All That the Waves Did Not Claim by Isilme_among_the_stars
Fanwork Notes
Maglor is not in a good place. This work touches on (or will in future) some heavy topics, grief and self-harm included. Please keep this in mind and read with care.
- Fanwork Information
-
Summary:
Little moments of reflection with Maglor as he comes to terms with grief. A collection of drabbles and other short writings to accompany One in the Deep Waters.
Major Characters: Maglor
Major Relationships:
Challenges:
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Check Notes for Warnings, Mature Themes
This fanwork belongs to the series
Chapters: 5 Word Count: 640 Posted on Updated on This fanwork is a work in progress.
Ash and Smoke
Read Ash and Smoke
All that I have left of you is ash and smoke.
I grasp it desperately but cannot catch it, neither can I wash myself clean where it has taken up stubborn residence, caught in my hair, under nails and in the corners of my eyes. It is gritty, irritating, a fine coating chafing me raw, clinging where I do not wish, yet never to be held close as I want.
Would that you had left me a kinder remembrance. Better, never left me at all. Only painful strains now sustain me, yet I must find a way to go on.
All the Things a Knife Can Be
Read All the Things a Knife Can Be
The switchblade is Curvo’s make, simple, elegant and durable. He could never craft anything less, looking as he does upon unshaped metal and seeing beauty. Nelyo asked for utility, practicality. For when he considered blades that is what he saw. Curvo wrought it with flawless lines that curved comfortably into one’s hand and perfectly weighted steel slow to lose honed edge. It is deceptive in its flawlessness. Only when holding it do I realise it is an extension of my hand.
Curvo saw in it the ghost of father. Nelyo saw only survival. But when I look upon it, I see possibility. I see Elros’s smile as he holds aloft the eagle I carved. I see the blushing curl of apple skin falling into Elrond’s mouth, his eyes squeezed tight in delight, and Nelyo above him grinning, still peeling the fruit. I see the flashes of fear that shudder through both then disappear as Nelyo silently dispatches the monsters that have crept too near to us in the wilderness. I feel the outbreath of relief that comes with the giving of my flesh as the knife bites, turned on me by my own hand. The secret balm I keep locked up like poison, a last resort I guiltily run to when no other will suffice. This I do not want to see, so naturally, it is the loudest thought of all.
Small Unfinished Things
Read Small Unfinished Things
“Don’t go disappearing,” Elros jokes as I stride away in search of firewood.
Three words that hang heavy in the air between us swollen with miserable plea. Don’t leave me, he means, still a desperate child cleaving to his one remaining parent. Don’t make me watch as you unmake yourself the secret fear that shines in his eyes.
I begin a campaign of small unfinished things. A half-sewn hem, set aside overnight, thread trailing. Garlic strung up under our shelter that will take weeks to dry. Little signs I intend to stay. His relief is born anew with each discovery.
Sand
Elros's departure draws nearer and Maglor is not quite ready to bid him farewell.
Read Sand
Like fine sand you slip through my fingers, grain by precious grain, in an endless cascade toward No More Time.
You spill headlong onto ground I cannot walk on, fly upon winds that will never catch in my sails. In truth I see the wonder you scatter all about and know I must let you go.
I have no right to grasp you, keep you for myself. I never did. But you piled high trust and time into my hands and, oh, each mote is a diamond! Let me keep a little, be it only dust clinging to my fingertips.
Reach
Maglor receives a letter from a recently departed Elros and has thoughts.
Read Reach
On the sanguine day we first locked eyes you shook, infantile rage curtaining over billows of fear. It was my hands that held you, reaching through the howling storm, steadier than they had any right to be. I was reflex-sure. I knew children and could see through your thin hubris. How long it took for you to grasp back!
Your words, reams of ink spilled across the wide, sundering sea, are just the same; your softness grown fingers, clutching. I thought myself outgrown, but ever has your grip been more insistent than mine. What can I do but reach back?
