would ever make to an actual bark.

To his eternal relief, Celebrimbor was too busy tapping his spoons on Elrond’s toes to see his uncle blow a kiss at his father. He finally stopped when Elrond kicked his hand and he dropped the spoons onto the bearskin rug.

“Ow,” He complained.

Elrond raised his eyebrows to question why the nine-year-old was surprised by the consequences of his actions. He might have said something too, but his mouth was occupied with his tin whistle. 

 He retrieved the musical spoons and settled down again into the rhythm. Soon, the uncles were all singing along to the song. 

Suddenly, Amras jumped to his feet. He grabbed his twin’s hands and hauled him up to his feet too, pushing the bowls of peas out of the way with the tip of one shoe. 

“Come on!” He exclaimed and tugged his brother into a dance. The hard soles of their shoes stomped and tapped against the floorboards, keeping beat with the music and adding their own flare to it. 

Celegorm whistled at them and began to clap in rhythm.

After a few seconds, the cellar doors slammed open (Fëanor added an entrance down into the cellar from the kitchen during one of his episodes of nearly unstoppable energy and questionable late-night decision-making). Caranthir’s head and shoulders appeared as he climbed up the ladder. 

“Land-o’-goshen!” He shouted at the ruckus. “What is going on up here?” 

He and Nerdanel went down into the cellar to take stock of her supply of dried plants and fruits for making salves and teas. Judging from the half-forgotten mushroom he had in one hand and the dirt sprinkled across his hair and shoulders, he’d been checking the light-sensitive mushroom log just below them when the twins began dancing.

Nerdanel came up after him, equally as dusty. 

Caranthir looked like he was trying to stay annoyed at his siblings, despite the levity brightening up the gloomy day. He scowled and shook his head, dirt tumbling down from his loose hair. He tried, but when Amrod waved at him to join the dance, he came after only a moment’s hesitation, discarding the mushroom cap on the table.

Nerdanel smiled to see all her children and grandchildren gathered around the fire, healthy and laughing and happy. There had been years where she feared she might lose one or more of them to the dangers of the mountain. There had been some very hard times, times she couldn’t even talk to her husband or find support from him, so intent was he in the childish belief that everything would be fine, that his sons just needed to rest, and that there was nothing, no injury, she could not heal. Somehow, though, they managed to survive year after year—not untouched or unchanged by what happened but alive and together.

Speaking of her husband, she soon noticed Fëanor’s absence. No doubt he’d tucked himself away in their bedroom to work on something and hadn’t even noticed the noise from the main room. Maedhros would not be so relaxed if anything happened while they were in the trees.

Shaking her head a little, she walked to their room and slipped inside.

As she suspected, she found Fëanor at his desk, scribbling in one of his many notebooks. The clothes he’d dressed in that morning were discarded near the door and he sat wrapped in a blanket made from the wool of their oldest sheep (the ewe was a decrepit thing now, her teeth worn down to nubs, her fleece patchy and thin over her bony body. She’d be gone before winter, either on her own or because they would not let her suffer the cold given the state she was in. Nerdanel was surprised he hadn’t taken care of her months ago; Fëanor did not usually allow the animals to linger, fading from life for this long. Celegorm’s dogs met a swift end if they became too ill—they rarely grew old—and the others were no different. She could not guess why he kept putting it off this time).

“Fëanor,” She began.

He raised a hand to stall her. “I’m busy.” He said, hunching over his notes. His hair left a damp spot on the blanket.

“They are singing and dancing. Come and join us.”

“I need to write this down. Things are changing. I need to make sense of it, of what and why.” His voice tremored with the beginning of agitation. “It’s changing.”

She walked to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder. Quickly, before she could see the pages, he closed the notebook and hid it under his hands. No one in the house could make sense of the code he devised for recording these particular thoughts, but he disliked them looking anyway, even for a moment. She brought her other hand to his cheek and slowly he looked up at her. His lips were a thin line across his face, his expression nervous. 

“My dear,” She began again. “We have a brief time before life carries on and takes our sons out again on their journeys. Come with me. Worries and storms will be here when we are done, but for now, there is joy and family, and together we are safe.”

She took one of his narrow hands. He let her guide him to his feet. The blanket slipped down his shoulders, and she adjusted it, tucking in a corner to keep it in place. His free hand, wrapped inside the blanket, clutched at the fabric under his chin. She let her hand linger on his cool cheek for a few moments longer, then pulled it back. They left the room like that, his hand in hers.

Maglor was watching the door when his parents reappeared, the others still caught up in the revelry. His fingers stuttered on the strings and the fiddle squealed as his bow arm jolted. He would have stopped playing, concerned by his father’s drawn face and short stride, but Nerdanel smiled and nodded for him to continue. He did, raising the others’ excitement by jumping into another tune and seeing how long it took the children to catch up to him again. Celebrimbor stumbled along until Elrond helpfully tapped the beat out on his thigh with his foot.

Maedhors rose and grabbed a chair, bringing it back to the group and placing it between Celegorm and Curufin, leaving enough room for a second chair. Nerdanel brought Fëanor to the seat and he sat down without prompting, the tension around his eyes softening. Maedhros brought a chair for her and she settled down to laugh and clap along with her children. This was just as much fun as some of the town hall dances she went to during her youth wandering from town to town with her family. 

She cheered when Amrod grabbed Curufin’s hand and dragged him into the dancing. Broad-shouldered and heavy-footed, he lacked the speed and grace of the twins and Caranthir, but he clonked along slightly offbeat with them with a grin. Soon, he pulled his son up to join him. Celebrimbor muttered something about never getting to just sit around but started dancing, clacking the spoons together on his hip or an upraised palm.

They continued on in that manner until the last of the light faded and the storm blew itself down to a whisper.

[tolkien-feels]

You know how Luthien, Ereandil, Elwing, Elrond, Elros — that entire family represents hope, a chance at salvation, victory against all odds, mercy. Even Aragorn's name means hope. And oh is it not painful that it's Estel's and Arwen's children that become the villains in the fourth age, (and at such degree that Tolkein couldn't write of it? Here you'd think first age was bad) and maybe it's a blessing that Elrond wouldn't get to know of it, even if he has to live in ignorance....untill Dagor Dagorath, that is.

This got long-ish and. slightly off-topic if I'm being honest? Sorry

You know, I think Tolkien was very right to abandon the New Shadow storyline. For all that the First Age is extremely sad, it's never gratuitous pain. It's often undeserved by the characters, but from the point of view of a reader, it doesn't feel like Tolkien is just hurting characters and destroying kingdoms for fun or shock value. There's a story worth being told and we're being told it. Unless Tolkien could find something interesting to tell, the New Shadow would be just... the fall of Numenor 2.0? From peace and prosperity to self-inflicted evil is a story we've been told before, and it's very tragic and worth telling in its tragedy, but to see it happen again would be just mindlessly twisting the knife, I feel. It's not even that I feel like the Fourth Age has to be blissful, it's just that if you're going to tell that story, then you should have, well, a story to tell. Another way of putting it is that if Beren and Luthien die and Dior's life is a nightmare, then well, it'd better be a damn poignant nightmare, or else I'll feel like I'm just having my emotions toyed with for no good reason.

....but that's all on a meta level. If we assume that the Fourth Age does happen like that, and Tolkien, like me, simply thought that's not a story that needs to be written, then I think that much like Elrond presumably grieved the fall of Numenor but kept alive the hope that evil can never wholly triumph, I would probably be really sad to see the story develop, but would also be sure that more painful evil will necessarily lead to even more moving heroes. That's maybe not something that works out in the real world, but in Tolkien? I wouldn't for a second think Aragorn's line and Arwen's line both failing mean that the Children of Iluvatar as a whole have failed. I'd be devastated because my blorbos's children are my own children and of course I'd love it for them to be good people, but I wouldn't quite say that Aragorn brought no hope. I bet that the limited peace he was able to secure was enough to allow someone, somewhere to live in safety and freedom until the time comes for them to be heroes. (Not that I measure worth of action in terms of goals accomplished, anyway.)

So like, is it painful? Yes. Does that mean Estel’s hope was, after all, in vain, as were the hopes of everyone who came before him? I wouldn’t say so. The great thing about Arda being a Great Tale that never ends is that literally anything bad that happens cannot be permanent. It’s just the nature of evil in Tolkien. It’s painful, but it’s like... keep reading. After the New Shadow there will be a New Light, because that’s how things work in Tolkien, and then we’ll say “Oh, look, Aragorn didn’t fail, you can see how that story continues until this new happy ending!” If Tolkien had written the New Shadow, and the Fourth Age was a horror show, then well. Let’s see how the Fifth Age goes. No Age is ever going to be perfect bliss, but if you can somehow find a happy ending even for Children of Hurin - the Shadow can’t touch them after death, and the entire family remained brave and true to the end, and there’s always the Dagor Dagorath and Arda Remade to look forward to - then I think it’s hard to imagine that the Fourth Age could reach a level of darkness that is too dark to ever manage to get a happy ending.

To put it more simply... If the Fourth Age proves to be the darkest Age yet, to the point where you can compare it to the lowest point of Frodo and Sam’s journey - “Well the First Age was like Gandalf falling in Moria, but the Fourth? The Fourth is Mordor” - then there’s always either Hope Unquenchable or Endurance Beyond Hope, whichever is applicable. Does that make sense?

...I probably still would find it very painful to read each and every sentence, though, so I think you’re right.

[aragornsrockcollection]

Tolkien had that concept of Erestor being a half-elven relation of Elrond early on, so I see people speculate on him being Elured or Elurin, because they are the only known misplaced Peredhel.

But another abandoned concept was Elros’s children having the choice of the Peredhel. And his eldest abdicates immediately to continue his work as a scholar. And Rivendell is a place of learning… I’m just saying Erestor could be Elrond’s nephew. Any of them, but I kind of like it being Vardamir Nolimon because of his scholarly bent and abdication.

Also, can we talk about how three generations of this family in a row threw twin Peredhel boys as their first children? It’s weird that that is so prevalent in the line of Luthien, but she herself did not have twins.

Unless she did.

Dior Eluchil arrives at court with a Silmaril as his proof of right to the throne, and a name that means “successor heir-of-Elu.” He then immediately marries a kinswoman of Thingol. It might not be a stretch to assume that they were a little anxious to make his claim on the throne iron-clad, and thus the decision for his twin brother to not show up until he was well established becomes an option. Aaaand then the kinslaying happened and him showing up at all became kinda impossible.

Anyways, shout out to Erestor’s backstory, the under-appreciated cousin of Gil-Galad’s parentage.

[aregebidan]

from across the ash 

How the ghost of Maglor and Maedhros’ “family” endured the War of Wrath  [CW: suicidal ideation]

------------------------------------------ Maedhros calls his loss severe, in the crisp military tone he always falls back on when things take their inevitable turn for the worse. Maglor prefers the word tangible- though really, they have no right to call it a loss in the first place, when all the rumors have proved over and over that Maedhros was right about the twins as usual. 

On the worst days, he feels like he could reach out and spin the empty air on his right into something solid, something that can be felt at and carved and stroked. He imagines pulling it over him like the blankets Elrond had been infamous for stealing from around the camp. 

You must understand, we’ve suffered a severe loss. Allow my brother some room to grieve, some shelter. He is not well, he has had to give up his children. 

Grieve, Maedhros says, as if the twins are dead (well, the twins are dead, slain twice over, and Elrond and Elros so thoroughly haunted they might as well have joined the other four already). As if the parting was not objectively the best thing to happen to any of them in a long time. 

Maedhros does not listen as he does. 

Maedhros will not join him in the thorn bushes on the edge of their encampment, or perched on the edge of the stone overlooking the entire Host as they continue to keep their distance from them. From there, if one plays the correct chords and invokes the correct thoughts, sends exactly the right breaths to slip into the wind and twist it to one’s own will, one can hear the things they say about one’s so-called lost children. Carried on ash and poisoned air, the words drop their meaning into one’s ears before realizing that they have been used up and throwing themselves into the sea in fury: The children of Elwing live, we are saved, Sirion is remembered!

Every evening, a pattern forms as the new arrivals struggle to be caught up on all that has happened. There is at first the celebration of Sirion’s survival, a cherishing of the precious royals who remain- and twins, too, did Dior not have twins, is it not a good sign? Does Dior not walk among us in his spirit?

Then there are the songs and tales of the princes’ imprisonment at the hands of the cruel Exiles: The mistreatment, if they are feeling generous, or the conditioning, if they are not. Have you not heard, then, that they fight like Maedhros and play the harp like Maglor of old? Have you not heard their accents, their way of moving about? The suspicion: Thralls I tell you, bound to the same twisted oath that killed the red-haired twins, and are they not twins, too, did Feanor not have twins, is it not a bad sign?

Maglor does not tell his brother of the thoughts that strike him on these nights, when Discord clings to his blades like frost and all he wants is to prove them right, to make them renounce these words and understand the truth of what he and the twins forged out of each other. It is only the memory of wronging Elros and Elrond in the early days that stays his hand. 

He usually gets to revisiting those memories by midnight, and then there is a gradual revival of respect, a resignation, a spinning of suspicion into reverence. They were thralls to Maglor and Maedhros’ folk and yet they are still kind and gentle like Sindarin princes ought to be, they do not sing as Maglor does, their words do not cut as Maedhros’ words do. How miraculous is it? Surely there is hope at last! 

And everything will be fine by the morning, and then it will be time to start planning out their doom. Maedhros, ever the strategist, is skilled at this. He dreams up the most rational, the most logical arguments that none among them can refute; what is more, even those who hold a grudge against him are swayed into supporting his plan. Let us cut our losses, he speaks, sharp and brilliant as a carved jewel. He points to the most dangerous battlefields, the back ways, the fights universally avoided by those who still have something to lose. Let my forces handle the difficult parts.

Martyrdom. A heroic sacrifice. Maglor supposes it is the best he and his ilk can hope for. 

And then it will be time to actually start fighting, and only then can he see the wisdom in choosing to leave the twins behind. The Feanorians are skilled, their eyes numbed to the sight of dying orcs who have begun to resemble the Eldar more and more in those days, their voices powerful and brittle and utterly remorseless. He is reasonably sure that none of his soldiers would want the children to witness them in this state.

Elrond and Elros do not belong here, he thinks with a certainty that is just barely enough to get him through the next duel, fell the next dragon, burn down the next forest, drown the next army in their own minds. Really, when it comes down to it, there is no limit to what can be done with his music. 

(Except that his music was not built for warm nights before a fire, for tucking the children into bed and spinning them a lullaby; his voice was not tailored for holding back during lessons, or for comforting a twin after a nightmare. His songs have limits when it comes to Valinor, or peace or love, or any useless subject for that matter.

In a way, it’s a relief to finally get back to serving his true purpose.)

The real challenge is building himself back up after the fighting is somehow done and somehow, maddeningly, he has yet to be struck down. Weeks will have passed since he entered the mindset for singing-and-death and he will still be aiming his sword at Maedhros on reflex, his brother, the only one safe to approach him in times like this. What keeps Maedhros safe is not his face, for all their faces have been warped by exposure to the Enemy’s music. It is not his skill at arms, for despite all the posturing either of them would die before truly attempting to harm the other.

It is the news he brings, the fresh rumors, sometimes a direct quote from the twins themselves when they still thought themselves capable of redemption. Do you not recall what Elrond said that night, then, brother? Maedhros will ask, and vague thoughts of soft hair beneath his fingers and a child’s trust placed on his heart will string him back together. Maedhros will reward him with the rest of the words then. I believe you are still able to hold on to yourself, Atya. 

Hold on, Maglor tells himself, and reaches out for empty air. The absence of them is painful to hold. He is not well; he has had to give up his children.