#silm fic

[sandmoer]

The Funeral

For Maedhros

[erumelde]

Thranduil and his wife Nelisteth by @mandhos

Can you see this? This art is so incredible, please check out the artist's other work! The lights in their hair, the clothing... and the colours are all so beautiful and magical. It's giving 🍃🌙✨️Enchanted Woodland Realm ✨️🌙🍃 and I love it so, so much 💕

This was made for my fanfic The Flowers of Spring which you can read here.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

An Age Long Gone again to Come

Maglor Wanders

And wanders.

And wanders.

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.)

[aylen-san]

Maglor Fëanorian.

Fan art created with AI for non-commercial purposes.

[whovianofmidgard]

Fated Ends

For Day 3 of @maedhrosmaglorweek

I was inspired to try this kind of poetry by @two-bees-poetry 's work, specifically this and this. And man oh man is it a lot harder than it looks.

Poem is also available on Ao3

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

A ficlet I kept thinking about while on vacation

566 words, T

On Ao3

“A woman seeks audience with you, lord,” says Maedhros’s new valet, bowing his head.

Maedhros has forgotten his name (it’s one of the new things he does—forgetting), but he likes his brusque, practical attitude and the awe in his eyes when he looks at Maedhros—just enough to be flattering instead of grating.

“For what reason?” Maglor asks—an echo of an unheard voice.

“She wishes to inquire about her son,” the valet says to Maedhros. “She has come from the mountains.”

“Invite her in,” Maedhros says before Maglor can speak.

His brother is standing behind his chair—a silent, disapproving presence. Ever since the word of Maedhros’s return spread across Beleriand, many have come to him, seeking news about loved ones captured by Morgoth. It has not become easier telling them that he knows nothing because he spent most of his time trying to gnaw his arm off. Yet, despite his brothers’ objections, Maedhros never turns anyone away.

The woman who enters looks old in a way no Quendi should, yet Maedhros now knows many who do. She greets them and declines Maedhros’s invitation to sit, standing before him, her hands together on her chest.

“I only wish to ask if you knew my son,” she says. “He had been taken by the Enemy just before your people returned to this land. Edolríon is his name.”

Maedhros met few other captives in Angband, yet this name he recognizes.

“Have you come to deliver me, lord?”

Maedhros remembers telling him that there would be no deliverance for either of them. Remembers looking at his reconstructed, misshapen body, closer now to the creatures of Morgoth than to an elf, and wondering if the same thing was going to happen to him. Remembers how Edolríon whispered there is still a way.

“I knew him,” Maedhros tells Edolríon’s mother. “He is dead.”

The woman sways, clenches her fists around the folds of her mantle.

“How?” she asks.

His hands around the boy’s neck. The mad, fearful beating of his pulse under Maedhros’s fingertips. His pleading eyes—the only elvish trait still left in him.

“I killed him,” Maedhros says, “with my own hands of which I still had two then. He did not suffer.”

He hears Maglor take a breath and grip the back of his chair. The woman only looks at him, her arms falling by her sides.

“Kinslayer,” she says then with no inflection. “May his blood forever stain your hands.”

She turns and walks away, her shoulders bending a little more with each step. Maedhros remains sitting with Maglor behind him. He cannot see his brother, but he knows his lips have lost color pressed against each other, knows the joints of his fingers must be aching, gripping the back of his chair so tightly.

“Say it,” he commands.

Maglor breathes out.

“You did not have to be so cruel.”

“Was I?” Maedhros asks. “What else would you have me do? I cannot spin a vile story into a tale to be admired as you do.”

Maglor does not rise to the bait.

“You could have lied,” he says, no accusing note slipping into his carefully curated tone.

His hands around the boy’s neck, shaking, drawing back. The despair in his eyes. The same eyes gazing at Maedhros later with no recognition from the face of an orc.

“I did,” he says and speaks of it no more.

[istaricelebelasse]

Anaire knew when her children died, one after the other, separated by century or decade. She knew when he husband died, the despair that came from him finally replaced by nothingness.

She did not know of her granddaughter, of her nephews and niece. Their fates were lost to her.

Only Arafinwë and Earwen, ever paler in sorrow and despair, told her of their fates. Only Nerdanel, quieter than ever she had been, was able to piece together when their lost family had faced some new horror.

Not an echo of their lamentations. Not a whisper of news for their families.

Not until a boy with Turukano’s nose and Elenwë’s eyes. Not until a girl with Olwë’s bearing. Not until two children cross the Sea bearing news and light.

Their tale hurts. It is cruel, difficult to hear, harder still for them to tell.

Anaire offers what kindness she can to her grandson. He is so young, barely more than a babe, yet speaks of having children of his own.

He left them behind. His Elwing left them behind. Anaire offers what hope she can, Maitimo ever was their first choice of babysitter. If he found the children then they will be safe.

She knows that it is bitter comfort. That were it not for her nephews, the grandchildren of her granddaughter would not have been left at all.

Arafinwë announces, to the relief of many of the Noldor left in Tirion, that they will be marching to Beleriand with the backing of the Valar and Vanyar. Earendil’s Silmaril has bought the Exiles an army.

Too late for most.

Too late for Anaire’s family.

Earwen will not go. She has been left to rule Tirion, to care for Findarato newly released from the Halls and so terribly fragile.

Nerdanel will not go. She fears to see what her sons have become. She fears that her face, so similar to that of her children, will spark distrust among those hurt by her sons.

Anaire does not speak of her choice at first. She returns to the home she has barely entered in centuries. Enters the chamber she had shared with her husband, and looks in the chest at the foot of their bed.

A sword lay within. Wrapped in linen, embellished with a star.

How she had hated it when Nolofinwe had brought it home! How she had despised the very thing! It had been pressed against his throat, been used to threaten his very life, and he had brought it into their bedchamber.

The last sword on the shores of Valinor forged by Fëanaro.

Anaire took it up, admired the gleam of the blade in the pale moonlight, and made her choice.

She would sail to Beleriand with the army. She would avenge her children and husband.

Findarato and Earendil had both spoken of Nolofinwe injuring Morgoth. Seven blows they said the songs spoke of.

With that hated sword in hand, she was sure she could do eight.

[tolkienseaweek]

welcome to tolkien sea week 2026 🦢

have you ever noticed how many of tolkiens characters are connected to the sea? or that quite a few water-related events take place throughout the ages? have you ever wanted to explore elven sea-longing or the vast mystery of what goes on underneath the waves in your work? do you love characters like ulmo, elwing, maglor and tuor? then come join tolkien sea week! a week for celebrating the repeated water and sea motifs in tolkiens work 🌊

written prompts, rules, and faq below ༄.°

prompts ⋆˙⟡

➛ day one: yearning, unrest, wandering

➛ day two: sailing, new beginnings, love

➛ day three: lurking, danger, fear

➛ day four: melancholy, nolstalgia, past life

➛ day five: tranquility, comfort, family

➛ day six: insanity, mortality, endings

➛ day seven: escape, avoidance, freedom

rules ⋆˙⟡

𖥔 you can use any of the three words listed in the prompts for each day to inspire you to create something related to the sea within tolkien’s legendarium.

𖥔 when posting, tag @tolkienseaweek and use the hashtag #tolkienseaweek so we don’t miss your work! if you don’t do this, there is a pretty slim chance that your work will be seen by the moderators.

𖥔 you can create any kind of work you like! fanfic, art, moodboard, headcanons, gifsets, poems, anything you want.

𖥔 if you are posting your work on ao3, please add it to the collection that is linked HERE and in the bio.

𖥔 please give your work a title so we are able to list all the works at the end of the event in a masterlist. if you don’t, it will be called something like “day four” or “day seven”.

𖥔 you may post nsfw works, but please tag them accordingly. the same goes for extremely triggering topics, since this event can have heavier/angstier elements.

𖥔 absolutely no works using generative AI. if it is evident that gen AI was used in the creation of your work, it will not be reblogged onto the event account or endorsed by event runners.

𖥔 late submissions are accepted, both during the event and after the event ends! we will check the event tag for about a week after the event ends once a day, and past that you must tag either @tolkienseaweek or @silme-lorien if you want your work reblogged and added to the masterlist.

questions? check here ⋆˙⟡

what constitutes a character or event being connected to water?

if the character or event you are creating a work around has a main plot point that involves the sea, a river, a lake, or any body of water of that nature, it counts. we do ask that your work actually depicts the characters connection to the water (ie, because niënor throws herself into the sea, she counts. but writing a fic about her searching for túrin would not count unless you can incorporate the sea into that). if you have more specific questions, send an ask!

do my works have to be in-universe?

not at all! i don’t want to limit your creativity. but please, if you are going to create a work in an alternate universe, ensure that the character or event you are depicting maintains it’s connection to the water. it must be involved in your work in some way.

are original characters allowed?

sure! as long as you can connect them to tolkiens works and the sea, go ahead.

is it okay if i can’t do all the days?

of course! you can participate in one or all the days. whatever inspires you!

⋆ if you have a question and it was not answered here or you need more clarification, you can send an ask to the event blog’s inbox or @silme-lorien

we look forward to seeing your contributions ! see you in february, and keep an eye out for updates… 🌊 🦢