But I love the idea that he’s just some random kid who got promoted by Elrond because he has the people skills and can handle things like rowdy dwarves without causing a political fallout. Before this he was just happily doing his thing being a minstrel in the Hall of Fire, which is where Celebrian first noticed this talent.
He was offered the job. He accepted with honour.
But he didn’t realise the sheer amount of shenanigans such a job would entail. And now he’s permanently part of the House of Elrond and all the drama and fun that comes with it.
Featuring: An Age Old Kinslayer reluctantly dragged kicking and screaming by a far too happy Glorfindel to his new home. A grumpy advisor. A very flamboyant Captain who for some reason loves to irritate everyone the Advisor and sad old Kinslayer. A workaholic Lord far too good at playing off his exhaustion. A deceptively mischievous Lady who ropes him into her schemes. And a constant stream of Dunedain chieflings playing in the halls, bringing chaos where they go, almost knocking over priceless artefacts.
And let’s not forget Elrond’s children. He’s only a century older than Elladan and Elrohir and has a minor crisis when they call him ‘Uncle’ for the first time. (They grow out of it very quickly, but still call him that on occasion just to mess with him.)
Arwen’s no better.
Aragorn… well he can’t fault the boy for it. By this point it’s endearing rather than crisis inducing… though that might just be because he’s human.
All seven sons of Fëanor meeting in Beleriand but it’s the scene where the dwarves all enter Bilbo’s house.
They’re meeting in Thargelion and Caranthir’s about to tear his hair out, or maybe his advisor is, as everyone slowly arrives. First Celegorm. Then Curufin. Then Maglor. Then Amrod and Amras. And the five of them raiding the pantry, probably Moryo’s jewellery and materials room as well to find whatever they like most and have it commissioned. Thargelion is their richest land after all, and it’s a time of plenty.
Celegorm and the twins have trailed mud all over the floor. Curvo’s hounding the smiths about their quality of work. Maglor’s singing, the rest of his brothers joining in as he playfully mocks Caranthir and his advisors trying to keep a reign on everything.
Then there’s a knock on the door.
Maedhros walks in. Red hair gleaming in the light, noble, scarred face leaving the other residents of the fortress in awe.
And in seconds everyone’s on Best Behaviour TM.
(But ofc being little brothers, it doesn’t last long. And Maedhros can’t help but join in the fun no matter how hard he tries to be Grim and Serious about things.
Also the deep sighs and rolling eyes as soon as they heard the knock left several servants and soldiers more familiar with the Fëanorions hiding laughs. Maglor mutters something along the lines of ‘killjoy.’ Amrod makes faces as Mae explains the results of his meeting with Fingolfin. Celegorm whistles to the ravens by the window, and even Caranthir raises unimpressed eyebrows when the eldest tries his Lordly Tone of Gravitas that would work on literally anyone but his brothers.)
I have this hc that Sauron’s obsession with vanity led him to spend years studying Maedhros’ features and trying to emulate them. When he couldn’t get it right, the proportions always a little off, red hair never deep enough, he took his anger out on Mae and when that option was gone, tried to pull from others also renown for their beauty instead.
Fast forward a few centuries and turns out all that work wasn’t entirely useless. And Sauron knows exactly what to do with the features he was able to recreate. Weaving them into his new face, the line of Maitimo’s smile, the set of his eyebrows, the crease of his eyes, he puts just enough to be familiar, but not enough to set off any alarms.
Celebrimbor doesn’t know *why* he trusts Annatar so easily, just that he’s got a good feeling about him. The Maia reminds him of someone he can’t quite put a finger on, but it’s a good association and he doesn’t think on it too deeply. Grows to call him a brother in all but blood.
Of course we all know how that ends. And the last thing Celebrimbor sees is his eldest Uncle’s smile, a mockery of the warmth it should hold as Sauron finally ends his torture.
(Elrond, on the other hand, never saw Maitimo who used to laugh easily and play silly games with children. Only grim Maedhros. The gentle features Sauron steals are alien to him. A stranger with too many familiar features he can’t quite place, twisted the wrong way, leaving him deeply unsettled. It’s why he immediately tells Gil Galad to send Annatar away, hiding trembling hands in his sleeves.)
In the Blessed lands, Fingolfin, last of his House, walks out of Mandos’ gates with his older brother. Reconciled at last.
Maglor keeps wandering.
Finwë returns amongst the Eldar. Finarfin, the golden king who kept Aman running for Ages upon Ages, who elves of all kinds claim as theirs, bows before his father. His father does not let him. The Eldar of Cuivienen watch with pride as Finwë bows before his youngest. His strongest. His heir.
But Maglor does not know this. He wanders still.
A call comes from Námo, calling the House of Finwë to welcome their most broken member. The one Morgoth feared to challenge until he had Dragons and Balrogs in swathes, yet still he could not breach the Frozen Mountain. Maedhros stumbles out into his parents’ arms, the rest of his family not far behind. He looks upon them in wonder. For Maedhros Fëanorion spent much of his life keeping his people together, and he would not heal until they were whole again, feuds left in the past. Finarfin welcomes his nephew and clothes him in white and gold. Places a golden circlet on copper curls, a small grin as he promises it’s just symbolic. The responsibility of High King remains his Uncle’s.
Maglor does not know this either.
Endless song flows from his lips, a power that sinks into the ocean itself.
Makalaurë died in the exile to Formenos. Kanafinwë when his voice could not sway his brother form Morgoth’s trap. Maglor when his brother fell. He goes by other names these days, names that once had meaning but now fall like ash from a tongue that still lisps on instinct. To call his existence lonely is to call a raindrop an ocean, but Maglor does not dwell on this. He cannot afford to.
This punishment is only just. A small dose of suffering for all the blood shed by his hand. He does not hear the ocean’s call any more, nor the water’s pleas for his return. Ossë and Uinen sing from their domains, Ulmo sends crashing waves and clear blue seas, but nothing penetrates the song of the last son of Fëanor still on these shores.
Nothing can stop his wandering. Nor heal the tears trails carved into his skin.
Nor erase footsteps marking the sands a bloody red.
Across the sea, Maedhros grows restless. Finwë waits by the Halls. Fëanor finds no peace in his forge or his home. The rest of Finwë’s house take turns to watch the seas. The boat never comes. The Valar have no answer.
It’s Miriel who bears the message, her latest tapestry disturbing even her Patron’s husband. More shade than elf, she guides the House of Finwë to the edge of the Gates of Mandos where a Maia waits with her work. A delicate weaving in terrible detail revealing a hollow face scarred with tears, a grotesque, blackened hand still dripping blood, and blistered feet walking, walking, walking-
“He does not hear our calls…” the Maia whispers. “He will not come home.”
Maedhros weeps inconsolably at the state of his dearest brother. Fingon declares he will walk across the Helcaraxë again if need be to bring his errant cousin back, Finrod threatens to tear apart any Maia who dares keep Maglor stuck to those shores. Fingolfin grabs his brother as he collapses.
And Finwë turns heel. A fire in his eyes, lips twisted in a furious sneer. He leaps onto his horse and rides to the Mahanaxar, spirit brighter than his sons’ when they chased Morgoth. Fingolfin tries to stop him. Fëanor begs him not to fall to rage as he once did. Finarfin remains silent. He cannot turn away from his lost nephew’s hollow form.
The gates to the Ring of Doom are open. Before Finwë can utter a word, Námo speaks a single word.
“Yes.”
Thorondur sweeps over Manwë’s shoulders to Finwë’s side. The former King does not so much as acknowledge him.
“I will bring him home myself in the ships I once used to cross the sea to this land.”
It’s a bold claim. But one that cannot be denied.
“I will come with you.”
Three voices speak at once, echoing in the chamber. Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin stand sure and steady against the weight of the Valar’s gazes.
“Why?” The Doomsman asks.
“He is my son. I raised him. And I cursed him to this fate. His suffering rests on me.”
“He is my son. I abandoned him, I fell to grief and did not protect him in my brother’s stead as promised. His loneliness rests on me.”
“He is my son. I turned away from him. He knows not my open arms will welcome him to this new world. His fear rests on me.”
A small smile plays about Námo’s lips.
“Then join your father in this endeavour, Sons of Finwë, and take with you these words: The time of enduring pain has ended. Makalaurë atoned long ago, he need not punish himself longer.”
“He has paid more than any of his family, with sword, blood, and song.” Nienna’s whisper swirls around them, answering their unasked questions. “We would have brought him home many Ages ago if we could. But the Valar have meddled enough in the lives of the Eldar, and we would not force him to our choices again.”
“So the Valar have spoken.”
Manwë dips his head to the party of four as the gates burst open to reveal the rest of the family.
(But Maglor does not know any of this, either.
He hides his feet in the sand and his hand in his cloak, and listens to a little blonde haired girl singing to the birds, trilling a tune of friendship when they flee from her waving arms. Her giggles as they return brings a small smile to his face. He can afford this moment, he will not burden her with his pain.)
The three sons and their father prepare for the journey. Maedhros tries desperately to join them, threatening to follow if they don’t allow it, and Fëanor takes him aside. Some truths must be faced. It took him far too long to realise that.
“Makalaurë hallucinates you, Nelyafinwë.”
The words, soft but blunt, bring his eldest to a standstill. Maedhros is smart, and he knows his little brother well. Perhaps best of all. His face crumples as he falls to his father’s feet.
“Atya please- please. I have to make this right.”
Fëanor drops down and clutches his son to his chest, closing his eyes in grief.
“There will be time for that, my son. But first I ask you to consider who you truly wish to console. Laurë? Or yourself?”
It’s cruel. He knows it’s cruel. The furious gaze as his eldest pulls back is almost enough to make him regret the words.
But Fëanor also knows Maedhros’ ardour burns even more fiercely than his own, and it can blind him to nuances. The singleminded determination as he pursues what he believes to be right and rouses a crowd to follow is an admirable skill, but it does not allow him to see every outcome. Or even fully understand his own intentions. It’s why he and Maglor were always such a good team.
When Maedhros loosens his grip, fury turning to grim acceptance, Fëanor drops a kiss on his head and helps his son to his feet.
“I will bring our songbird home, little one. And you will make the necessary preparations for his recovery upon arrival.”
His other sons relax. Fëanor almost smiles. As if he’d forget his eldest needs something to keep busy with lest he fall to his own mind. ‘He’s far too much like his father,’ Nerdanel says.
She isn’t wrong.
They both burned in the end.
——
Across the courtyard, Fingolfin asks his eldest to keep a close eye on Maedhros as Finarfin passes orders to his own: Empty the harbour they arrive at. Keep details quiet. Let the people know the sons of Finwë go united on this trip, and they will return shortly.
Finwë doesn’t speak to anyone.
His gaze remains distant but even as he methodically straps knives and small daggers to his person, all concealed under layers of fabrics. Instead of his kingly attire or even the white robes of Mandos, he wears simple brown garb. His hair is decorated only with silver and gold threads, half up with two thick braids on either side of his head.
All in all he looks more like he’s going to war than retrieving a lost child. Then again, perhaps that’s more accurate than anyone wants to admit.
Makalaurë was stubborn, but could be reasoned with. Kanafinwë was powerful, but soft hearted. Maglor was unreadable and changed as easily as the tides. It made him hard to pin down, and even harder to bring to your side if he wasn’t fully convinced of your idea.
A trait Finwë had once dearly admired in his Míriel.
“Father,” Arafinwë calls over the gathering wind. “We are ready.”
Finwë spares a smile for his youngest, then returns to even determination.
They ride hard for several days, stopping only when the horses need rest. All are quiet. Olwë waits for them by the harbour when they arrive, and he too is silent as he guides them to a well furnished swan ship. Someone must have told him… or perhaps he recognises the steely look in his friend’s eyes. Before they set off, he nods:
“Tell your grandson his songs are missed.”
Finwë nods once. Sharp and cold. Olwë raises a hand in farewell, and they sail into the mists.
(Maglor stumbles to a cave as rain and wind batters his body. But even as icy ocean waves soak his legs, spraying against his scarred face and cracked lips, he doesn’t stop singing. He’s long used to the salt in his wounds.)
Finrod and Maedhros in the halls or post embodiment talking about Sauron.
Not about the torture or the agony they went through, more like gossiping on how much of a peacock he was, strutting around and bragging about how beautiful he is.
If you came across them in the street you’d think they’re talking about one of those overdressed Tirion nobles, but then you hear “I preferred his torture to his speeches because dear Eru those were a whole new level of pain-“
“Heard all of two before being mauled. Definitely preferred the werewolf.”
Celebrimbor sometimes joins these sessions but he’s got the additional years of having known Annatar and it’s therapeutic to talk about how self absorbed he was to people who really understand. Safe to say Maedhros and Finrod sombrely commiserate the kid on dealing with that for centuries.
Mad cackling can almost be heard a continent away and he can’t figure out whose it is: Morgoth’s, or his brother’s.
In either case, he knows the people Fëanor has just taken to the other side, Fingolfin’s dear nephews most of all, are in great danger. He knows his brother. And he knows what happens to the people around him when his passion meets rage in a merciless, all-consuming flame.
No one deserves to be in that line of fire.
So when his children and remaining nephews and niece cry out their betrayal and curse their uncle and cousins, he turns a firm eye to them.
“If I’d commanded it, would you not have done the same?”
They begin to shake their heads, and he frowns.
“Do not lie to me, children.”
They turn away. Fingon’s relief at his father’s words breaks his heart, his eldest should know he cares deeply for Fëanor’s sons. Surely? Has he become so distant? Would any of them have confided in him earlier if he’d just opened his arms a little more-
No use in what ifs.
He turns back to the burning ships and sends a small prayer to whoever might still listen to keep his nephews safe. Fëanor is gone, mind shattered with his father’s death, and he’s dragging his children down with him to ash and blood and ruin. They just have to survive long enough for Fingolfin to arrive. He’ll talk sense into his brother, he’s the only one who can. He’ll get the children their father back and fix all of this, pride be damned.
The Helcaraxë is the only option. His nine children spit venom at their half uncle, but no longer complain of their cousins. A year following him into this hellscape, a year of leaving the weakest to the blizzards lest everyone freeze yet refusing to turn back, has shown them exactly what they’d have done were the positions reversed.
It’s a sobering thought. He wonders what he’s done to deserve such dogged loyalty.
Wonders when he started taking advantage of the same things he hated and admired most about his brother.
Time passes. He wakes one day to a coldness in his fëa and sends another desperate prayer. A bad feeling takes route that grows day by day, fear and a strange fire dancing in his periphery urging him and his people on.
Time is running out Nolofinwë.
Ice slowly gives way to solid rock, then slush, then grass and he arrives at Mithrim in relief, all but running to the fortress, only to see little Makalaurë greeting his host. Eyes hardened, crowned in silver, heavy shoulders draped in a frayed red cloak-
And he knows it’s far, far too late.
Agony and despair are hidden behind a stony mask that he sees right through but can no longer reach. His open arms greeted with caution. Watching. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. His kind words with narrowed eyes, all but daring pity, and Fingolfin could weep.
There’s no reconciliation that can prove his love, his understanding, now.
Fëanor is gone.
His children are being consumed in the blaze left behind.
“So easy to mistake grief for anger. Worry for hate. Burn the ships and let my brother be safe from a world that stole my parents. Let his children be free of the curse that binds my own.”
I think of all the elves, of all his family, Maglor best understands what it is to be world weary. To want to leave. I feel like there’s this connection which forms between his and his grandmother’s fëa, and over time, she’s even able to reach out. To give him a little comfort. To give him just enough will to keep going, because Maglor would never forgive himself if he didn’t:
Miriel on the ocean’s waves, adding a little tune of her own to Maglor’s lament
Maglor not even fully away of what he’s singing, what part of the Noldolantë is being composed but still picking up the quicksilver thread and turning it into its own tapestry
Miriel’s strangely proud of her singer
Maglor alone and cold and lost in hallucinations and dreams. Miriel reaches out and is able to twist them into good ones. Into memories of Aman, memories with his brothers and cousins from a time less marred
Miriel sees her son in the halls and watches him determinedly walk through each section depicting his sons’ fates, make himself see what he did to his family.
And he manages to make it to the end, soaking each one with his tears
But then he sees his second son alone, screaming his grief to the ocean, he collapses
His other sons he has comforted, he’s held snd assured them of his love. He’s sent them on their way to be healed and released.
But this one… this one he cannot reach
And it breaks her heart. She knows too well what it is to see your son in agony and have no way of comforting him. Of assuring him you don’t hate him, that you want him to move on and live a full life again.
She sings her own grief into the next tapestry of Maglor’s she weaves, and is stunned to hear a song reaching right back
Vairë and Námo tell her Kanafinwë’s power reaches to her threads. She weaves their history and he sings it.
Their fëa which should have connected in life, now connect in each of their deaths.
Námo seems to smile at this development and gently wiping away her tears gestures to the newest tapestry of Maglor clenching his burnt, blood soaked hand. More spirit than elf.
“Call to him.”
She does.
And she finds him responding in his semi awareness.
Maglor is his music. Maglor is his song. What remained of anything else is swept away in the endless tides of his grief and lamentation
He’s fading. Becoming a spectre of the shore because he will not die. Refuses to die.
But this little spark of home, the fire so similar to his father’s but older, more steady and persisting, breaks him from his fading.
And when Fëanor beholds the newest tapestry, his remaining son has more colour to him, tattered robes standing out against the grey backdrop, and his head is tilted as if listening intently to something.
He looks *alive*
The next tapestries solidify Maglor even more. Where he was blue and grey, faded red comes back, his loose hair falls in his favoured braids, eyes clear grey shining tree light rather than milky white.
Maedhros, so like his father, determined to see his little brother fade in a final attempt to atone and keep him company as he’d failed to before, is stunned
And when his grandmother sings his brother’s song, he understands.
Miriel holds his hands warmly.
“I’ll take care of him until he comes home. Go, Maitimo. Heal. Be there when he returns.”
Fëanor sits for years, in front of the weaving of Maglor’s small smile as he beholds a crab crawling along his robe. The first smile since he let go of his twin stars.
Eyes wide. Unblinking. As if turning away would bring everything crashing down and Maglor will be a wraith again
Miriel continues to call out to her grandson, and the spirit that brought Fëanor’s fire to the world slowly revives his son.
She breaks her son from his frozen state and takes him to her weaving room.
“Ammë?” He sounds lost.
She smiles and in a familiar sing song gestures to the loom.
“Look, Fëanaro.”
Because there sits Maglor, singing still but with new robes, a smile creasing his eyes and his foster son leaning into his side.
And behind, a familiar silver haired figure in the ocean mist singing right alongside him
“Ammë… you?” Fëanor’s jaw falls. “How? Why?”
“He is my grandson, yonya,” she says firmly. “As for how…”
She explains the connection, and the song.
Somehow in speaking the Doom, Maglor reached through Mandos’ halls to the one member of his family whose skill lay in the same craft.
“Does he know?” Fëanor finally asks, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Does he know his family love him. They protect him. They long to see him again. That he can come *home*-
To this, Miriel sighs.
“I do not know. But he knows he is not alone.”
Maglor returns with Elrond to Imladris where he meets a little boy called Hope who speaks of ancestors reaching out to him and innocently asks the old elf if his family do the same.
She’s glad to be the one recording Maglor’s stunned face, and for the first time, laughs while weaving. It’s enough to bring Fëanor desperately knocking and Vairë shaking her head.
Some days pass and for the first time, she hears a song reaching out with intent. A hesitant question.
“Atya?” It calls.
She sings back.
“Not quite, my Songbird, though he sends you his love.”
Quicksilver hands and restless humming.
“It cannot be…”
“Hello, grandson of mine.”
Her influence is no longer needed, for Maglor is alive and healthy and keeping the heir of Isildur safe. Teaching him all he knows.
But she sings alongside him as he fights in the final battle by the Black Gate. Song and sword flashing as they haven’t in two ages.
She grabs Fëanor by the hand to show him Maglor singing and laughing at little Estel and Arwen’s wedding. And for the first time, Fëanor’s weeping is for joy.
Then the Doom is officially lifted read: please come back, everyone misses you and Galadriel is to sail.
And Miriel reaches out one last time.
“The Doom is long lifted. It’s time to come home, Makalaurë.”
And when Maglor comes home, he sees a silver haired elf in his periphery, grin flashing white in the afternoon sun before she disappears again
Miriel will never leave the halls.
She doesn’t need to.
Because she’s firmly entrenched in their family now, and Maglor sings to her everyday.
