Thank you to everyone who participated in the first Fun with Fanon Fest this weekend!! Itâs wonderful to see your ideas and creations about our fandomâs collaborative conceptions.
If you didnât manage to get your submission finished in time, thatâs okay! We accept late submissions and are happy to share outside of the event.
And the next event is just around the corner...I donât have solid dates yet, but this is a quarterly event, so the second event of 2023 will happen sometime between April and June!
What if the Arkenstone really was a Silmaril? (very late, but inspired by arofili's @funwithfanon prompts from last march!)
click for quality | closeups & details under the cut
Galadriel, Celeborn, and Thranduil are the only people on the right side of the mountains that
a) have fought a dragon (mostly in the war of wrath)
b) remember the Hunting of the Wolf and
c) are mentally stable enough to be trusted around a silmaril (more or less)
so of course they end up having to fight silmaril-raged smaug. (he sat on it and now it's stuck to his bald spot)
since the sindar don't have metal armor galadriel is the only tank, and therefore the person on dragon-stabbing duty.
celeborn is the spearman in charge of keeping smaug from escaping or mauling someone else (and also making sure the silmaril doesn't fall on galadriels head, because at that point it definitely would still burn her)
thranduil is supposed to be doing air control to keep smaug from flying up and torching everyone, but he decided it would be a great idea to jump-dive at the dragon's head.
(version with fire because i couldnt decide which one i liked better)
A short fic for @funwithfanon for the prompt Fin-galad. I am exploring the fanon that:
Finduilas and Gil-galad are siblings, but they are similar enough that they can regularly swap places.
This fic contains two scenes end-capping the premise that Finduilas survives but never contradicts the stories of her death. Instead, she and her brother alternated being High King Gil-galad and being something of a ghost in the courtâa very politically advantageous arrangement.
Finduilas was an elven maid
Beneath the earth her bodyâs laid
On which the fairest flowers bud
Watered by youthful elvish blood
They say unmarred and pure she rests
Her skin untouched by any pest,
Golden her braid in dark soil gleams,
She is at peace; she lies and dreams
We bring spades to dig that soil
To rip apart those roots that coil,
Upon the mound, piled high and green
As though tended by hands unseen
We seek the truth of elven youth
Weâll break apart both bone and tooth
For in our homes our people die,
They do not dream; they burn and cry
Our spades hit soil, break the mound
Stutter on the uneven ground
And yet no body lies within
No golden braid; no ashen skin
A single hair glints in the light,
Ill-gotten treasure, dead of night
A shattered spear, the gleam of gem
Old chain wrapped about flower-stem
Tis sung her heart led her astray,
And where she dwelleth none can say,
For cold and empty stands her grave,
That lady lost no lord could save.
ao3
written for @funwithfanon fest! the prompt was "fin-galad".
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Rating: G | No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Elrond & Maglor, Elrond & Lindir, Elrond/CelebrĂan, Elrond & his kids
Word count: 1.6k
it's time for day 2 of @funwithfanon! the prompt i used today was "Maglor = Lindir". admittedly i'm not sure what counts as an "inversion" of fanon in a fandom so old and widespread that probably everything has been considered at least once, but hopefully this fits the bill đ
The Silmaril melted away in the fires of the earth.
It is no longer there; its power diffused into the heart of Arda. The piece of its maker that was trapped within was released, and the soul of the one who bore it down into its unmaking was set free.
But the earth remembered.
Some of that power dissipated into the soil, and great flowers and trees grew up, up, into the sky, reaching for the Star of High Hope that was their kin.
Some of that power escaped into the air, and echoes of song floated along the breezes, guiding lost travelers always, always to the sea.
Some of that power vanished into the waters, and shone upon pearls brighter and more beautiful than any seen before.
And some of that power was carried down, down, down into the forges of the world itself, and with time and pressure and heat was reshaped into something resembling its former self.
The Silmaril was not found in the mines deep below the Lonely Mountain. But a spark of its power did travel there, and settled into an ordinary gem, and by the skilled hands of the dwarves who delved there was made into a jewel worthy of a king.
The Arkenstone, the heart of the mountain: it remembers what once it was, the blood that was spilled for it, the power it wielded. Its echoes linger, like mournful songs carried along by sea-breezes.
The Arkenstone is not the Silmaril. It is not the same jewel for which Oaths were sworn and kin were slain. But it remembers. And those who hold it feel that history in their hands, and some part of them remembers, too.
The same, but the current Lindir is Maglor. This is never discussed. If you recognize him, no you donât. He shows up for the fifteen years, and then goes away, and then comes back. Itâs fine. They donât talk about it. Itâs definitely fine! The job interviews have gone from dramatic to downright farcical. Neither of them is willing to be the first one to crack. The first time, Elrond gets to ask for a portfolio and watch Maglor draw a blank on anything that isn't a lament. By the fourth time, he has a long repertoire of new works inspired by Imladris ready, all dedicated to its gracious and most generous lord. They come up with ridiculously complicated linguistic crossword games and then swap them to play over morning tea. Again, I cannot overstate how much they do not Talk About It.Â
Lindir is of the Falathrim of Sirion and he will fight you if you ask whether heâs secretly Maglor FĂ«anorian. He will hit you with his gigantic gold-and-ivory harp and you will deserve it.
Lindir is Maglor. Ish. Maglor-ghost. Maglor's remaint. If you look at him too hard the edges of him start to blur, like an old crosshatching drawing left to blur in the sun for too long. The shadow he casts upon the wall rests over his shoulders like a cloak. He is also rather misty. Somewhere by the sea, a body has been eaten by the fish, but the fëa wandered far inland and found refuge in the valley where all those in pain are made welcome. One day Elrond woke to a faint song. He followed it through the stairs of his house until he found - the smouldering embers in Hall of Fire stirring, and a darker darkness singing. Lindir has been part of the household ever since.
Lindir is Daeron. He loves the line of LĂșthien more than all things, except for the Lady CelebrĂan, who was the one who found him, once, by the still dark waters of the North, and brought him home to the valley where the guards sing nonsense and the air in the twilit starlight smells nothing at all and very much like Melianâs kingdom in the days before the Sun and the Moon.
Maglor did not defend himself, whenever anyone found him wandering by the sea Maglor never defended himself, with words or Song, steel or harp. Not from wolves, or orcs, brigands or avengers, from the wrathful sea or the elements. Varda's Hallowing had scorched him through, a maddening and encompassing pain, the sort of continuous justice that left very little space for anything that was not regret. He could not defend himself from it, or the absolute, star-bright knowledge that its horror and ugliness should not and could not be denied. By the time he came again among the elves, there was very little left to recognize him by. He was so plainly beyond the ability to do harm - getting him in custody was less a matter of containing him than making certain no one went and killed him. It is imprisonment, in the sense that heâs in custody. There will be no Kinslayings or executions in Imladris (Glorfindel's passionate defence of Turgon's precedent aside), and even if it were allowed - no one could put him on trial presently. Elf parole gets invented eventually, after he is in the healing halls for half an Age, and slowly readjusts to society again. Much has his countenance changed, in grief and pain, and from wounds besides; few people recognize him outright. It takes him a long, long time before he touches a harp again, and longer still before he can be certain enough of himself to sing before an audience.Â
You would not have caught Maglor FĂ«anorian admitting he could not identify a poemâs authorial contributions, be he dead or damned or deranged. Luckily, local musical prodigy Lindir, born and bred in Imladris, does not have weird First Age perfectionist hang-ups. Elrondâs students all have a perfectly non-traumatic apprenticeship and are very well-adjusted, thank you very much.
They take his harp away, at first. Glorfindel, who had seen him in battle, wanted anted a geas of silence. But that would be a waste, in its way. His voice is bound to the valley instead, to the protection of it, and the working of its purpose as a place of safety and succour. Eternal servitude to the line of Earendil is not, objectively, the worst punishment that could befall the last Kinslayer. If Elrond is not entirely easy with having him in Imladris, neither is he able to countenance the idea that he might go free, and unaccounted for. The might in him goes away from his mouth, and beyond his mastery. He sings, sometimes, when it is for the benefit of the valley. That he must be of use is a just demand, and a kinder end than exile. A grace, in its way - and it is not as if he has any reason or right to have any wish in his heart that is not to serve the line of Elwing. It is not, Maglor knows well, the cruellest captivity a soul has ever suffered. He can even speak, if he wishes; and in time, among the long Ages, he does gather enough nerve to ask leave to sing in the Hall of Fire in company, on those moonless nights when he is not needed to sing enchantments of protection. A minstrel can have many duties, after all. There are many ways to serve, in small and deedless fashion, without doing any harm. Pity is not torment, for all it is difficult to withstand, and difficult the making of a gift rich enough to answer it. Well, and he is an excellent minstrel; that much he can offer still, and he does it willingly. They call him Lindir, and that is fair, as well - it is only that Lindir does not and must not and cannot sing laments.
Maglor the Kinslayer is the minstrel Lindir. Everyone knows this. It's not clear whether Lindir, who cries when the cooks behead the hen and hums to the horses and loathes the silver sound of a drawn sword, does know this.Â
@funwithfanon fest | favorite fanons | maglor is lindir
No other player has there been,
no other lips or fingers seen
so skilled, âtis said in elven-lore,
save Maglor son of FĂ«anor,
forgotten harper, singer doomed,
who young when Laurelin yet bloomed
to endless lamentation passed
and in the tombless sea was cast.
for @funwithfanon for the prompt Maglor Is Lindir. In this case, Lindir is not Maglor, but he's also not Lindir.
Rating: G | No warnings
Characters: Erestor, Elrond
Words: 900
Summary: Distrust and suspicion are upsetting the peace of Rivendell since the arrival of an exceptionally talented minstrel who calls himself Lindir. Elrond seems oblivious to the problem, so Erestor takes it upon himself to confront his lord about it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
feels weird promoting my fics anywhere, but since it's for @funwithfanon i figured i'd go ahead. the first chapter is for the prompt "Scarred Maedhros" and the second chapter, to be posted tomorrow, will be for the prompt "Maglor = Lindir"
