#maglor's gap

[emyn-arnens]

ATLAS OF ARDA ⇢ MAGLOR'S GAP

↳ for @feanorianweek 2025 Day 2: Maglor

But they overwhelmed the riders of the people of Fëanor upon Lothlann, for Glaurung came thither, and passed through Maglor’s Gap, and destroyed all the land between the arms of Gelion.

[leucisticpuffin]

@maedhrosmaglorweek, Day 3: Himring and the Gap

Maglor rides west.

[granularbrain]

maglor for 450 years

[thesummerestsolstice]

I don't know if this is what Tolkien intended, but whenever I picture Maglor's Gap I picture it in the spring; a meadow in full bloom, with colorful flowers and gentle bumblebees. While Himring is icy for much of the year, the lower plains around it are warm and welcoming for a good few months in the spring and summer, and have much milder falls and winters.

I feel like it's important for Maglor's Gap to be not just a strategic choke point, but a genuinely beautiful piece of Beleriand that Maglor and his followers loved dearly. Somewhere they thought of as a home. Somewhere they eulogized in songs long after it was destroyed.

Maglor sings of the Gap, in the Noldolante, but the only part of it remembered there is the part where it was scorched into nothingness.

But he also told Elrond and Elros about his old home; keeping its better memories alive. Elrond, as Gil-Galad's minstrel in the Second Age, often sings songs about the wildflowers and songbirds of the Gap in Spring. Not many know that's what he's singing about, but he does, and that's enough.

[meadowlarkx]

Maglor's Gap for @maedhrosmaglorweek day 3 🌾

[outofangband]

Maglor’s Gap and the plains of Lothlann

I recently completed my world building post for the birds of the Gap and Lothlann so I wanted to make a board

x x x x x x x x

[kosmic-autokrat]

sudden flame

[gwaedhannen]

Maedhros & Maglor Week day 3: Himring and the Gap

Two more drabbles for @maedhrosmaglorweek, one for each location. Well, former location. I thought the Gap deserved a little physical remembrance, too.

One may sit astride the rocky isle, and, gazing north, nearly see where once a severed hand hung from an iron spike, reaching for the sky in surrender. The wind will tear at your skin. Let it carve its marks into your face; it is only remembering an old friend. Walk the old paths, remind them of their purpose; the stones were not smooth, once. See! Your boot fits into the grooves like thousands before. The grand hall lost its roof long ago, but the stars are beautiful now, are they not? The last tapestry hangs in pride: eight swords.

Sail a little east, and wait. The waves will rise about you, fore and aft, gentle hills into mountains, guarding, holding. Dip your hand into the sea, and it is grass. Bring it forth, to your lips. Do not mind the salt, the tears were not shed for you. Float, listen. Do you hear the riders singing, each to each? A call, an answer, a wall of thought to bind the walls of earth. There are songs of joy, yet, in the waves. Deep, dark below, ride the open skies. The currents are a flowing mane, gone like the summer.