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Maglor - Blog Posts
i reread the commentary on Finrod Athrabeth and Andreth a while ago and I just “ Elves could die, and did die, by their will; as for example because of great grief or bereavement, or because of the frustration of their dominant desires and purposes.”
I see… so that’s why Feanor let Maglor go to music school lmao.
Currently thinking about a Maglor Requiem: the kyrie is a seven-voice fugue
Noldolantë, “Fall of the Noldor”.
Maglor plays the harp on the shores of Middle-earth, singing laments of regret, until his fingers bleed. Even then, he doesn’t stop playing, for all the blood his fingers shed can never compare to that which he had spilled over the ages.
Okay, so I've also gotten results from my Insta followers, and I'm gonna do a final poll to let y'all decide!
I want to write a Silmarillion fic. I love romance stories so it will be centered around a Silm elf and an OC! Comment which elf you think I should write about.
Just to be clear, the elves in question include the Fëanorians, Nolofinwëans, Arafinwëans, Lords of Gondolin, Lords of Doriath, and elves from Imladris.
For whichever category you voted for, please comment and specify which elf you would like me to write for. Feel free to elaborate in the comments what kind of story, like the elements you’d like me to include, I should write!
Thanks a lot, everyone!
I want to write a Silmarillion fic. I love romance stories so it will be centered around a Silm elf and an OC! Comment which elf you think I should write about.
Late submission for @maedhrosmaglorweek Day 7 - Storytelling
I think Maglor sang or read the twins to sleep almost every night when they were little (or simply told them stories of Valinor and whatever else came to mind because I assume they didn't actually have that many books lying around by that point in time, let alone ones suitable for children). And if Maglor asked Maedhros to "help" every now and then, it totally wasn't because he hoped it would entice his brother (who hasn't slept in a week) to rest as well. Maglor would never resort to such tactics.
Alt version below the cut because I couldn't decide on a color scheme and I had everything on separate layers anyways, so:
Maglor's duel with Ulfang the traitor. This episode is so interesting to me bc we don't often see Maglor taking initiative and doing something on his own. He acts very much as one of Maedhros' follower, but I think that this moment and his mercy for elrond and elros are the two defining actions that shape his character in my head.
Maedhros and Maglor Week Day 1: Treelight
Treelight.
It spills from the box in a glorious familiar mingling of silver and gold when Maedhros opens the lid, and Maglor is captivated despite himself. This is what they have paid so dearly for, these last precious scraps of light that their father preserved and even though he has for a long time now not thought them worth the cost of their souls, he still not cannot look away.
For a moment Maglor is caught up in the memory of standing beneath the shining, flowering canopies with Maedhros, bathed in light and song. He is breathing in the sweetly scented air of his childhood, home again after so terribly long. For one perfect moment everything is right, the Trees are above him and his brother is beside him. Maedhros looks up, awash in gold light that sets his hair glowing like fire, and a strange horrible foreboding grips his heart.
There is no going back.
The Trees are gone and with them the innocence they once had.
In his heart Maglor knows it.
He blinks, sight clearing the memory away and his vision fills with Maedhros’s face as it is now: brittle, drawn with sorrow, and weary with the burden of the Oath.
His brother does not look at him, focused on the jewels that have been their goal for so long. Maedhros will not to let anything, not even him, turn him from them now that he is so close.
The light that surrounds them is forgiving, untouched and pure inside the jeweled containment it shines through, but even as Maglor’s hand draws near he knows that what now surrounds the light is not so kind.
His eyes are already filling with tears, the light of the moon turning them to silver on his pale cheeks.
A moment before his fingertips brush the glittering jewel, he hears Maedhros scream.
@maedhrosmaglorweek
Character design of Maglor
For Maglor, I wanted to make a design that was a clear break away from his siblings. This is a significantly more elaborate, flower-vase design with themes centred around the ocean (self-explanatory lmao). The colour design inspiration is taken from Greensleeves, which coincidentally mentions a “heart of gold” in its lyrics - I also wanted a design that was elaborate down the centre of the torso to highlight the strength of his voice.
The other significant change worth mentioning is that while the others had a “3-motif,” the elements in Maglor’s design come in pairs. This change was made with regards with his and Maedhros’s last stand to reclaim the two remaining silmarils.
The instrument is a modified pipa with the head redesigned to a crane, referencing his fate to outlive his entire family.
Individual design posts Fëanor | Nerdanel Ambarussa | Curufin | Caranthir | Celegorm | Maglor | Maedhros
The seven sons of Fëanor were Maedhros the tall; Maglor the mighty singer, whose voice was heard far over land and sea; Celegorm the fair, and Caranthir the dark; Curufin the crafty, who inherited most his father’s skill of hand; and the youngest Amrod and Amras, who were twin brothers, alike in mood and face.
Feanorian Week - Day 2: Maglor
Maglor moodboard
The Silmarillion characters: (18/?)
Characters’ moodboards: (178/?)
'old bright songs of their childhood' - aka Maedhros and Maglor (Tiny Edition)
Inspired by a little moment in @thelordofgifs' the fairest stars where Maglor sings childhood songs to Maedhros and Maedhros believes himself to be back in Valinor for a moment.
@tolkiengenweek - another one for 'family' since their relationship is one of my favorite sibling relationships in Tolkien's legendarium 💗
Bonus sparkly 'Song' version that I wasn't really sure about under the cut:
B2MEM - "Hope"
@spring-into-arda (301 words; a continuation of my earlier AU where Finarfin arrives in Beleriand to find nothing but ruins)
There was someone outside the camp.
Finarfin should mention this to someone, probably, but he couldn’t prove it; there was no movement in the endless fields of high, stinging grass, no rustle in the dead limbs of the trees. No noise. No perceptible hint.
But there was an itch at the back of his mind that insisted someone was here.
Madness, probably. A manifestation of desperate hope after weeks of marching through Beleriand and finding nothing, nothing, nothing. Failing that, surely it was the Enemy, at last showing himself.
Surely.
But the itch at the back of his mind felt . . . not like the hunts he had never particularly enjoyed, but that he had gone on for his children’s sakes. It felt like the games they had played when they were small, and he would walk into his office and know they were there even before he had spotted a tiny foot peeking out from behind his desk.
The madness of hope.
Even if Artanis was still alive, was still free, surely she would approach the hosts her father was leading openly, not creep around the edges of his camp like a thief.
He shot one last look at the dead emptiness of the woods before nodding to the guards and letting himself back into the command tent.
The flap fell behind him. The itch intensified.
He turned.
A gaunt figure was sitting at his desk. There was barely an ounce of flesh left on the figure waiting, in dead stillness, in the chair; just bruised and bloodied skin stretched across knife sharp bone.
The only hint of life was in the eyes: dark and haunted with more horror than Arafinwe could even now imagine, but still burning with a hint of dread fire.
“Hello, uncle,” rasped Makalaure. “I’ve come to bargain.”
B2MEM - "I will not bid the stars farewell, nor say the day is done."
@spring-into-arda (397 words)
There was a point where hoping that things might yet get better - or that at the very least they might endure as they currently were - was not, perhaps, sensible.
With the protections of the Valley breached and the enemy even now pounding at the last barricaded door to his halls, Elrond had to admit that this point might have been reached.
It was an almost unimportant thought, however. For one thing, it changed nothing; this was not an enemy they could surrender to. They would defeat it, or they would be destroyed; there was no other path to seek.
For another, he had spent an uncomfortable amount of his life at this point. Most of his childhood, certainly. And yet, time and again, the light had endured.
The light, he was certain, would again. If he himself would - Well, that mattered far less than those of his people gathered here with grim purpose behind the shuddering door. This hall had been meant for songs and feasting, but he was a child of the First Age and had built accordingly; it would hold a siege a while yet.
Most of those who had won to this redoubt were armed and ready, but there were injured among them, and he moved among those quickly now, giving what chance he could that they might stand ready when the time came.
His ring weighed heavily on his hand.
He had not leaned on it much. He had not dared. And now -
Now he must make his choice. Throw his will and his might into its blatant use - reveal beyond all doubts its presence, throw his will against Sauron’s - or take one last desperate measure to hide it, that at least those others who might still be fighting might have a better chance.
Both measures were likely doomed unless help came.
There was no help that might yet come.
And yet -
And yet.
How many times had he thought those words before?
The door shuddered.
Cracked.
He squeezed the hand of his last patient and stood, drawing his sword at long last.
“We stand!” he cried, the full power of his will weaving through the words.
“We stand!” his people echoed in a response that shook the timbers of the roof.
Splinters flew from the door.
Above the thunderous roars that followed, he could just hear one more impossibly powerful, impossibly familiar voice, ringing out in distant answer.
Back to Middle Earth Month - "Shoot"
@spring-into-arda
Amrod and Amras had been the acknowledged experts with the longbow among his brothers. They had offered to teach Maglor more than once, but his interest had been minimal. He had learned enough to be proficient in hunting, but he had never been a lauded marksman. War had not changed that; he had always preferred other weapons.
Proficiency did not seem enough now.
“Come on,” the orc captain jeered. “Let’s have our game! No backin’ out now.”
One bow, warped from ill keeping.
One arrow.
Not enough to fight his way out of the horde circling around him, baying for blood.
One target, farther than he liked from where he stood, foot chained to a stake thrust in the ground.
One target.
One small form chained to it, a withered fruit ever so slightly trembling on his head.
Help was -
Not here. Not coming in the next few seconds.
He did not deserve for it to come. It would be pure justice to leave him to this. But Elrond -
The blood calls were growing impatient.
He raised the bow.
He had been warned, very clearly, the cost for not playing this game.
They had muzzled him like a rabid dog. He wished they hadn’t; wished he could call to Elrond some last desperate word, wished he could sing the arrow straight, wished he could sing his way clear -
Elrond stood as still as he could. Almost perfectly steady.
It had to hit the rotting fruit. To miss entirely would bring down the orcs’ torment; to hit him -
The night was dark; the Enemy’s smoke was thick on the air.
Only the light of a single star broke through.
He drew back the string.
And let the arrow fly.