Fanworks Tagged with Maglor

The last of the Elven ships are sailing and Maglor’s feet are restless. In the surreal version of reality his mind supplies there are ghosts to wrestle and hard truths to confront. In Tol Eressëa, Nerdanel swallows her own hurts in order to care for her son.

Written for TRSB 2026 Art #114: In Ammë's embrace once more as part of a collaboration with tomefaired based on their absolutely gorgeous cosplay, which can be found in the last chapter and here.

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“Are you not warmer than you’ve ever been, right here?”

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The Rings have been forged. The armies of Mordor are marching into Eriador. Eregion burns. 

Far away from it all, by the shores of the Sea, Celegorm remembers his name.

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The Valar tell them that they cannot return to Beleriand and Elwing accepts this easily, for she has no reason to return. Sirion is destroyed, naught but ash and rubble and dried blood. The Fëanorians had kidnapped her sons and, she is sure, slain them before she and Eärendil even reached Valinor. There is nothing left for her there.

It takes four years for rumors to reach her ears that her sons likely still live.

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Finwë received his crown from Manwë Súlimo himself, so he knows what it is to be betrayed. 
Fëanor received his crown from Finwë, so he knows what it is to die. 
Maedhros received his crown from Fëanor, so he knows what it is to burn.
Fingolfin received his crown from Maedhros, so he knows what it is to be broken.
Fingon received his crown from Fingolfin, so he knows what it is to despair. 
Turgon received his crown from Fingon, so he knows what it is to stand firm. 
Gil-galad received his crown from them all, and it’s too soon to know what he’ll do.

Gil-galad, burdened with the memories of all his predecessors, does his best.

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Sudden laughter startled Maglor out of his reverie.

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The Herald of Maedros Noldoran rides to Doriath, to demand answer for Dior’s illicit silence. There will be Recompense or Just War to follow, and not even Maglor can say which he hopes for in truth.

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Created for TRSB 2026, art 100 is a hand-drawn interlaced star of Fëanor with four of the named points broken (CW: drops of blood). 

The fic written for it will be posted in the TRSB 2026 collection after 5 September 2026. 

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Over the course of his very long life he had found a handful of messages in bottles, but it had been a very long time. So when he found the glass bottle on his little stretch of pebbly beach, he picked it up with the intention of tossing it into his recycling. But it wasn’t, he found, just another beer bottle.

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This tale follows Maedhros and his wife (OC) from their time in Aman to the end of the First Age; following a brutal attack in Valinor, intense familial strife is forever set in motion. Mostly follows Silmarillion timeline/canon with internal narrative twists. Character dives on all of the Sons of Fëanor, ongoing work with currently 17 chapters I will be posting soon (currently all cross posted to AO3) :)

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Maglor reflects on the past after returning to Valinor. Created for the August 2026 "Building Middle-Earth" challenge.

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It was easier than he had thought it would be to leave his name behind—to put on a new one when needed, like changing one set of clothes for another.

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He’d ventured into the little fishing village in search of food and maybe a dry place to sleep for a night of rain and wind—he hadn’t expected this, to be bullied into a hot meal and a healer’s attention.

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When uneasy dreams bring him back into Beleriand, Daeron finds a pair of twins who have lost their home, and an enemy who has lost himself. The Shadow's reach is growing ever longer, and if they are to survive, they must do it together.

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Need an elfling-sitter? Save time! Call The Elfling-Sitters Club and reach seven six experienced sitters.

Fingon, President
Daeron, Vice-President
Pengolodh, Secretary
Finrod, Treasurer
Maglor, Alternate Officer
Salgant, Snack Officer

Daeron has an important question to ask Maglor. And no, it’s not “can I get some more art supplies for my Kid-Kit?”

A Baby-Sitters Club fusion story, set in the 1980s.

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“What did you do to your hair?”

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Roverandom and the Sea Rover find a crab on the beach--not unusual in itself, except this one smells like magic. 

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After wandering through the forests of Oromë, Maitimo and Makalaurë discover a quiet clearing, stopping to rest. With lyre in hand, the private audience begins— for this song, Makalaurë will only allow his brother to hear.

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Erestor lay up against a tree, brown washed to black in the wet of the snow. The black disc of the new moon sailed across the dark sky. Erestor wished it were gone. He had no need to look into dark eyes any longer.

He was dying.

(AKA Erestor unwittingly travels back in time to the days between the Dagor Bragollach and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, meets the sons of Feanor, Thingol and his ilk, many Laiquendi, many Dwarves, and Men besides, and THEN decides to solve the drowning of Beleriand himself. This has nothing to do with his personal problems. Nope. Not at all. Erestor is having regular feelings.)

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A young Celegorm and Curufin befriend an old Spruce tree. 

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In the aftermath of the third kinslaying and the death of Amrod and Amras, Maglor needs to reassure himself that Maedhros is still there with him.

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Maedhros is left behind by his family after the Kinslaying at Alqualondë after falling beneath the waves. Fingon, in a chance return to Alqualondë, finds an unconscious Maedhros and brings him to camp. The two will discover anew what their love means for them after the lies that split them apart.

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Trapped upon the bitter cliff, Maedhros dreams. Or hallucinates. Or endures the mental torments of the Dark Vala, Morgoth. Surely, one of those must be the case; for he cannot have been rescued from Thangorodrim's torturous peak. He cannot.

But then, why is Findekáno here?

Maedhros finds in many ways that those visions which do not end with his own blood and breaking are the worst of all: because they end instead in waking, and the inescapable knowledge that such things will never again be aught but dreams to him. That knowledge is a tighter shackle than the one that holds him to the cliff-face, and the pain of it around his heart is much sharper than that which throbs through his arm. An arm goes numb much faster than a heart, and there is a limit to how much pain a body can bear before the sensation of agony starts to crumble beneath the onslaught.

If there is a limit to how much pain a heart can hold, Maedhros has not yet found it.

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Passing headlights sweep across the wall, yellow and striped through the blinds. In the distance a siren wails, and in the dark, quiet hotel room they lie facing each other, each curled toward the other like parentheses, with thousands of years of history tucked between them.

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Fëanor shrugged, studying the contents of his wine glass. “Something must be done about that house. It will fall down eventually.”
“It does not follow that it must be you that tears it down single-handedly. Are you sure you do not want help?”
“It’s not as though I have much else to do. I need to build something new there,” he said after a few moments. “To do that, I must first clear away the old and broken things.”

Decades out of Mandos, too many things in Fëanor's life remain broken. He can't do anything except wait for his sons to come to him, but he can do something about the old and crumbling house where they once lived. 

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