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In the absence of.

—written for @feanorianweek 2025, Day 2, Maglor & Kingship.

Tags: Maglor needs a hug, Mental breakdown.

Somehow, Maglor has been managing. Somewhat.

With every passing day of Maedhros’s absence, tension grew between the brothers which in consequence sparked uproar among their followers. In the coldness of the night, bitter words were said and even bitterer scenarios were outlined.

Still, Maglor managed.

Somehow, somewhat.

What choice did he have other than to manage?

What choice did they have?

For so long, he had been shoving aside grief and emotions and hurt and loss that he almost could not remember how life had been before: the second son, never truly responsible for anything at all; a singer and a poet; an idle dreamer as Curufin would say.

But now he was responsible—burdened with a responsibility for all of them.

Father?

Gone.

Maedhros.

Lost to darkness.

Many thought Maglor unfit: unfit to rule, unfit to compensate for Maedhros’s absence, a poet and a scholar first and foremost, sometimes a warrior.

A king?

Hardly.

He couldn’t even begrudge them their bitter thoughts and words: Maedhros couldn’t be compensated. By none of them, actually, although Curufin begged to differ from time to time.

No.

Maglor thought him delusional—not even he could fill the gap Maedhros had left behind. No one ever could.

How could any of them ever replace Maedhros, the burning torch in the darkest of nights? Maedhros, whose fire burnt so brightly; who was fierce and just and valiant and selfless?

How could anyone think they could fill the emptiness Maedhros left behind?

For over thirty years, Maglor has been shoving aside his emotions; not because he wanted to but because he must. And for thirty years, he would be shoving them aside, struggling under the burden of the crown.

And then a rider came… unannounced and cloaked in darkness.

He was dressed in blue and silver and white, the Ñolofinwëan colors, his thick surcoat fluttering in the wind.

Maglor stood at the gate to greet him, half-suspecting a trap.

“He’s alive,” the rider rasped, climbing out of the saddle. “He’s alive…”

The faintest glimmer of hope began to spark underneath Maglor’s skin. “Who?”

“Your brother. Nelyafinwë…”

Maglor’s voice almost forsook him in sudden excitement. “How? Where? Alive?”

“At Lake Mithrim, rescued by Fingon’s hand. Gravely injured but alive, yes.”

Maedhros…

Maedhros was safe.

Maedhros was alive.

Maglor stumbled, decade-old suppressed emotions catching up with him too fast. He couldn’t cope with the information; with the sudden relief that flooded him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t even stand. It was too much all at once.

His body swayed, and he felt numb, but his head was burning; his eyes were. Tears of relief ran down his cheeks—tears of gratitude, joy, frustration, and everything else that had remained buried deep within.

He was in the sea, floating amongst the waves of grief and gratitude.

At last, the emotions were there, breaking over him like waves, pulling him down, pulling him under, and for the first time in decades, Maglor felt something akin to being alive again.

~ [read on Ao3]

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