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polutrope · 11 months

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maglor, daeron, and 11! (romantic or platonic)

Hey, I finally managed to write some humour-fluff with one of these prompts!

Post-canon Aman, Daeron/Maglor featuring Fëanor, with a special guest appearance by Nerdanel. 2.7k words (!!). Rated T. On AO3.

For the prompt "because he is the son of his father".

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To Canafinwë Macalaurë (Maglor), esteemed colleague, from Daeron, chief minstrel of the Eldar and loremaster of Alqualondë, greetings.

Let me begin by expressing my regret that I have not attempted to reach you sooner. My time has been so full since coming to the Blessed Realm, you would not believe! There is simply so much to discover here, so many extraordinary people to meet, so much to learn. But I have been primarily occupied with gathering the lore and wisdom of my people—I still cannot comprehend how the Teleri of Aman kept no written records for five ages.

I have recently returned from a journey to the Telerin fisher villages along the northern coast where some of the more reclusive of my folk reside, and it brought you to mind. Have you been? I think you would like it. Though perhaps you are quite sick of the sea, I do not know.

In any event, I would say that we two are long overdue for a visit. Do not worry—I will come to you. I have been meaning to make the journey to the country around Formenos and this is an excellent excuse. So, it is likely that I will already be on my way (on foot, as usual) by the time you receive this letter, but I thought it would be rude to show up unannounced. I do not wish to intrude on the privacy of your family, especially at this time.

I will be staying at the inn in the village and will send a messenger when I’ve arrived. I look forward to seeing you there.

For the third time that afternoon, Maglor flipped the parchment face down and dragged a thumb along his jawline.

“What is so strange about it?” asked Nerdanel. “You have a great deal in common. Minstrelsy. Arrogance. Legendary self-pity.”

Maglor glared. Without averting her gaze from the vase taking shape on her pottery wheel, Nerdanel smiled smugly. Then, twisting up her features, she asked, “But what did he mean by that bit about ‘especially at this time’?”

“I assume he means Father’s return.”

It had been over a year since Námo had dismissed Fëanor without the slightest fanfare or warning, not even to his family; but it had been done so quietly that others were only beginning to hear of it. Fëanor, who was greatly enjoying being alive again and did not wish to have any drama spoil it, was keeping his existence as private as possible.

Nerdanel bit her lower lip. “I suppose that’s considerate of him.” She sighed. “I am surprised you have not corresponded at all before this. How long since he sailed to Aman?”

“I have no idea,” said Maglor, throwing up his hands. As a matter of fact, it had been one hundred forty-five years and seven months that Maglor had held off on being the first to reach out, but he did not tell his mother this.

“You were acquainted in Beleriand, were you not?”

“Yes,” Maglor hissed impatiently. “We met, once.”

“Only once? Endor is large but I would think in several millennia of wandering you might have run into each other, no?”

Maglor glared, again. ”No. Only once.” Nerdanel gave him that gentle but withering glance every mother everywhere gives when she knows her child is lying to her. “All right,” he admitted. “Yes, we crossed paths a handful of times.”

“I see,” said Nerdanel. “You slept with him.”

“What!” Maglor slammed the desk and whipped his neck round to face her.

“Please, Lauro, you may be thousands of years older than you were when I first learned to recognise the meaning of that blush on the tips of your ears, but it is as obvious as ever.” She flicked her eyes at him again. “You really ought to grow out your hair again. You have such nice hair. Well, did you last part with Daeron on good terms?”

Maglor bit down on the flesh of his cheek. Sneaking off before sunrise was impolite, certainly, but it could have been worse. It also could have been better.

“Neutral terms,” Maglor answered, and sighed. What was the use of discussing it? He could not very well refuse an invitation from the minstrel of the Eldar and loremaster of Alqualondë, and Daeron’s tone made it clear that he knew as much.

It was Maglor’s suggestion that they meet in the morning. To have it over and done with, but also because he was less likely to make a regrettable decision by the light of day.

After glancing longingly over the list of the sparkling wines, Maglor settled on black tea. Daeron ordered the same, and a tray of scones.

“How long until you are allowed back in Eldamar?” asked Daeron, marking the end of meaningless pleasantries and the beginning of awkward unpleasantries.

“What?” said Maglor. Tea sploshed from the spout of the teapot as he set it down. “I am not banned from Eldamar. It is my choice to live here.”

“Oh, my mistake. I suppose I assumed since you made the decision to sail here that you yourself deemed the term of your exile ended.”

Maglor huffed. “I live here because I like living here. Besides, I didn’t—” he started to say. “Never mind.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I chose to sail.”

“So she did find you!” Daeron laughed that bright, musical laugh that had never left Maglor’s memories. It sent a rush of warmth through him, momentarily distracting him from the realisation that—

“Wait. You told her where to find me?”

Daeron winked. “I figured if anyone could force you to board a ship West it was Galadriel. She was right, you know. It’s not really up to us to decide how we ought to atone for our mistakes, is it? Anyway, what was the judgement of the Valar?”

“That my self-imposed exile was more than sufficient punishment and I am forgiven.”

“Hah!” Daeron clapped his hands. “She must have hated that!”

“She did,” Maglor said. “And she hated the subsequent release of the rest of my family even more. She’s convinced that was my doing, and she is not alone.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the rumour. That you sang before Mandos. I never believed it. Not even you could sing a song like that.” At the allusion to Lúthien, Daeron’s eyes clouded like one who is far-off, walking in wistful memories. To Maglor’s surprise and embarrassment, he felt a prickle of jealousy.

“Yes,” said Maglor, “and that is another reason I don’t visit Tirion—let alone the other cities of Eldamar. People do not like me there.”

“The Valar do seem more willing to forgive than our own kind, don’t they? Your father for example! That was a surprise!”

“Mm, yes.” Maglor brushed a few crumbs of scone from the tabletop.

“How is he?” asked Daeron.

“What?”

“The great Curufinwë Fëanaro. How is he since his re-embodiment?”

Exuberant, thought Maglor. Delighting in life, more brilliant than he ever was, inspired, and positively overflowing with the most eloquent and heartfelt apologies.

“He is well.”

“Really? Wonderful news. Will he return to Tirion, do you think?”

“I do not think so, no.” (What Fëanor actually said was, “Oh no! Not this time. This time I am staying well away from it all! With all due respect to our noble kindred, I have no interest in getting myself entangled in that marble-domed, gem-encrusted pit of vipers.”)

“A shame,” said Daeron. “Though I can understand the impulse. It must all be a bit tedious for a brilliant mind like his. I find it a bit tedious myself, but well. My talents were needed in Alqualondë. And then the High Kings approached me about my newest position, and I am sure you of all people understand that one does not simply refuse an invitation to become the official minstrel of the Eldar.”

“No,” said Maglor, swirling his tepid cup of tea. “No, that is not a title someone simply refuses.”

“In any case, I was wondering— Well, I’ve become familiar with his works since coming here— It is difficult not to when half the library of Tirion consists of his works and those building upon them— What a relief none of it was destroyed! It is fortunate that the Noldor value lore and wisdom as highly as they do— I think I would have made a good Noldo, you know— Funny, you would have made a good Teler—”

“Daeron,” Maglor interrupted. “What are you getting at?”

“Sorry.” Daeron knit his excitedly fluttering hands on the table in front of him, then looked into Maglor’s eyes. “I’d like to meet him. Your father.”

The first elf Maglor had courted had been a gorgeous, silver-haired Teler. In addition to being one of the most talented flautists in Alqualondë, Halorniel was charismatic, clever, and had an excellent sense of humour. It was with great pride that he had brought her to dinner with his family for the first time.

It was with burning envy that he had watched her held thrall by his perfect, brilliant, and captivating father through the entire evening. Halorniel was the first, but not the last; just as Maglor was the first, but not the only of his brothers to suffer this indignity.

Maglor had all but forgotten about this consequence of being a son of Fëanor when Fëanor himself was alive and available for comparison. Until Daeron had expressed his enthusiasm to meet Fëanor.

Maglor also realised that, despite setting the early morning date, he had held out hope of reigniting something with Daeron. How foolish, to imagine the loremaster of Alqualondë and chief minstrel of the Eldar had had any interest in him, the Noldor's notorious hermit-bard.

Not even an intellectual or artistic interest, it seemed. Maglor was not sure that Daeron or Fëanor had noticed when he rose and left them together in the sitting room several hours ago, having been left out of the conversation for at least a half-hour before that.

He had spent some time walking in the gardens, and accepted Maedhros’ invitation to help with pruning the grape vines to distract himself. But, incapable of focusing of the task, he kept cutting back too far, and had been somewhat brusquely dismissed. So he found himself back at the house and listening outside the window to the excited exchange of ideas between his father and Daeron.

“It is extraordinary,” said Daeron, “I could find no commonalities, no relation to any other linguistic grouping in Arda. It is almost as though the whole people came from outside.” Daeron laughed. “Which is of course impossible.”

“You think so?” said Fëanor. “I am not so convinced that Arda is the only place in Eä with speaking peoples.”

“What do you mean?” said Daeron, a charming tone of wonder in his voice.

Maglor could practically hear his father’s self-satisfied smile. “I have created an instrument that can allow one to see across great distances in the heavens—well, my grandson invented it, but I have improved upon it—and I have discovered that there are other bodies like to Arda throughout Eä.” He lowered his tone conspiratorially. “I have not told anyone besides Telperinquar, lest the rest of the family think I have gone mad, but I do not believe the Quendi and Atani are the only Children of Ilúvatar. I believe there are many—dozens! hundreds!—of other peoples, with their own cultures and traditions and languages.”

Daeron gasped. “Do you think they know of us?”

“Perhaps,” said Fëanor. “Perhaps. I intend to find out. I am devising a language based on the principles of music, since music is after all the language of Creation and underlies all things, that could be reduced to simple waves of sound capable of travelling across the vast distances required to— Say! You might be just the person to help me!”

Maglor punched the side of the house. They both fell silent.

“Did you hear that?” asked Daeron.

“Yes.” Fëanor paused a moment. “Probably nothing. But what do you think? I know you must be terribly occupied with your various roles, but your expertise would be invaluable.”

Maglor did not hear Daeron’s answer, for he was trudging through the garden, away from the house, with his fists clenched at his sides. When he reached the river, he kicked the bank and let out a petulant cry of frustration.

“So I am going to stay in Formenos!” said Daeron, beaming. “To help your father with a project.”

Maglor grunted and did not look up from his book. “That’s nice.”

“You are not pleased.”

“Very clever observation,” said Maglor, and flipped a page.

Daeron sat down on the bench beside him, his hands folded over his knees. “Hm. Have I offended you?”

This got Maglor to look up. He shut the book. “Yes, actually. You have.”

“How?” Daeron’s thick silver-grey brows beetled over his deep-set black eyes and sharp nose. His pink lips gathered in a little pout.

“You are arrogant, presumptuous, and a shameless abuser of friendship.”

“Abuser of friendship?” asked Daeron. His laughter was disarmingly nervous. “I admit I can be the first two, but what friendship have I abused?”

“Ours!” Maglor cried, and came close to hitting him on the head with his book. “You used me to befriend my father, and now you are—” Maglor gestured helplessly. What? Claiming his father’s attention? Taking Maglor’s place? That sounded absurd, when he actually considered it. “I know what your project is. I heard you. You are going to help him devise a language. A language of music. Hah! It is as if he has forgotten—” Maglor broke off, suddenly aware of the tremor in his voice.

“What!” Daeron seemed genuinely taken aback. “You clearly did not hear all. I told your father you would be better for the task. He’s afraid to ask for your help. He does not think you have forgiven him.”

Maglor felt as if he’d been struck in the chest with a hammer. “Oh.”

“Have you?” asked Daeron.

“What?”

“Forgiven him?"

There was a long pause. Maglor rested his chin in his palm and considered. He had. Or he had thought he had, a long time ago, when it was just him and his musings and the sea, and forgiveness seemed easy. But he’d never expected Fëanor to live again. He’d never expected to see him again, thriving and well. He resented him for it. He resented all of his family, he realised, for the healing he’d never received. The healing of which he’d deprived himself.

“No,” he said at last. “I haven’t.”

“There, you see,” said Daeron, and he took Maglor’s hand. Maglor’s fingers naturally fell into place between his. “I see how it looks that way. That I abused our friendship, as you say. I think I actually used your father’s re-embodiment as an excuse to finally write to you, and to pretend it wasn’t because of you. For that I have deserved your accusation of arrogance—or pride, at least. I did want to meet him, and I am glad I have, but…” Daeron sighed. “I know how it is. To have had no rest. Our situations are obviously different, so I won’t presume,” he looked at Maglor and a smile played at the corners of his lips, “I won’t presume to know what it is like for you, but I think it is much harder to start over when you’ve just kept on living and living without pause. I hoped that coming here would help you. That’s why I told Galadriel where to find you. But I suppose—well, I know now—that it’s not simply a matter of being whisked away on the Straight Road and having all your pain trail behind—mmph!”

The end of Daeron’s sentence was trapped in his throat, for Maglor had grabbed his face in both hands and planted a kiss firmly over his mouth. The utterance of surprise turned to a honeyed whimper of delight as Daeron graciously received the kiss.

Maglor pulled back, smiling. “I’m glad you’re staying." He patted Daeron's pinkened cheek. "Though you may find my father no longer requires your assistance.”

Daeron shrugged. “I think I’ll stay awhile anyway, if that’s all right with you.”

“I’ll allow it,” said Maglor, and kissed him again.

On AO3

I should mention the idea of the 'Telerin fisher villages' comes from this beloved Fingon/Maglor fic by mangacrack.

#maglor #daeron #feanor #daeron x maglor #daemags #prompts #silm phrase prompts #my fic

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i-did-not-mean-to · 10 months

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Beat the Heat

For my first entry, I'd like to thank @searchingforserendipity25 for the amazing DaeMags Prompt.

Not included, Faeron the demon-spawn lol

Words: 710

Characters: Daeron x Maglor

Prompt: Beat the Heat

Warnings: Nudity, sexual innuendo

Daeron stared at his unexpected visitor in disbelief.

"How do you even bear this heat?" Maglor groaned, wiping a ridiculously ornate handkerchief across his fair brow.

Cocking his head, Daeron smirked at the sight of the heavy robes and the beautiful but entirely impractical layers covering and restraining that glorious body he so adored.

The mighty singer, if one was to ask him, was disarmingly cute when he was whining, especially when his grievances were as frivolous and easily remedied as his present gripe.

Even beneath the canopy of the dense trees of his native forest, the sweltering summer heat could not be outrun or avoided, but Daeron was comparatively unfazed by circumstances he was so deeply familiar with.

"Well," he smiled as he pulled his own light tunic over his head resolutely, "I can show you what we usually do when it gets too hot to breathe."

The unconvinced expression on the distinctly Ñoldorin face only stoked the fire of his own enthusiasm, putting even the blazing sun overhead to shame with its intensity.

Maglor’s brows knit in confusion before his eyes lit up with undisguised curiosity.

"That's what you get for wanting to parade around like the little prince you are," Daeron laughed provocatively and discarded his worn leggings as well before padding cautiously towards the edge of the lazy river noiselessly. “The Blessed Realm must be quite a place if everyone dresses up like that with no regard for their physical comfort and safety.”

"I don't..." Looking down at his brother's handiwork, Maglor bit back the rest of his useless protestation. "I am sorry if I've left my more casual wear in my drawer when I set out for a potentially lethal quest."

Chuckling melodiously to himself, Daeron merely shook his head in quiet amusement.

Despite their consistent squabbling and impassionate fights, he liked Maglor and felt oddly honoured to be allowed to see behind the façade of the ever-stolid, hardened warrior and prince Fëanor’s second son generally presented to the people within the Girdle.

"Come here, Prince of Princes," he invited, extending a broad, tanned hand trustingly. "Lay off the burden of your station and your name, and join me in the purifying waters of the ever-young waters blessed by Ulmo himself."

"Bathing?" Maglor scoffed. He had expected a secret ritual involving rare, undiscovered plants and maybe even a few incantations as Daeron seemed so much closer and more intimately bonded to the fertile earth he lived and thrived upon.

The idea that his best remedy to the oppressive, asphyxiating heat was to simply throw himself into the cool river was almost disappointing.

At the very instant that thought crossed his mind and made his brow furrow in dismay, his gaze fell on the mesmerising skin—dappled by specks of sunlight filtering through the trees—of his host and all his misgivings subsided instantly.

“I wonder what they’ve taught you in that tree-lit paradise of yours,” Daeron commented sharply as he floated on his back on a clement current, “if you don’t even know that these garments—beautiful as they might be—are hardly appropriate for a summer day over here.”

A thousand replies came to Maglor’s outraged and rather vexed mind—they had not known and, moreover, had had no reason to even think about the meteorological conditions of a far-away world—but as he saw the peaceful expression on Daeron’s face, his desire to shed the stifling layers of heavy brocade took precedence over his irrepressible need to defend his honour.

“Go ahead,” Daeron grinned, getting to his feet again, “you may call me an ignorant savage now, but, tell me dearest Kanafinwë, is this not better?”

Maglor swallowed heavily. Rivulets of pure, cold water ran down the mesmerizingly broad expanse of Daeron’s chest and his wide stance let the young prince divine every curve and dip of his body through the shimmering, translucent veil of the river.

For some unfathomable reason, this hint and promise of nudity was more titillating and entrancing to him than the sight of Daeron’s bare flesh, stretched out on a carpet of soft grass.

“It’s…perfect. And so are you,” Maglor admitted and dove through the blessedly cool floods to embrace this paragon of ancient magic and sublime comfort.

@fellowshipofthefics Here's my submission for the first week of the July Summer Fics.

Lots of love from me!

#og post #fotfics july event #fotfics summer stories #DaeMags #Daeron x Maglor #Daeron #Maglor #Beat the Heat #Week 1 #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt

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arofili · 1 year

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Hi! I hope you're doing well and congrats on the 4k followers! If you're still taking prompts, how about Autumn for #7 with Daeron and Maglor?

“Don’t let it end like this,” Maglor said softly.

Daeron clenched his fists. “Don’t,” he growled.

“Daeron—meldo, please—”

“Don’t you dare!” Daeron snapped. “Every time, I swear—you beg and plead until I pity you, but it’s never enough to fix anything. I mean it, Maglor—I am leaving this time. You promised to change. But you haven’t. I won’t stand for it any longer.”

“You ask me to change the past,” Maglor cried. His burned hand reached out to grab Daeron’s arm, and he could feel the heat of the forever-maimed flesh against his skin, a constant reminder of Maglor’s failure. “I cannot go back and stop myself from wronging you and your kin. All I—all we can do is move forward—”

He had a way of twisting words, of pulling at the heart’s yearnings, of drawing people close and filling them with sympathy. He was a master of manipulation. Daeron knew that, even had some skill with it himself—but though they were both powerful musicians, Daeron was always more of an instrumentalist. Words, lyrics, poetry—that was Maglor’s domain.

After this long, Daeron should be able to resist him. But he was weak at hart, and always had been. He loved too easily, and never learned to close himself off despite the pains of loss and betrayal.

“You always do this,” he whispered, Maglor’s pleas stirring up his grief and bringing tears to his eyes. “I want—I want remorse. Yes, you cannot change the past, but you can change how you feel about it. And not just how you speak about it.”

“Daeron. Meleth.” The endearment, in Daeron’s own tongue this time, was precisely calculated, but even knowing that, it worked on him all the same.

Maglor cupped his cheek with his good hand and turned Daeron’s face so they looked deeply into each other’s eyes. His own gaze shown with that Lachend-flame, eerie and powerful. But Daeron of all Iathrim knew well such a Light, for it was in Lúthien’s eyes also, from Elu her father and Melian her mother.

(For Daeron, love and horror had always gone hand in hand.)

“I cannot dwell in the past,” Maglor murmured. “But the reason I cannot is—is because if I do, I will lose myself in regret, in remorse. I have done—so much evil. But I cannot let that define me.” His war-callused thumb brushed a tear from Daeron’s cheek. “Was it not you who taught me that?”

He couldn’t help himself. Damn him, he couldn’t let Maglor go.

“Aye, I did,” he admitted, and let himself lean into his lover’s touch. “But...Maglor?”

“Yes, melindo?” Maglor’s voice was tinged with smugness, for he knew he had won. But Daeron would not let himself be the loser, even so.

“This isn’t over,” he warned. “Not you and I—but not your reckoning, either.”

And to Daeron’s immense satisfaction—and relief—the triumph in those shining eyes wavered.

“I know,” Maglor sighed. “I would love you less if it was.”

#silm #silmarillion #silm fic #daeron #maglor #daemags #daeron x maglor #my writing #my fic #tefain nin #prompts #yellow feathered faerie

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elvain · 4 months

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the kinslayer in the woods

Maglor’s world had come to an end a very long time ago. In its wake, he had built himself a new life, silent as it was. But the silence was welcome to Maglor now, for it reminded him that there was nothing left for him anymore. There was no oath, no brothers, no jewels, no wars. He was alone and he was silent and it was as it should have been. He awoke alone and redressed the burn on his hand, which had never healed from the agony of his Oath.

One morning, Maglor awoke in his small hut, redressed his hand, and found that his life was no longer silent.

read the rest on AO3.

#silmfic #silm fic #jrrt #daeron x maglor #daemags #daeron #maglor #writermk

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cilil · 7 months

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Summer Stories '23

Author's Note: For some reason the roadtrip prompt just screamed DaeMags at me and inspired this silly little scene. I decided to dedicate it to @polutrope as a thank you for running Silm smut week which I'm really looking forward to ^^

Character(s): Daeron x Maglor | Roadtrip Synopsis: [Modern AU] During one of their jam sessions, Maglor has a strange request. Warnings: /

"Are you serious?"

Daeron looked up from his ukulele with a frown and saw Maglor staring down at him, his arms crossed.

"What? Can't I do my practice session before our gig tomorrow?"

They had decided to coordinate their summer gigs and turn it into a fun trip for the two of them – playing music together day in and day out, relaxing at campfires, just hanging out... a dream come true.

Except for one thing, it seemed.

Maglor shook his head. "Anything but this," he said sternly, nodding towards the offending instrument.

"That bad?" Daeron chuckled and placed his ukulele in its case. "Damn. One might think you have a personal vendetta against those."

"It's... ugh, never mind. Just do me a favour and play something else, alright?"

When he merely looked at him with both eyebrows raised, Maglor added, "I'll buy you as many drinks as you want after the gig."

"Well then." Daeron closed the case with an exaggerated sigh. "Deal. But you better get me something good or I'll bring it right back for the next one."

Sorry, IDNMT convinced me that this is alright XD

read more? main masterlist get tagged for my writing? tag list form

#daeron #maglor #makalaure #daeron x maglor #daemags #modern au #drabble #silly #elves #silmarillion #silmarillion fanfiction #cílil writes #my writing

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fellowshipofthefics · 1 month

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Daeron/Maglor | Makalaurë, Daeron & Maglor | Makalaurë Characters: Daeron (Tolkien), Maglor (Tolkien) Additional Tags: Post-War, Secret Identity, Angst, Ambiguous/Open Ending, the past haunts the narrative, tagging sucks please have this as it is goodbye Summary:

In his exile, Maglor has become wholly accustomed to silence. One day, that silence is broken.

#the silmarillion #daeron #maglor #daeron x maglor #silm fic #MK

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fistfuloflightning · 4 months

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So. Someone a bit ago commented on one of my fics (or here, not sure) about my penchant for odd Tolkien rarepairs. I myself forget just how many I have, so here’s the rundown and why I like them:

Maedhros/Maeglin (just. the angst. of being buried under your mistakes and finding a kindred soul to share that same burden and heal together. soulmates. who might’ve even met during the nirnaeth. and they’re definitely switches your honor)

Celegorm/Aredhel or Celegorm/Dior (or Dior’s reckless/headstrong stubbornness reminds him of Aredhel and there’s a lot of angry/bittersweet proxyfucking and guilt and ‘I don’t know who I truly love anymore’)

Maglor/Luthien (beauty for beauty’s sake. and honestly anyone but beren. luthien getting involved with the war to protect her murderbard boyfriend and actually putting a dent in morgoth’s forces. mags trying his hardest to protect her as much as the silmaril she won back for him)

Curufin/Finrod (sending your husband to his death (that he knew abt but didn’t tell you) and screwing up your sons and living the rest of your shortened life regretting soooo. many. things. and then having to deal with them after mandos. a bitter beautiful chaotic mess that can only end in tears)

Fingon/Varda (don’t ask: even I’m not sure—something something gil galad’s associated w/ stars and no one knows who his mom is and I like me some valar with greek god leanings)

Aegnor/Haleth (battle bros to lovers, bc haleth won’t take no for an answer like andreth did 😒)

Argon/Amarie (falling in love with your cousin’s ex was not the intention after being the first one killed/sent back. but she’s finally moving on from finrod and you’ve grown to care for her company more than you thought…)

Daeron/Beren (beren didn’t deserve luthien—this started as a joke but these two seriously deserve each other in all their squabbling glory)

Mablung/Nienor (they just. deserve happiness and peace. and lots of adorable peredhel kids. please)

Eowyn/Merry (same as above, but they have the benefit of having an entire shire to rebuild and different cultures to find wonder in and grow to love as much as their own)

idk I might be missing some but these are my thoughts on my main Tolkien rarepairs

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searchingforserendipity25 · 7 months

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Experimental Exchanges of Oral Traditions Among the Eldar | On Ao3.

Maglor/Daeron. Explicit fic. For Silm Smut Week @silmsmutweek, prompts from Day 3 and 4 (self & craft/lore, magical and supernatural elements, dom/sub, toys & props, shades of teacher/student).

Their first conversation- discussion, truly - happened very swiftly after meeting, when Daeron asked with his best sly courtesies if there were any texts written on the feats of the Noldor in Beleriand already, and Maglor had barely looked up from filling his brother's wine goblet with an absent-minded, "O, I am sure we will get to it in time; but I am not sure there is much use holding with written memory anymore."

Daeron had set down his own goblet a little more harshly than was polite. Matters had devolved considerably afterwards.

After their Flight - their Siege, their Exile - the Noldor had taken to reconsidering their relationship with material crafts and immaterial memory-keeping. This, Daeron gathered afterwards, varied greatly between those that had crossed the Helcaraxë and those that had taken to the sea on stolen ships.

Whether it was a deep commitment to vanguardist theory, the wary wisdom of a cavalry chieftain, or pure idleness, Maglor rarely cared to jot down anything of his works to paper. In his father’s Tengwar or Daeron’s Cirth, or the notation systems of his invention he found much to admire unstintingly; but he did not keep diligently to the rituals and methods of writing down his work, either.

He was all for living memory instead, a passionate teacher far more than a careful scribe. Teeth and tongue, memory and enchantment, these Maglor valued far above ink and parchment in his own art.

The smiling, arrogant warrior that had argued with Daeron on the merits of communal chants over carved walls had been ruined altogether. All the same, he was proven correct in one thing only. Maglor's bone-deep and infuriating certainty that he would live on to remember and keep remembered all the songs and lore of his people proved true at the last, and past the end of all tales he could claim a right to tell.

It was because of his dues owed to minstrelsy that he had not dashed himself against the shore, all the long years of Beleriand’s catastrophic sinking. He had clambered over many a sinking cliff instead - sang the salt-spray away from his path, raised himself up through the torment of the Starkindler's judgment whenever he started to sink into drowning.

Deliberate, he went up and onward, survived the end of his own lament, and in so doing made certain it would be kept alive always.

Daeron, however, had spent that time rather busier preserving the ancient waters and forests of the Eldar with enchantments of hiding and protection, and setting down the history and poetry and lore of the Sindar instead. Songs ought to be recorded, deeds fell and great, the voice of the sea put to carved bark before it faded. It was enough that the record existed, he felt; though at times he liked to bring them out and read them to the birds that came to sit as an attentive audience to the recitation, and sang the melodies entangled in the verses backs at him in their own chirping trills.

Daeron was not much impressed with tales kept ever-changing by painful fits of divine madness and punishment , nor the regret that kept Maglor from setting down the last edited version of his laments. Any aimless wandering could be a pilgrimage, if the walking-song was worth singing; but this windswept, sea-bound dedication to mourning rituals was wildly irregular, too.

Daeron, too, was fearful, of the finality of the finished epilogue, the lingering silence and written word. There was great terror to be faced once the ink with all its dear lost names was dried, and not a letter more could be changed nor altered.

That had been no reason not to invent the letters, and was now no reason not to write in it. To sing at all was a fearful vocation; that was why it had to be sang, that was what they were for.

And that was all the more cause for Maglor to follow his exalted example. Him alone was rightly named Daeron's match in the craft; and the evil of his deeds did not unmake his obligation or absolve him from his duties. To write did not make ancient lore less or more foolish, nor the past kinder; but he wrote so it might be hoarded. If that was greed, then Daeron was covetous indeed, but wise about it.

That was Daeron's covetous demand, when their paths crossed, and their conversation turned once more to familiar lines turned bitter with the alteration of the years.

He could speak with him of the futility of alphabets and records in isolation, the grief that absented itself from any audience and yet demanded to be retold. He could concede to sharing wine and gathered berries with Maglor, to walking in shared purpose for a time. If not, he would not have call him from the through the wrecked shores to the deep forests, and bedded him in the grass.

But he would not, Daeron told him very clearly, keep company to those terms of service to song as Maglor employed. He could not have him truly, and would not, until there was a thing finished and complete in itself to be had.

He had no patience left for anything less than a dedication to perfect records. Differences in stylistic approach and cultural memory be damned - he, too, was a high master of the craft, as high and higher, and remained so as much due to his song being sung and by the fact of his wisdom replicated and captured on wax and parchment, etched his own Cirth upon hollow trees and painting on the walls of dry caves. The alphabet he had designed was a matter of pride, still, and never more necessary, kept alive into perpetuity.

It was all very well for Maglor to argue, high-minded and eerie-eyed, that every living thing was a vessel to the memory of its wounds and loves, and the singer in exile the living vault of the dead - but he could not be permitted to think to live like this was to do true service to either the dead or the craft.

There were standards, even in exile. Lore and art were their own craft, with their own principles - what were minstrels for, if not to outlast the past and keep it alive in proper and decent fashion? Changing the length of mourning cantos and solemn ballads with every day's new and renewed grief was not tolerable minstrelsy.

That there was nothing decent at all in Maglor was not Daeron's concern, as long as he could still sing.

To sing alone was not enough. Maglor had forgotten it, set aside that vocation in preference of foul, foul works, but that did not mean that it had forgotten him in turn.

To be the best of singers one had to give one's over to be heard, written, read back to him, the principles applied to him still. The thankless sea did not count; and a song had to be heard, even if only by the birds, for it to be made true and final all the way through. Daeron meant to uphold these principles and see them upheld, even if discipline must be called for.

It was not justice, but justice was not his craft. Punishment, absolution, the fate of the many - these things he had only trusted to his ling and the stars. The stars had pronounced their sentence, and Maglor kept himself alive to suffer it; Daeron did not think to contest the matter.

Maglor thought him strange and wonderful for this hierarchy of concerns; but Daeron had never been prince nor warrior chieftain. He, at least, was under no false impression that his worth to the Music rested anywhere else than in preserving it.

Maglor raised up his scorched hands in wry defense and self-accusation: Daeron was not moved. Heavenly punishment was not an excuse to be considered, and if anything only a greater encouragement to perfect his dedication to the art.

"If you cannot decide upon it, nor write it yourself, I can do both with my own hands, " he said dismissively. The offer alone blanched Maglor's cheeks of all colour with shame; but Daeron had not much patience for that, either. "Though you will have to decide upon the final form of your works, and dictate them."

"Dictation alone will not suffice, for such a task," Maglor said, the deep, soft-edged timber of his voice turning softer and rougher. Sea-voiced, he could not hide the tide swell of his desire when he looked upon Daeron's righteous visage, the deep-rooted steadiness of his devotion to lore-craft. "Your demand is just and sensible. I am certain I can find a means to apply myself to the challenge of it at last - under the guidance of Daeron, among all singers the most masterful."

Daeron did agree. It was a sound notion: the means, he felt strongly, were justified altogether by the righteousness of the ends. His lady Lúthien, of whom he sang still with terrible fondness and terrible grief, would be well-pleased. She had always encouraged him to advance beyond the set order of things, to be ever inventive with his minstrel's art.

This work would be burned, afterwards. They had found an uneasy middle ground in that - a final version of Maglor's laments, set down in Daeron's script by Daeron's brush. And then it would be burned: for it had been the way among the the cavalry warriors of the Gap to burn their dead.

But first, the ink had to be crafted, and then ground down. The fur of the brushes hunted, treated, oiled and carefully sewn. The paper was thick, made to last, spread out in a scroll. Daeron had for an archive many dry and enchanted places; this would be but another bound manuscript, kept through the Ages undamaged.

At times he rested, and with the hand that did not hold the brush laid a grounding touch upon Maglor's head. He ran it through his loose curls, touched his cheeks to feel him working to keep Daeron's cock warm and full and well-tended.

Maglor looked at him desperately, flushed and stuffed. His fingers, clasped tame and terrible behind his back back, clenched convulsively at times; otherwise he was very careful to be still as Daeron worked, and eager to please him as he rested.

Silenced for once, he swallowed hungrily, drank deep of his taste, was eager to have his stifled sounds fucked quiet when Daeron found a moment to ease his eyes and indulge himself in grasping the hair at the back of his neck and forcing himself in deeper into the tight throat that held him.

"Enough," Daeron said gently, drawing away and stroking his taunt neck until the shuddering passed. He was not without pity; the lantern flickered wearily, and the joints of his fingers ached with a steady scrivener's pain. "Not long now to finish for tonight once this lay in complete."

Daeron brought the tip of the brush to Maglor's mouth, stroked his mouth idly as he wetted the tip in him. Ink-stained, he panted against Daeron's knee, chased after the touch when the brush passed, tender and slick as a kiss, over his lips.

"Daeron," he rasped, entreating. "It is not well done. I have forgotten, I am certain I did it better once. The meter is all wrong: and the version is not that which is ought to be-"

"It is as I set it down to be," Daeron said, and made it a final thing.

Maglor's protesting mouth swallowed in a gasp when Daeron pressed his fingers into its wet heat, smearing the ink on his tongue, easy and possessing where his cockhead had been.

He held himself uncaring of words spoken while at work, uninterested in red-rimmed glances and shaking whimpers; Maglor knew it well by now.

It inflamed him all the more, fed the rushing dizziness of his mind's work and his body's submission. A fine balance must be kept, to keep him grounded and attentive - the vast scope of his thoughts pliant to Daeron's grasping mind, all the disharmony and force of the voice of the sea studied at length, learned slowly, with science and care.

It inflamed Daeron no less, in truth. He grasped firmly at his hair, pressed back inside his yielding mind, rocked into his mouth, and Maglor sank into his thrust, took him with a moan, rocking on his knees to take him deeper before Daeron grounded him down with a stern hand.

Daeron waited a moment longer before looking into his eyes and heart. His blue-black mouth stretched obscenely around Daeron; but more obscene by far was the bright glint of his eyes, and the gratitude of his savage, aching spirit at being made bare and made tame.

Kneeling before him and under Daeron's high desk, Maglor gave himself over to translation in surrender. Laid out clear and plain as the paper and the ink, the wide expanse of his mind was singularly open and singularly focused on the words, the tempo, the transcribing of his compositions through hands not his own.

He waited until the slow, easy rhythm of thoughts and mouth had been found again. When Daeron picked up the brush again, Maglor applied himself likewise, tongue and memory and throat, all joined in purpose. They went at a good pace, all things considered; but Daeron made certain to be thorough with every letter, careful with the lines of his Cirth, for the due honor and dignity of the thing.

#daeron #maglor #silmsmutweek #silm smut #silm fic #maglor x daeron #my fics

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doodle-pops · 2 years

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Hi, I just remembered a scene from series called Heroes - there was this woman, who was deaf and still could percieve music as colorful lights (check this video: https://youtu.be/UgnjitfOW5E ). How would our dear minstrels of Arda react if their s/o was just like that?

I like to think that elves music tells stories in a visual aspect. Like the chords they play would create scenes, thus, their s/o not only sees the harmonious colours but images. They're able to show their s/o all the wonder aspects of life through their songs. This makes playing for their s/o a more touching and private moment.

- Maglor, Fingon, Finrod, Ecthelion, Daeron, Lindir

#reactions #maglor x reader #fingon x reader #finrod x reader #ecthelion x reader #daeron x reader #lindir x reader #silmarillion x reader #middle earth x reader #silmarillion imagine #x reader fluff #doodlepops responds

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carmisse · 22 days

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Fëanáro and his sons-(and daughter) in-law.

X : Rank your children's spouses or partners from one to ten.

Fëanor : ...

Fëanor : I've been waiting for this moment since Maitamo was in diapers!

Fëanor : Findekáno is an eight. He was the first one and I really came to see the fact that he and Maitamo would get married when they had the chance. He is quite nice though because of him I have to see Ñolofinwë's face on weekends at the family dinner. Other than that, it's stranger not to see him at home, I got used to having him there, he's good company.

Fëanor : the first time I met Makalaurë's wife she punched me in the jaw. She is sassy and not afraid to express her displeasure with anyone plus Dae is really very talented, she is also the only person who can manage to shut Káno up, she sings too well, a ten, she is my favorite.

Fëanor : Tyelko was always a free fëa, that's why I didn't expect him to settle down, not even with Irissë and even less with Oromë. That's why Dior was a strange surprise, I don't really know the history of those two and I haven't dealt much with him, he's usually serious, and I don't blame him for that. A seven.

Fëanor : Turukáno reminds me too much of Ñolofinwë; he openly hates me and I respect him for that; but he also makes Moryo smile more often than usual, his mood changes when he's around his husband. Besides they have been together for too long, they never told anyone but Aracáno and I suspected it. He is an eight.

Fëanor : I'm not sure if Findaráto counts, he and Curufinwë have been divorced for a long time, however they also kiss a closet when they think no one sees them. He and Curufin made me grandfather, although at the time there was yelling and a couple of broken things, he took responsibility, and like Findekáno his company is pleasant. He's a solid nine, plus Arafinwë is easier to stand than Ñolo.

Fëanor : Pityo has no husband, wife or partner; unless it's secret, I can't score this time.

Fëanor : Telvo on the other hand, well. He leaves Artaresto and Arakáno, the son, I mean. I must say that the three of them are really adorable, if somewhat disastrous, you don't want to know what an argument between them is. Frankly they are the healthiest polyamory I've seen in a long time. Both Arteresto and Arakáno are a nine.

Plus : Telperinquar's husband.

Fëanor : Annatar is an annoying little shit, I am offended that you think I accept him, if it were not for Tyelpe I would throw him into the void with his ex-husband.

Notes :

Daeron is trans, she is an elleth. When he and Maglor met, the son of Fëanor fell in love with her, he proposed to her a few days after they met for the first time. A hundred years pass before she accepts him, they marry with only trees as a witness, they drifted apart after Doriath.

She was upset for a long time, with her husband and her brothers-in-law.

They meet in Imladris, Elrond is the one who brings them together (he locks them in a room until they talk) Maglor apologizes and she accepts them even though she knows it will take time to heal. Finally, they sail to Valinor accompanying Elladan and Elrohir. Regarding her name, he doesn't really mind Daeron. But her family in-laws call her Dae, Maglor nicknamed her that when he met her, this with her permission.

Amrod has no interest in anyone, he is very tired of everyone.

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polutrope · 2 years

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HEARKEN STILL UNSATED

for @tolkienrsb.

“And it is said by the Eldar that in water there lives yet the echo of the Music of the Ainur more than in any substance else that is in this Earth; and many of the Children of Ilúvatar hearken still unsated to the voices of the Sea, and yet know not for what they listen.”

- The Ainulindalë

written by @polutrope (AO3)

illustrations by @melestasflight (AO3)

Fic Rating: M | Art Rating: T | No warnings

Words: 15.5k

Relationships: Daeron/Maglor, Daeron & Melian

Characters: Daeron, Maglor, Melian, brief appearances by other canon characters

Tags: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Non-Explicit Sex, Music, Nature, Soul Bond, Songs of Power, Doriath, Cuiviénen, First Battle of Beleriand, Mereth Aderthad, Oath of Fëanor, Elvish Beliefs and Worldviews, Fate and Free Will, Connection to Land, Power of Words, Visions, Symbolism

Summary:

“For how many years," he asks, "have we two listened for the echoes of the Music of Creation in the oceans and lakes and rivers? And yet we will never be sated. Like the water in which they say it lives, the Song does not rest but ever moves and changes. It may pool in a great lake for an age and then pour down into the Sea in another. It fills whatever spaces it can and flows by whatever paths most easily open before it.”

When the Noldor return to Middle-earth to make war on Morgoth, only rumours reach Menegroth of their reasons for coming, but Doriath's minstrel experiences their loss and longing through his connection to Music and the gift of his Queen. Years later, he is sent to the Feast of Reuniting and meets the Elf whose grief he felt. A story about the Eldar returning home, their connection to the land and to each other, and their relationship to Music and fate, love and free will.

READ HERE

Snippet below the cut...

The night sky is darker here and the stars shine brighter against its deep indigo.

The bay of a vast lake is cradled in the arms of the mountains and a dense forest slouches towards its glassy-blue waters. In the canopy, a nightingale trills. On its last note, the elf hesitating on the shore springs off a sloping rock. He breaks through the surface noiselessly and emerges moments later with silver hair clinging to the sharp angles and smooth lines of his face, star-lit droplets scattered across his skin.

“You look like a painting,” says a dark-haired elf, gliding through the water towards him. Weightless arms circle his waist and only the film of water separates skin from skin as hands ghost over his bare back. “A painting,” he kisses him, “a dance,” and again, “a song.”

Each time their damp lips brush against each other, the water contracts into a ring around their bodies and spreads out in perfect waves. To the beating of their legs below the surface, a lilting melody rises up from the lake bottom.

“We are home,” says the silver-haired elf.

But this is only a vision. It dissolves back into the Song, as it always has.

#trsb22 #daeron #maglor #daemags #daeron x maglor #daeron/maglor #melian #my fic #fic promo #silm fic #silmarillion fanfiction

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i-did-not-mean-to · 10 months

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Daemags +11?

DaeMags - in joy.

Daeron dropped the goblet—a masterpiece such as it would never be crafted again—without waiting for the melodious tinkle of bursting crystal. After an eternity of miserable silence and a period of violent self-flagellation, Maglor had agreed to let his voice heal along with his soul. Daeron had never admitted how much he was hoping to, one day, wake up to the insidious, corrupting, and utterly bewitching sound of a voice deemed lost forevermore. Striding into the bare, desolate room, he plunged his hands into Maglor's dark, silken hair and greedily plucked those first shivering notes from trembling lips.

Ah! Daemags...a timeless classic haha...

Thank you so much for this prompt! I am always so delighted to get prompts <3

#ask #IDNMT answers #starspray #kiss prompt #DaeMags #Daeron x Maglor #in joy #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt

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urwendii · 5 months

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100-words Drabbles: SWG Experimental Challenge