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Maedhros and Maglor Week 2024
Stats:
Published:
2024-02-24
Completed:
2024-02-24
Words:
1,022
Chapters:
5/5
Comments:
26
Kudos:
21
Bookmarks:
2
Hits:
180

Those Who Earnestly Are Lost

Summary:

Collected short works from Maedhros and Maglor Week 2024.

Notes:

For those who dance, begin to dance
Those who weep, begin
Those who earnestly are lost
Are lost, and lost begin

 

Mostly drabbles here, plus one dialogue-only work, and one shorter work that I didn't want to drag out into a true drabble. The works I posted on Tumblr for days 4 and 6 are WIPs of larger works and will be posted separately when they're done. Assuming they're ever done.

Chapter 1: Day 1: Treelight

Summary:

The Silmarils find their places, and Maedhros and Maglor let go.

Notes:

Two perfect drabbles for day 1. Warning for canonical suicide and mild gore for the first.

I have no fucking idea what's up with the second. Believe me I'm just as confused as y'all are.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The crevice before him releases scalding air into his face. He can almost feel his hair burning, his skin blistering, as if that pain means aught anymore. Only one fire matters now.

His fist clenches around the stone as tight as it can until the searing agony chars bones and melts nerves and snaps muscles and he has no choice but to release—

And only then, as the Silmaril drifts on the thermals to settle into its new home, does he realize he cannot live without its Light.

To step forward into nothing is the easiest choice of his life.

He turns away as soon as the throw is made, never sees its arc (absolutely picturesque, immaculate form, precisely 30 degrees above the lateral from exactly seven feet above sea level, launched at 50 miles per hour, traveling 156 feet horizontally before it strikes the waves moving at 76.33 feet per second, well done, well done indeed by the second son of Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, the rotting sack of self-loathing cowardly murdering kidnapping love-stealing scum who doesn’t even have the decency to die poetically, and that’s a nine, a nine, an eight, and a three from the Angbandian judge).

Notes:

If the math is wrong blame the projectile motion calculator I used. It's been too long since high school physics and I remember nothing about kinematics.

Chapter 2: Day 2: Trust and Distrust

Summary:

The Mithrim are undecided on what to do with those who escape from Angband. Maglor must choose what wisdom to follow, as tensions begin to rise.

Notes:

Double drabble. Warning for discussion of canon-typical treatment of escaped thralls.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

One alchemist, mixing a warming draught, says: “You can tell by the eyes. Look closely, when they wake. If the eyes are dead, then so is the rest.”

One weaver, dying yarn the yellow of Arien’s hair, says: “Their memories give it away. They cannot recall details, will mix names, will refuse to describe their torment.”

One fisher, returning from the lake empty-handed, says: “They cannot last long without revealing themselves. If they haven’t tried to gut or strangle anyone within a sennight, they are safe.”

One chieftain, scowling over a map of the Noldor’s encampments, says: “They are already gone. You cannot see it, you cannot prove it, you can only wait until the knife is in your ribs and the gates are unbarred. You do not make such a mistake a second time. None return from Angband.”

 

So the Mithrim say. So here Maglor waits, blade in hand. He will allow none other to hold this vigil, has bartered knowledge from Artanis of the songs of wakefulness improvised on the Ice in exchange for his best harp and three apologies. It is an easy task for the regent-king. After all, he has already condemned Maitimo to death once.

Notes:

"Refusing to talk about your torment is a sure sign you've been replaced with a replicant" uh are you sure they're not just traumatized.

That might be the same harp Galadriel uses in Fellowship. It's good craftsmanship and only stained with one kinslaying's worth of blood; she's not gonna throw it out.

The fisher is very confidant and very wrong.
The chieftain is very confidant and very wrong.

Chapter 3: Day 3: Himring and the Gap

Summary:

What remains, ages later.

Notes:

Two single drabbles. I thought the Gap deserved a little physical remembrance, too.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

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.

Notes:

There's like a half dozen allusions here (some far less subtle than others). Points for any correct guesses.

I was very tempted to change "it is grass" to "touch grass".

Chapter 4: Day 5: New Horizons

Summary:

Together again, at long last.

Notes:

Dialogue-only work.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Nelyo, you look—you look well.”

“And you look like shit.”

“Well excuse you, is that how a disciple of Lady Mercy should address their long-lost brother? But yes, perhaps I should have bathed since arriving.”

“This disciple of Lady Mercy just so happens to be on leave, and may say whatever he wishes to his over-delayed brother. Who needs a bath.”

“As if you would smell any better after a moon at sea, with an elderly halfling and your half-wild husband for company.”

“Oh, husband? My congratulations. And condolences. Have you told your wife yet?”

“I will burn that boat when I get there.”

“...Pray, do not tell me that has become a turn of phrase in Middle-earth.”

“It has not! It is my own invention, composed along with many other twists of language that would make father blush, alone, at the seaside. By myself. Alone. Brotherless. Did I mention alone?”

“Kano…”

“Ah! No, no, do not cry! You are on leave, no sorrow allowed! Aye, you left me, when I had chosen to follow you, to whatever end. And that hurt! Not as much as the Silmaril, but it hurt!”

“I…I have envied you, after a fashion. That you were strong enough to walk away where I could not.”

“I thought it cowardice, at the time, that I could not have the strength to follow, to give myself up to Judgement.”

“And I thought it cowardice, that I chose death instead of life, that I fled from you who had given so much for me.”

“…”

“…”

“Heh…”

“Heeheehee…”

“Ahahahahahaa! Look at us! A pair of sorry old cowards! Well! I have not survived three ages of the world by running away from all troubles; and you, dear brother, are bold yet in ways I cannot fathom, to be willing to face the crimes of our house and those whom we wronged greatly. Which I suppose I must now get around to doing. Do you think I should apologize starting from the first crime or the latest?”

“I think you should start with a fucking bath.”

Notes:

On the one hand, Maglor is a very stinky boy, but on the other hand (which Maedhros does not have), smelling like the ocean might ingratiate him to Olwë and Eärendil.

I have absolutely no idea what Daeron and Maglor's wife are going to think of each other.

Chapter 5: Day 7: Storytelling

Summary:

The myths we tell ourselves.

Notes:

Who's the narrator? What are they even talking about? Good question.

Chapter Text

“What a sad tale, of the eldest sons of Fëanor. One tortured soul, half-broken by defeats, conquered only by himself. One tortured soul, finding kindness too late to undo the harm he caused, finding regret but not enough to refuse to cause more. It’s a good story, isn’t it? Makes you feel something. A little pity, a little anger, more than a little yearning for more. A good story. Almost good enough to be true.”