#maglor/luthien

[superloves4]

Something that compels me so much about Maglor/Luthien is that if you change Beren with Maglor, the quest for the silmaril becomes so much more juicy

Because, yeah, on one hand it's still a suicide quest designated to either make Maglor give up Luthien or die in the process of the quest, thus freeing Luthien.

But on the other hand, this is Maglor's family treasure he is asking as bride price (which also makes it an actually accurate as a bride price is supposed to be something the groom's family already has yk), Thingol is asking Maglor to give him the whole reason the Feanorians even left Aman in the first place, the thing Feanor died trying to re-take, the reason he has been fighting for years.

Not to mention that depending on how you decide to read the oath, Thingol is asking him to not only curse himself but his entire family for Luthien, asking him if a life with Luthien is worth eternal damnation.

[fistfuloflightning]

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!

Have some MagLuth just because I can 😊

[thesummerestsolstice]

I love it when Elrond is portrayed as someone who is a little bit incomprehensible to most of the elves at first. Not even just because he's a half-elf, but because he reminds them all of so many other people, and that layering can be kind of jarring.

He sings beautifully, with a voice that sounds like no elf or man, and it reminds many of the Sindar of Luthien. It reminds some of the Noldor of someone else, another singer with raven-dark hair and starry gray eyes.

The braids he does his hair in– and he always keeps it braided at first, because letting it run loose is another thing that makes people whisper of Luthien– are in the traditional Noldor style. The survivors of Gondolin love that; Turgon always wore his hair in classical styles too. The other part of the House of Finwe that clung to traditional braids goes unmentioned. But everyone knows.

And he was clearly taught about court manners; taught to be gracious and charming, and a very good listener. The elf who could have taught Elrond those things is usually skipped over entirely, in favor of those reminiscing about Idril's graceful poise or Melian's endless patience.

He looks very much like Luthien, but there is a particular Finwean sharpness in his facial structure; something that makes him look a lot like Fingolfin, as well. Fingolfin looked very much like his father. And his older brother.

His smile is just like Earendil's (whose smile is just like Tuor's), and his strange, birdlike laugh is from Elwing. He fights and writes with his left hand– but then, so did Earendil, because while all elves are right-handed, not all humans or half-elves are. He eats no meat– just like Beren, they say, but the way Elrond tells it the choice had nothing to do with that history. There is ainuric power in him and something very human in the set of his shoulders. The flowers grow around any place he stays long enough. He gets sick in a way no elf, and certainly no maia, ever would. His accent is odd, and archaic, and changes noticeably when he's too tired to obscure it. His mannerisms are a mixture of about twelve people, almost all of whom are dead, and several of whom are not spoken of by the time he shows up in Gil-Galad's camp.

And the reflections of Elrond unsettle a lot of people; because one moment they see a fallen hero or loved one, and the next they see the person that took them. Or perhaps someone else, that they never knew at all. There is reverence and fear and uncertainty. It's messy.

Elrond himself is coming to peace with this by the War of Wrath. There is love in carrying the parts of your ancestors with you, even when they aren't around any more. And he knows better than anyone that he is always himself, first and foremost. Still, it takes everyone else a while to stop seeing a ghost and start seeing Elrond.

[nelyos-right-hand]

Thinking about how perfect the Silmarillion already is and about how even more perfect it would be if Tolkien actually got the chance to write it properly.

Don't get me wrong, Christopher already did a great job at publishing all of his father's works (he didn't have to do that, no one made him spent years trying to organize an entire world), but as it is the Silm is just a large summary of events, and even the separate books that focus on just one story like Luthien or Turin are more very detailed summaries then actual novels.

I mean, imagine Tolkien got to write all that out the way he did with Lord of The Rings, it wouldn't be a trilogy but (a ten-logy???) at least ten books!

Imagine reading all those already heartbreaking scenes the way novels are normally written, with more dialog and detailed descriptions and everything, the way we now only get it in fanfiction.

And I think that's kind of what this fandom is doing. We take all those notes and ideas and give them details and life. We finish Tolkien's legacy because he couldn't do it himself.

[mamwieleimion]

Tolkien writing idea:

Elrond, being male Luthien come again with all the beauty and grace and that Eldrich power, meeting Fëanorians.

Like it's Fourth Age, the Fëanorians have been released from Mandos and he just came from Middle Earth with Maglor. And Elrond in all his Male Luthien glory meets Fëanorians.

Maedhros would not notice, not having meet Luthien and having known Elrond as a little kid running under everyones feet. Maglor same, he maybe would be a little surprised at first after adoption (kidnapping) that both twins are strong in Song. But otherwise? Nothing spectacular.

Till in Fourth Age in Valinor Elrond meets Celegrom and Curufin, who both meet Luthien (and I firmly believe that Celebrimbor didn't say anything about the uncanny resemblance just to mess with people and not let Elrond know), and now see her male twin calling their two older brothers his fathers.

[amethysttribble]

If You Hold a Silmaril-

Things might get a little weird.

On the night which Thingol first held the Silmaril, he dreamed of Finwe.

He saw his friend standing beneath Laurelin and Telperion, laughing in wonder. 'Elwe!' he called, 'Elwe, isn't it beautiful?'

Thingol didn't get the chance to reply, because the seasons of Valinor which he had never seen passed them by swiftly, and the light of the Trees which had so touched him changed and Finwe changed, too. His features softened, his stature lessened, the gleam in his eyes grew brighter.

In a soft voice, he asked, "Isn't it beautiful?" Laurelin and Telperion winter-dead behind him and a Silmaril cupped in his palms, presenting.

"Yes," Thingol agreed with a smile.

---

Beren never held the Silmaril for long; at least, not outside the wolf's stomach. He took the stone in hand once, twice, thrice, always just trying to convey it to its next location, it's new owner. He was fine with this.

He would never forget how his own hand had look in Carcharoth's stomach- first perfectly preserved, and then naught but dust once disturbed. Felagund had once recounted the Sons of Feanor's oath to him, and the line about 'mortal hands' had stuck out.

Beren did not trust the thing. He did not trust the lullaby that had teased his ears since he first pried the burning thing from the crown of darkness. Never could he hear the words clearly, but when he tried to provide reason to that sweet, haunting melody, he ascribed that Oath of Feanor. He was pretty sure he was wrong, though.

He was especially sure he was wrong about the lullaby when he draped the Nauglamir over his fingers and pondered what to do with it.

___

Earendil sang with the Silmaril. Old songs and new songs, Quenya songs and Sindarin songs; Elvish songs, Mannish songs, and songs from before either of their times. There was little else to do while sailing on the rim of the world.

They'd become friends, the two of them.

___

Melkor held three Silmarils, for a time. Even at his poorest, he possessed two. That voice and light was hewn into his very being. So much so that his eyes and ears- which were constructions, falsehoods, empty veneers- tricked him.

He grew used to the shadows haunting every corner of his eyes. The whispers which came from every direction.

For him, there was no singing, no memories.

There were taunts, jeers, and laughter, because he and dear Feanaro were cut from the same cloth, and there was nothing spirits like them hated more than being mocked. Melkor knew this well, had used this well, and so he did not react. Did not provide the satisfaction to Feanaro.

Because he had been the one to bring Feanaro low, he was the one who won.

So even when his feet were cut from under him, and that little fey thing that only he could see looked down at him, smirk split over his unreal face, triumph in those eyes, Melkor didn't care.

He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't CARE-

Feanor laughed and all of Morgoth's screams couldn't drown it out.

---

The first time Luthien held the Silmaril was when her husband, brow knit in worry, handed her the Nauglamir.

"Interesting," she said.

"I think there is some fairy within it," Beren said, quoting the legends of his youth. "When your father and the Dwarves of Nogrod were moved to madness, I thought it a demon, but after holding it myself for a time... Perhaps not. Perhaps it has ensorcelled me as well."

"So not evil?" she asked, though already well-sure of her assumptions. No, not evil, just-

"Not good either," Beren grumbled, crossing his arms. "But, no. That's why I now think it to be a fairy."

"I agree," Luthien said, bringing the pretty thing up meet her eyes. She had never understood the allure while hearing tales or while retrieving this creation, but holding him, feeling him, she felt she might understand.

He was very warm, and very bright, and the scope of him was so very wide and colorful and varied. And this was just one Silmaril? Luthien was starting to understand how love for such a father could turn a son to such evil. This could also inspire greatness.

"Not evil, not good, just very strong in who he is. Quite the fairy, indeed. I think, if minded correctly, a great blessing."

___

Silmaril in hand, Maedhros heard only one thing: a call of recognition, wreathed in infinite sorrow and regret.

My son!

He wanted to hear no more.

___

Carcharoth burned. He cried. He wanted this to end.

There was something within that hated him. Furious and heated. It tasted like the sky at first, like the slight sting of stars except worse, and then it grew worse still.

At once, the fire within was both hot and cold, tasting of his master's Ainur fury and the slaps of the Orcs which fed him as a pup. Both his spirit and his flesh burned. It hurt so badly.

He wanted it to stop, why wouldn't it stop, wouldn't master return and make it stop?

What was this crystallized flame he'd swallowed, where had it come from, why would anyone make such a thing? Carcharoth could not understand, would never understand, especially when it cried, Foul imitation.

His bane rejoiced when the puny wolfhound appeared again, and Carcharoth's last joy was killing that holy lapdog. Then the pain flared even brighter, all heat and fury and hatred, and he faltered. He, the Red Maw. He howled in pain around the Man in his mouth, and his Elven prey struck.

He was almost grateful to the Elves.

___

Varda, completely taken with her own designs and creations, happily humming to herself, actually didn't notice anything of note.

___

Dior grew up on stories of the Silmaril.

Hearing of wicked Feanorions and the massive wolf and the Great Enemy's palace. The eagles and horseback duels and the hand. On rare occasions, his grandfather had showed the treasure to him, but it wasn't often and never for very long.

So, suffice to say, when he and his father recovered the Nauglamir bound Silmaril, he was awe-struck.

For the last year of her life, his mother wore that necklace, and he often told her that she was beautiful, and looked healthier in that light, and she seemed to keep laughing at private jokes. She'd wink at him. Luthien was very lively in that last year, especially for an old Woman, but it did not stop her from lying in bed with Beren as he died, and slipping away in the same heartbeat.

The Silmaril lay forgotten in a drawer when they went.

Dior retrieved it as he packed up their house, their life, and prepared to make for Doriath. This was the first time he'd ever held it, because his father was wary of the thing, his grandfather possessive of the thing, and his mother a funny kind of person. As he trailed his fingers over the warm, glowing gem, he did not think it deserved all the fuss.

His mother once said there was a fairy within that gave advice that was not strictly good or bad, just mad, mad, mad. And grand. As Dior entered beautiful, wild, Elvish Doriath, he felt he could use a little madness and grandness both.

He put it on.

And there was the lullaby his father spoke of, and there was the tricksy warmth his mother traded japes with, and there was the strength of will that always kept his revered grandfather's countenance so tall and straight. Dior smiled, and asked Nimloth how he looked, breathing a little bit easier. Feeling a little more confident.

Dior felt like a real Elf-king when he wore the Silmaril.

___

Mablung held the Silmaril for the briefest of moments, and still felt the world shift.

Or maybe the world did not shift. Maybe he shifted. Moved slightly to the left on the plane of Arda. Drawn slightly closer to his spirit, the world's; spirit of an Ainu.

Because after that brief moment of possession, the colors of the world were brighter. The sounds sharper. The smells richer. The tastes deeper. Was this how it was in Valinor, he wondered.

Or was this something unique. Was it the appeal of the Silmarils? Why they were so coveted?

He still did not understand why they were worth the death and blood and suffering of so many. So the world was greater and vaster and there was now a taste in his mouth that urged him to seek that world and understand it and bend it.

No, he would not do that. He was loyal to his king and home. And he would fight for the Silmaril if heeded, but it was with great reluctance. The Silmaril had touched him and he did not like it.

Mablung supposed some would feel blessed, but he just felt tainted. Violated. Who would want such a thing?

___

Hanar was a craftsman of Nogrod, a disciple of Gamil Zirak. Not as renowned as Telchar was he, but still respected, still well-known, still good enough to receive the invitation to King Thingol's court. He was given a special job.

Though his heart pounded with envy at seeing all his people had wrought occupied and hoarded by Elves, especially the Nauglamir- which bore that foul name for his people though they made that beautiful thing- he was a reasonable person. An honorable dwarflord. He accepted the terms of the deal and got to work. He accepted the Silmaril.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

This was delicate work, his hammer remained stored away, but his pounding heart filled the void. He evaluated the shape of the Silmaril, turned it over in his hands and contemplated how to hold such beautifully wrought facets without defacing it.

Hanar felt that the gem in his hands understood his task. His care in fulfilling it. As he unwound the Nauglamir and nestled the Silmaril within, it offered advice, as if from one craftsman to another.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Into the silver and steel, the twinkling gems and the burning Silmaril, he poured himself. He slaved over this project for many weeks, scarcely sleeping, eating. The Silmaril rejoiced with him, crying, So long its been since I helped make something! So much I have missed it! Thank you, thank you!

Together, they worked.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

When complete, Hanar held their new creation and wept. Such a masterpiece he created in the merging of two previous masterpieces. It surpassed the work of Telchar. Why, it might even have surpassed his master.

And his masterpiece, it had helped him bring itself to fruition. It thanked him for giving it life. They were friends now.

How could anyone ask Hanar to give this up to unappreciative hands? How?

No smith of any artistry could.

___

When Finwe first beheld the Silmarils, cupping each reverently in his hands one-by-one, he knew what he had been gifted immediately.

He kissed his beloved son and smiled sadly as he said, "Are you still so scared of your mother's fate?"

Feanaro denied it, but Finwe knew the truth.

___

If Mairon could grind the Silmarils down into dust, he would.

His beloved master returned home with them in hand, burning in hand, burning down to the soul so that the wound could not be wiped away. They were beautiful and powerful. At the time, the prospect excited Mairon. His master tasked him with forging a crown for his prizes, and he'd grinned in excitement.

What creations, what strange creations, smithed by an Elf? Mairon could not wait to break them down and build them back better and recieve praise for his genius.

Except... Except.

Except, that proved... difficult. Difficult, at first, it was just +difficult. Why couldn't he cut into them? Alter them with temperature? Remove that pesky burning? Why could Mairon not peer inside and break down the molecular structure and understand?

He didn't understand. What was he working with? He couldn't understand!

His master issued a warning when he took too long to make the crown, and Mairon was forced to retreat.

It wasn't a defeat. It wasn't impossible for him to alter, to better the Silmarils, it wasn't. He would recreate them.

Then master would see that he was the better smith than this Elf. Maybe the first try didn't work. Maybe the second didn't either. And the third, fourth, fifth-

Mairon screamed and raged and razed his smithy to the ground, taking a dozen servants with it.

He tried again. Not light, but darkness. Something more fitting for his master's reign! And then he'd give up on the Silmarils. He only had two now, why did he even still care?

He would keep trying and trying and trying and trying-

Mairon would dissect Curufinwe Tyelperinquar as many times as it took, physically, mentally, alive or dead, as many times as it took to understand.

___

Elwing really knew nothing of the Silmaril but what she learned herself.

There was no one to tell her what the Silmaril had whispered to them, shown them. Many hands it had gone through, and not one was around to impart any wisdom. She wasn't frightened of this gift, though.

On her twentieth birthday, her people draped the Nauglamir, Silmaril front and center- around her neck and named her queen. Elwing took on the Silmaril and was struck with familiarity.

It sung her a song that she recognized. It was the one that soothed her as she was spirited away from Menegroth, silver and diamond necklace weighing down her little body, family dead. A song that told her not to cry, to not be scared. Oh, how the Silmaril hated the sound of crying children.

She started to wear the Nauglamir often, more the sign of her queenship than any crown. It gave her people hope. It made her feel stronger. More... connected to something.

That night and many thereafter, she dreamed of shores she'd never been to, and started to recognize traits of Idril's as belonging to people she'd never met, and learned which songs Finwe would use to sing his children to sleep. Strange treasure, curious relic. It had life and memories of its own, and it communicated feelings.

The Silmaril was fond of her. Sometimes, in snatches, it told her of what it'd seen of her own family. That made Elwing happy. Their connection made her own soul brighter.

She told Earendil of all this and only him. At least, only her husband until-

Elwing sneered in the face of Maedhros, and said, "Why do you even want it? He would hate you as you are."

___

"You are not my father," Maglor said, holding the Silmaril before his face, collapsed upon the shore, defeated. His hand was still burning, though his flesh was long since ruined. At once, he wanted nothing more than to hold on and let go.

"You are a shadow. A remnant. An echo. But a piece of him, capable of communicating memories and the basest of feelings and impulses, but no higher thought. My father, distilled. But not him.

"Which is a shame, I- I never believed Curufin's theory about my father's spirit only being recoverable with the Silmarils, but I'm disappointed now that it is not him speaking to me. I have so much to say, but I find myself mourning only one lost opportunity thing: it would have been nice to debate poetry movements with him again.

"You're not my father. You're a will-o-wisp, a taunt. A false light, guiding us to our doom. Our fault. Our stupidity. Our end."

He ambled to his feet.

"Yet, I feel your love for me, and I'm glad. I feel your horror, and I'm ashamed. To sadness, I respond with anger, and to regret- Do you feel regret? Are you capable, strange little reflection? Am I seeing what I want to see or disregarding what I cannot stand? I don't know. I don't know. I wish I didn't know. To have died in pursuit and not know would be preferable."

Fury gripped Maglor's heart and hot tears came to his eyes. He pulled his arm back.

"You are not worth what has been done in your name!"

He screamed, and the Silmaril was gone. All was silent. Then, Maglor started to weep. He had not realized until this moment how much he had forgotten about who his father was, beyond the last words he said.

How much the world had forgotten about Feanor, beyond the scope of a Silmaril.

___

If you hold a Silmaril, you're going to get to know Feanor. When you get to know him, you're soul will brush up against his. When you possess his soul and he stains yours, you might just start to understand him.

[glorf1ndel]

Choose wisely 👀

[viola-ophelia]

happy father’s day LOL

[yourlocalnetizen]

Hot take

The first Kinslaying was the only unjustified one.

The Teleri were innocent people who just didn't want to give up their boats.

If the Noldor wanted to go to Middle Earth so bad they should have tried harder at convincing the Teleri, built their own boats, or tried the Helcaraxe.

Luthien, Dior, & Elwing had NO RIGHT to the Silmarils however. Stealing stolen goods doesn't make you any less of a thief if you know who the rightful owner is and CHOOSE NOT TO GIVE IT BACK.

While I love Elwing, the Feanorians absolutely had the right to fight her and her useless nepo baby father for something her ancestors stole from the guy who stole if from their father and killed their granddad.

The Silmarils belonged to Feanor and his heirs PERIOD.

If you want to fight me about light or whatever not being theirs, let me tell you this, if you pick a leaf off public property, can you not keep it?

Of course you can, the light of the trees was public property.

[curiouselleth]

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars: post v

The "Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils" bullet point AU is into its fifth post! Masterpost with links to all previous parts on tumblr (and on AO3, although that's lagging behind) here.

Part the twenty-sixth! The problem of Dorthonion.

Maedhros sends a letter to Beren.

I know you left Dorthonion long ago, he writes. But I fear Sauron may use his position there to attack Hithlum from the south. Have you any thoughts on how we can defend ourselves?

He includes his gracious thanks to Beren for returning the Silmaril to him, too, but Beren skims over these.

It was never about the Silmaril, really.

After he has read the letter twice over he sets it down with a troubled look and goes for an hours-long walk.

"Is Beren upset?" Túrin wants to know. "He said he'd play Dagor Bragollach with me."

Lúthien does not miss how tight the skin around Morwen's eyes go, hearing that.

"I don't know, dear," she says carefully. "He should be back soon. If not, I will play with you instead, one of the games we used to play when I was a girl before the Sun first rose."

Túrin seems to accept this as a compromise. He goes off to talk to old Sador while he waits.

Lúthien glances at Morwen, who is putting away the luncheon-dishes, having politely rebuffed Lúthien's offer of help. "He does not mean to make light of it," she says. "The battle, I mean. He is only a boy."

"I know that," Morwen says, rather sharply. Then she seems to regret her tone, for she takes a breath and says, more mildly, "So Maedhros Fëanorion is interested in Dorthonion, now?"

"It seems so," says Lúthien. "It would certainly be dreadful if a land which so many people love so well were to be turned into a stronghold of the enemy."

(The memory of Tol-in-Gaurhoth haunts her yet. Finrod loved that tower, once.)

"Well, yes," says Morwen. "But it already has been, has it not?"

Lúthien looks at her in surprise. "And so we must strive to retake it, surely," she says. "It is the land of your girlhood too! Do you not wish to see it restored?"

"Dorthonion is lost just as surely as my girlhood is," Morwen says firmly. "There is no use in mourning it."

"There is a use!" Lúthien protests. "If we do not fight, then – then Morgoth wins! It is all our duty to resist him, is it not?"

"Beren gave Dorthonion up," Morwen points out. "Even he could not hold it forever."

Lúthien lifts her chin. "Beren held Dorthonion far longer than anyone could have expected of him," she says. "And he was not wrong to do so."

Morwen just looks tired. "You say you were a girl before the Sun rose," she says. "Sometimes it seems to me you still are."

Lúthien thinks this rather unfair, but to her dismay Beren agrees with his cousin when he returns from his walk – at least insofar as Dorthonion is concerned.

"Let it go, Tinúviel," he says quietly. "Dorthonion is lost."

"And can it not be reclaimed?" Lúthien presses.

But the gaze her husband turns on her is filled with enough distress that she drops it.

"Maedhros does not want to restore Dorthonion," she points out. "Only be aware of its strengths, and how they might be turned against the Noldor."

"True," Beren says, with a sigh. "I can give him that."

He writes back to Maedhros, detailing the geography of his homeland as best he remembers it, the hidden pathways in which orcs might lurk, the high points of Ladros from which attackers can be seen for miles.

"What do you think?" Maedhros asks Fingon, making little marks on one of his maps with the new information.

Fingon is leaning over his shoulder, careful not to be seen touching him.

"We do not have the forces to launch an invasion," he says, with a frown.

"No," says Maedhros; "nor do I think it possible were we to have three times the people we do at present."

Fingon glances at him. "Dorthonion is not Angband," he says. "I do not think it unassailable, at some point in the future."

"Perhaps," says Maedhros, who sounds unwilling to argue. "All the same, Beren seems to think it would be easy enough for Sauron to assault Barad Eithel from the south, should he wish to do so. It would not be wise to leave those paths unguarded."

Fingon chews his lip thoughtfully.

The Noldor of Hithlum are diminished since the Dagor Bragollach, and they can expect little help from other quarters.

He does not want to divide his forces, when the main threat is still Angband in the north.

"The thing is," says Maedhros, "if I am right that Sauron dwells in Dorthonion – or Taur-nu-Fuin, to give it its true name—"

"Dorthonion is its true name," Fingon says.

Maedhros flashes him a smile and carries on. "If I am right"—and it is plain to see that he is sure he is—"then Sauron may not actually be in communication with Morgoth at present. But he will wish to regain the favour he has lost, I am sure. So we can expect attacks on both fronts: but not necessarily coordinated ones."

"That is not a very great advantage," says Fingon.

"But something!" says Maedhros. He looks cheerful. War-talk always brightens Maedhros: he likes to have a problem to turn over. "You might set up an outpost in the Fen of Serech. Our people know those paths better than the orcs do, and they will be able to give us advance warning when the attack comes." His mouth twists wryly. "That might have been enough to save us at Himring."

Fingon sighs. "It would not, as you well know," he says. "But that is good advice, Russo."

Maedhros puts a hand on his arm, a gesture as close to a caress as he dares in this crowded hall. "It is a problem," he says. "I will think on it, and see if I can come up with any better solution."

"Please do," says Fingon; "only, you might talk your ideas over with me, too. You need not solve all our problems alone."

"All right, my King," Maedhros says, with a smile, and his bright eyes follow Fingon as he heads off to begin his duties for the day.

Beren's was not the only letter that arrived at Barad Eithel today.

Do you think, Lúthien writes to Maglor, Morgoth's corruption can never be reversed? Must Dorthonion be nothing but a wasteland full of pestilence for ever more?

I might have thought so, after the Dagor Bragollach, Maglor writes in response, for it seemed to me then that our Doom, so long-delayed, might be catching up with us, and the Valar spoke truly when they said we could avail nothing against Morgoth's might. But you and Beren cut two Silmarils from his crown – so I think there is more hope in the world than we believed.

In that case, answers Lúthien, perhaps it is worth trying to cleanse the land: if not by strength of arms, then by Song, and courage, and hope.

She does not lay the suggestion out plainly, but Lúthien has never been very subtle, and Maglor understands her meaning well enough. You forget, he warns, that even Finrod fell under the Doom of the Noldor, and all his strength in Songs of Power availed him nothing against Sauron. And I his cousin am a Kinslayer. I do not think it is within me to drive Sauron from Dorthonion.

Not alone! is Lúthien's blithe reply. But you would not be alone. Did we not come to an accord: that fate need not bind you forever?

Perhaps that is going too far. Perhaps Morwen was right, and she is just a silly girl, and to hope is childish.

But when Maglor's reply arrives, he writes, I am growing to believe my Oath can be – if not broken, at least dissolved. If we shackled ourselves with words, surely we might un-shackle ourselves the same way. But I know not how, and meanwhile we still only have one Silmaril, and it cannot be held at bay forever.

I know not how either, answers Lúthien, but I think you are right, and moreover that you do have the strength to hold it at bay until we have found a solution. You did so in Menegroth, after all. Do not lose faith.

Maglor wants, very badly, to believe her.

"You write often to Lúthien," his brother observes, one afternoon.

"I think," says Maglor, "she might be a truer friend than either of us deserve."

Maedhros squeezes his wrist affectionately. "Not you," he says. And then, "What do you write to her about?"

"Different things," Maglor says. "Dorthonion. The Oath."

Maedhros looks at him swiftly.

"You cannot deny," says Maglor, "that it is a problem."

"No," says Maedhros, with a sigh. "No, I cannot deny that." He pauses. "What has Lúthien to say about it, then?"

"Only that she does not believe we are bound for ever," Maglor says thoughtfully.

"Káno," says Maedhros, and then he pauses. "I know – you said you did not wish to – but have you thought of asking her again? If she will speak to her father—"

"I have not asked her," says Maglor. Maedhros is standing tense and pensive beside his chair. Maglor leans his head against his brother's side and tries to explain. "Lúthien left her father's kingdom for a reason, Nelyo. I know not if Thingol will even listen to her. And besides—"

"Besides?" Maedhros prompts gently, after he is quiet for a while.

Maglor stares at his fingers. "It isn't the right answer," he says. "I don't know if I can explain why. Yes, that Silmaril does not belong to Thingol, and yet..." He looks up at Maedhros. "But I will ask her, if you command it."

Maedhros takes a sharp step back, and then another. "No. No!" His face is white. He takes a breath and smiles, with noticeable effort. "I am not your lord any more, Káno. Himring is fallen. You need not take command from me."

Maglor does not like the violence of his distress, and still less how swiftly he masked it.

"It was never about Himring, Nelyo," is all he says.

"Then what?" Maedhros asks, his voice low.

Instead of answering Maglor reaches out a hand, and after a moment Maedhros hesitantly comes close enough to touch again.

Maglor twines his fingers with Maedhros' and says, "I really do think there is a way out, Nelyo."

Maedhros manages another smile, and says nothing.

While all this letter-writing is going on we must turn our attention to a city that receives no letters at all (because nobody knows where it is).

Maeglin and his force of Gondolindrim are ready to depart.

"We do not know when the attack will come," Turgon says, "so do not reveal yourselves too hastily. Perhaps you will be able to return to Gondolin unheeded, if all goes well."

Maeglin hesitates. "Of course, uncle," he says smoothly.

He understands Turgon's caution, but he wants his glory! If Turgon will not be there to witness it, he wishes at least for tales of his exploits in battle to be carried home on many admiring tongues, to have all the city saying, Lord Maeglin – no, Prince Maeglin slew a dragon, and Prince Maeglin saved the High King's life, and Prince Maeglin's quickness of mind meant none had fewer losses than the Gondolindrim—

Perhaps Idril will smile to hear them, and favour him with an admiring look.

"I may be sending you forth too soon," Turgon says, troubled. "My brother fears an attack will come, but that does not mean—"

"Father," Idril says quickly, "think of how pointless it would be if the attack came before we were there, and Glorfindel, Rog and Maeglin ended up revealing our presence after everything was already lost. Better that they go now, by the secret ways in the mountains – there is no harm in their waiting there for a time, to see whence the Enemy will attack."

Turgon cannot deny the wisdom of this.

Maeglin can, and does, later. "You just want to get rid of me," he accuses, coming across Idril in the corridors of the King's House later that day.

"I see now why you are named for your powers of perception," Idril says, coolly; "they are mighty indeed."

"I might die," Maeglin says. "Shan't you be sorry then, Idril?"

"I have nothing to be sorry to you for," Idril says.

"You won't even let me leave you something to remember me by," Maeglin says. "I could make you a new foot—"

"We have been over this," Idril says. "I don't want a new foot, or anything else. Leave me alone, Maeglin."

Maeglin looks at her mithril prosthetic with disdain. "You are too sentimental," he says. "I could make you a far better one than that old thing."

"You're arrogant, certainly," says Idril, "but for all your confidence you are not yet the equal of Celebrimbor my cousin – either in the forge or in general agreeableness. If you do come back from all your heroic deeds, try to do so a kinder person. Or, better yet, don't come back at all."

Maeglin glares at her, but Idril walks away before he can respond.

The force sets out the next morning. Turgon sends them with his blessings, and with quiet, grave words of encouragement for the three commanders.

Maeglin and his House of the Mole have been working for some weeks, while the muster progressed, on making hidden tunnels through the Encircling Mountains, leading north from Tumladen to the Fen of Serech. They are not yet finished, but the army will hollow them out further as it journeys, and with all luck they will be able to return from the battle undetected.

It seems to Turgon, now, that he is sending his people – and his sister-son, Aredhel's only legacy! – into a gaping maw of darkness, and he knows not if they will ever return.

"I should be leading them," he tells his daughter, troubled.

Idril puts a hand on his arm, a gesture both stately and affectionate. "You are not doing wrong, Father," she says.

There is a little wobble in her voice. Alarmed, Turgon glances at her to see that there are tears in her eyes. "Itaril! What is the matter?"

Idril smiles and wipes at her eyes. "Nothing," she says quickly, "nothing."

"Are you worried for your cousin?" Turgon asks. "He is very young, I know, to command a whole force."

Idril chokes out a laugh. "Worried! No, I am not worried for Maeglin."

She looks down to where the force, arrayed in shining armour, is beginning to disappear into the tunnel.

Maeglin, slight and proud and dark-haired, is just visible at its head. He pauses to look back at her.

The sun gleaming bright off her golden hair, her chin lifted, her blue cloak whipping about her in the breeze: she is a promise, thinks Maeglin, or a challenge, or a guiding star.

Don't come back at all. Well, maybe he will not – or else he will come back worthy of her.

(to be continued)

[fistfuloflightning]

When the Pass of Aglon is breached and Maglor’s forces pushed back, he expects it all to end with the River Aros at his back. For them to die with the Girdle of Melian between them and safety.

He does not expect the forests of Doriath to swallow him and his men.

He does not expect to be protected.

[anna-dreamer]

HE LEFT ME!

@thelordofgifs's The fairest stars is freaking amazing, and honestly, i am deeply in love with Maedhros&Maglor relationship as it is depicted there. Their codependency is written in such a real and raw way, i can feel it in my bones, i recognize it immediately. I have always envisioned codependency in their relationship, in their last years for certain, and this fic just paints a freaking perfect picture of their dynamic. My fanart illustrates Part 31: on saving people.

Maglor thinks of Maedhros whispering, What would it take, to make you hate me? and his own low voice answering, If you left me. ... He means to explain, He left the Silmaril with me, but his voice catches halfway through the sentence – he who has always claimed such mastery of words – and all that comes out is, "He left – me, he left me, he left me." "Oh, Maglor!" Lúthien exclaims. She flings her arms around him again, and Maglor hides his face in her shoulder until he has recovered some of his composure.

@maedhrosmaglorweek

Day 5: New Horizons Change and loss of self

[the-elusive-soleil]

our tracks untraceable

For @tolkienfamilyweek Day 6: Ancestors and their legacy

All quoted lyrics from "Sons and Daughters" by The Decemberists

---

"When we arrive, sons and daughters," Elros sings under his breath, "we'll make our homes on the water…"

He nearly bumps into Maedhros, who has halted in front of him as they and Elrond and Maglor make their way through the woods. It takes a moment for Maedhros to speak. "Where did you learn that song?" he asks, a little hoarsely.

Elros, confused, says, "Nana sang it to us sometimes…before."

"Ada sang it sometimes, too," Elrond adds. "But the version he knew was in Quenya."

"That makes sense," Maglor says, sounding puzzled. "If it had been passed down through Fingolfin and Turgon… But how would Elwing have known it?"

"She said it was an old family song," Elrond says, just as confused.

***

"We'll build our walls aluminum, we'll fill our mouths with cinnamon," Elwing sings. Music is supposed to be a gift of her family, but she can barely manage this song, words promising a safe and bountiful home, when what they have is this ramshackle haven at the edge of the world.

"These currents pull us 'cross the border," a deeper voice joins in from the doorway. "Steady your boats, arms to shoulder…"

Eärendil enters the twins' room, coming up behind her to slide an arm around her shoulders. "It's a good song," he says quietly, and looks at the babies sleeping in their clumsy bassinet. "Full of hope. They're going to need that."

Then, "I didn't know the Sindar knew that song, though. I thought it was only my family."

Elwing shakes her head. "No, I remember my father singing it…I think."

***

"Take up your arms, sons and daughter," Dior sings, "we will arise from the bunkers…"

He makes sure to sing quietly, not letting his clear tenor carry. These lands are no longer as safe as they were in his own childhood. But he wants to still make this trip as cheerful for his children as possible, under the circumstances.

The circumstances being his grandfather's violent death, and Dior's taking up the kingship.

"Is that one of your Nana's songs?" Elwing asks sleepily. He's carrying her, while the twins walk with Nimloth.

He holds her a little closer. "She did sing it to me, just like this," he says. "And someone else sang it to her before that. All the best songs are like that."

***

"By land, by sea, by dirigible, we'll leave our tracks untraceable now," Lúthien sings playfully, dancing her small son around to the tune and the silly words. It's a good day. Almost every day is a good day on Tol Galen. She has her husband and her son; what more could she want?

"Nana?" Dior interrupts, nose wrinkled, "what's a dirigible?"

Lúthien frowns. "You know, I don't actually know, ion-nin."

"But you know everything. Ada says so."

"Well, that's very sweet of him, but he's not quite right," Lúthien says, tapping his nose affectionately. "It's probably just a made up word. But why don't you ask your grandfather next time you see him? He's the one who taught me the song, so if anyone would know, he would."

***

"When we arrive, sons and daughters," Thingol sings under his breath, "we'll make our lives on the water…"

"What's that song about, Ada?" Lúthien pipes up from where she's skipping at his side. "It's silly. We don't live anywhere near the Sea."

Thingol pauses a moment. He hadn't meant to sing for her to listen to, exactly - it just tends to come out of him wherever he walks a noticeable distance, as they have been this afternoon. But there's no harm in telling her. He just hasn't talked about it much since meeting Melian.

"It's a song from the Journey," he says at length. "Before I met your mother, I and my brother and our people were traveling west to go over the Sea. We sang the song then about what we would find at the end."

"Your brother who went on without you?" Lúthien says inquisitively. She's been going through a phase of being curious about other people's siblings, since she has none of her own. At Thingol's nod of confirmation, she asks, "Do you still miss him?"

His throat suddenly feels thick. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Did he make up the song?"

"…No." Thingol shakes his head slowly. "It was a…a friend of mine."

***

"We'll build our walls aluminum, we'll fill our mouths with cinnamon…"

"Finwë, what in Arda is that song about?"

Finwë turns and spots his friend Elwë, and grins broadly. "It's to keep our people's spirits up as we travel," he explains. "To take their minds off the hardships of the journey and give them an idea of what awaits us."

Elwë appears to consider this for a moment. "That is all very well," he says, "but why would anyone want to fill their mouth with cinnamon? It is far too strong for such a thing, not to mention the waste."

"Of course it's ridiculous," Finwë agrees readily. "That's the point. There will be so much in Aman, and it will be so safe. It won't matter if we waste things every now and then, or use ridiculous building materials."

Elwë humphs. But he also, a few moments later, says, "Can you teach me the rest of it?"

Finwë can, and does, and soon enough the song rings through the wilderness as both Noldor and Teleri sing in chorus.

***

"When we arrive, sons and daughters…" Atya sings, and then trails off. Fëanáro frowns up at him, not understanding why his father has slowed and is no longer swinging their clasped hands to and fro, why he looks so troubled.

"Atya?" he asks. "What's the matter?"

For a long moment, Atya looks very far away. Then he shakes himself slightly, and looks down at Fëanáro with a smile.

"Nothing to worry about, yonya," he says. "I was just thinking that the song doesn't quite fit us, is all."

Well, of course it doesn't. Fëanáro doesn't have any brothers or sisters; he's Finwë's only son. But that's fine, and the song isn't supposed to be about them anyway - it's about the Great Journey.

"Does it need to?" he says. "We can make up a different one if we need one about us."

That makes Atya smile properly at last. "Maybe so, Náro. Maybe so. But we should find a spot for our picnic first."

***

"Till tides all pull our hull aground, making this cold harbor now home…"

Makalaurë frowns as his father sings under his breath. The song is familiar, but the tone doesn't seem to match it - it's meant to be a happy, excited song, but Atar's making it sound angry and vindictive.

That's pretty much been Atar's sole mood ever since the banishment was announced.

"There!" Atar calls out suddenly, breaking off the song and gesturing up ahead. "That is where we shall build our fortress, the envy of all in Tirion. Curufinwë, with me!"

He sounds more enthusiastic and less bitter than he has in weeks. Perhaps, Makalaurë dares to think as Atar and Curvo ride ahead, this can be a turning point for the better, for all of them.

***

"It's strange that your family would know the song, too," Elros ventures. Elrond knows what he means. They were told for the first six years of their lives that the Fëanorians were monsters, wholly other than them. This odd little point of commonality contrasts sharply with that.

He doesn't want to think too long on that right now, doesn't want to let it pull up all the complicated things between them.

Instead he says, "Perhaps since we do all know it, we can sing it together."

Maedhros looks hesitant. But Maglor, after a moment's hesitation, gives a small nod. "How does it go again? It has been years…we may not remember all of it."

"That's all right, it repeats a lot," Elros shrugs. "Here, I'll start--"

And they continue on through the woods, singing quietly so as not to attract unfriendly attention, but all in tune together.

"Hear all the bombs fade away, hear all the bombs fade away, hear all the bombs fade away…"