#silm fic

[sandmoer]

The Funeral

For Maedhros

[balrogballs]

apologies @tolkiensiblingsweek i managed my time badly this week and had no hours to write anything substantial, so please accept my quick little dry brush sketch of elrond and elros. also please appreciate the grey in elros’ hair and beard. this is a house welcoming of DILFs.

anyway, my little headcanon is that elros, being ridiculously long-lived, also possessed another gift, which is that he physically ages ridiculously slowly even compared to his own children. i like to see him as like 400 here. however, his views and personality, being so long-lived and also raised not only by elves but the nostalgia-riddled Noldor amidst their retvrn project, are not as swift to change as those of the other Edain. by which i mean, late in his rule, elros is the Numenorean equivalent of ‘old man yells at sky’, muttering about outfits getting too brazen and revealing and grumbling about parliamentary democracy, a phenomenon made all the more disconcerting by how he looks younger than his own grandchildren.

[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

[camille-lachenille]

Elrond eats porridge with dry salted fish and nuts for breakfast, every single day without exception for centuries. Celebrían wonders, at the start of their marriage, and asks him why he eats this. Elrond shrugs "I don't know, it tastes comforting somehow." and they leave it at this, even if Celebrían refuses to kiss Elrond until he's brushed his teeth after breakfast because she likes her porridge full of honey and seasonal berries, like a person of refined taste. Elrond teases her for her sweet tooth, she teases him for his ungodly taste in food.

Until Celebrían has to Sail and leave everything she's ever known behind. Her uncle awaits for her at the dock, and she lets herself be coddled by her grandparents and distant relatives. Nothing feels comforting, like home. And one day, Finrod brings her to a tower far north, where one of his friends live. "She will understand you, help you." he says, and Celebríand chooses to believe him.

Elwing is sharp mannered and gentle at the same time. She doesn't treat Celebrían like she's made of glass, immediately involves her in the daily life. In the morning, Elwing makes breakfast, and places a bowl of porridge with dried fish and nuts in front of Celebrían. It tastes strange and yet comforting and, for the first time since she Sailed, Celebrían feels home. "Elrond eats his porridge just like that." she says. "He doesn't know why but it comforts him."

Elwing smiles.

[seaemberthesecond]

Another phone ficlet ✨! Enjoy 1.1k of Maedhros getting bullied by bb!aragorn and legolas! (Has Maedhros been re-embodied? Is this a Maedhros Lives AU? who knows, not me.) Loosely inspired by Cast in Stone by @balrogballs which also features delightful amounts of Maedhros getting bullied by Estel and Legolas.

-----

"What's this rubbish?" Estel held up the coin Maedhros had deposited in his palm, and instead of looking in the least thankful for his act of – considerable – generosity, the boy seemed, if anything, outraged. Repulsed, even.

"You said you needed money for the fair, didn't you?" Maedhros bit out, more peeved than he would like to admit by the lacklustre response. While beaming genuflection was, perhaps, too much to ask for, sincere gratitude was not, and this was neither.

But the little brat paid no heed to Maedhros's aggravation and waved the coin in his face. "This isn't enough, old man! Haven't you ever heard of inflation? You're not in the First Age anymore – you can't buy yourself five white stallions and a handy with the spare change for a single gold coin anymore. They'll laugh me out of the fairground if I show up with this! Is that what you want? You want them to laugh at me?!" Wailing out an indeterminate aiaiai he sank to the ground, dragging his hands down his face at the mere prospect of such indignity.

Maedhros felt his eye twitch. Never, not once in all his long, debaucherous years in Tirion, would he have dared to even think the word handy in Finwë's presence.

Elrond, he thought sourly, should have walloped this boy more. Or even just once.

Pulling another coin out of his pocket with a curse, he slammed it onto the table between them. "There! And don't you even think of asking for more!" he added when the boy opened his mouth to, no doubt, protest once again.

"Ugh! You're such a cheapskate," the boy fumed, "just my luck! To have five grandfathers and each more stingy than the next."

That wasn't quite fair, thought Maedhros, given that two of the boy's grandfathers were dead, another was a star, and one was – well Maglor was definitely a cheapskate. If asked to borrow a few pennies, Maglor was liable to hand over a conch shell from his robes and start waxing poetic about the priceless gift of Ilúvatar's music.

"You know what the problem is?" piped in his little elven friend from the corner in which he was doing a handstand so quietly Maedhros had clean forgotten he was even there. "The problem is," he continued, quite sagely for a boy whose face was turning plum-purple from all the blood rushing to his head, "that he's unemployed."

Righting himself with a tidy flip, he pranced over to Estel and draped his lanky body over the other boy's shoulder and attempted to whisper, "I mean, think about it, where's he even getting the – little – money he has from? It's not like anyone would hire him. He's probably," the Prince of Mirkwood looked around furtively, "killing people for it."

Estel looked suitably alarmed. "Atto, are you some kind of highwayman? Be honest now!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Maedhros sputtered, "Of course I'm not a highwayman."

Neither boy looked convinced. "Then where did you get these?" He held up the coins Maedhros was fast regretting forking over like a lawyer displaying damning evidence in court.

"None of your business," he snapped, moving forward to confiscate the ill-gotten plunder, "Must a man account for every coin in his purse? See if you ever get another penny from me again, boy."

But Estel only scurried out of range, clutching his booty protectively to his chest lest his wicked grandfather snatch it from him. "You must have gotten it from somewhere." he said, laughing nervously. "What – does Ada give you pin money too?"

For one brief but incriminating second, Maedhros froze before he recovered himself, scoffing, "What nonsense." But it was too late. Like a shark attracted to the chum, the boy scented his weakness in the air. Had it been any other time and any other victim, Maedhros might even have been proud of him.

"Oh my god," breathed Estel, eyes wide as saucers, "He does. Ada gives you pin money." Next to him, his horrid little friend started braying with laughter like some blonde, two-legged donkey.

Forgetting his earlier trepidation, the boy rushed towards him. "How much? D'you get more than me? That's not fair! You shouldn't get more than me!"

"Of course I get more than you," Maedhros snapped, so offended by the idea of recieving even less of an allowance than his own grandson that he forgot to deny the accusation entirely.

Luckily for him, and unluckily for Elrond, his son chose that moment to make his entrance, and rather than waste any more time bandying words about uselessly with his grandfather, Estel decided to go straight to the source.

Flinging a hand in Maedhros's direction, he demanded, "Ada, does Atto get more pin money than me?"

"Stop calling it pin money," Maedhros barked even as a bemused Elrond started hemming and hawing, "and of course I do. Yonya, tell him."

"Well..." Elrond began, eyes darting between the two of them like a deer caught between two hunters trying to decide which would be more merciful.

Slowly, Maedhros turned to face him more fully. "Elrond," he said, with as much menace as he could muster (a not inconsiderable amount, for the curious and uninitiated), "I do get more than him, don't I?"

Elrond wouldn't meet his eyes. "Oh, you know–"

Life really was just an unending series of indignities, wasn't it?

"The boy?" he exploded as Estel joined his friend in bursting into peals of hysterical laughter, slapping his thighs and pointing at Maedhros through streaming eyes, "The boy gets more than me?!"

As if being maintained by one's son was not already humiliating enough.

Having rapidly regained his equilibirum, Elrond huffed and rolled his eyes. "Oh come off it, Atto. He's young – he has sweets to get, friends to impress. You, on the other hand, buy one new cloak every ten years, what will you even do with more pin money–"

"It's not pin money–"

"And you – give me that," reaching over, he wrestled Estel's loot away from him, "Stop extorting your grandfather for money."

Maedhros held out his hand expectantly, shooting Estel a smug smirk over Elrond's head, and then stared in incredulous horror as, instead of returning his largesse, Elrond slipped it discreetly into his own pocket.

"Now, please," he continued as if nothing has happened, "don't let Maglor find out I'm giving you an allowance else he'll bleed me out of house and home and neither of you will see so much as another copper piece from me again." That said, he swept out of the room, leaving both grandfather and grandson gawping after him.

A sullen silence settled in the air, broken only by Estel scuffing his foot sulkily against the floor. "I guess that's what I get for taking from the poor," he grumbled, not looking at Maedhros.

"The house always wins," agreed Legolas wisely.