Maglor Does Not Have A Good Time - Tumblr Posts

He had always been an entertainer

He had always been an entertainer. There was no point to music, no purpose to it if it was kept private. Music was supposed to be shared, to be heard, and he loved being able to provide that, to make people happy.

It had been easy in Valinor. He had been happy. He had large audiences, and fans, and friends that would invite him over to talk about composition and... and then-

and then there had been an oath and blood in the sand and that was when he had first woven Song with intent to harm; telerin eardrums bursting at his screams and his voice weaving terrible fear into their hearts until they were insensate enough for Celegorm to neatly behead them. When they had burnt the boats he rose his voice in Song so it would be quick and realised only too late that he had drowned out his brother’s screams.

There had been no time for song in Beleriand. No time for song, only Song to drive back the enemy and keep his forces going until they collapsed and then force them back to wakefulness again to toll another day. They cursed his name; tried to mutiny many times until the Dagor Bragollach where his song was the only thing that kept their horses ahead of roaring fire.

He lost track of time after that. The blood on his hands was too much and the empty eyes of his fallen brothers followed him always. He swept though Doriath in a daze, barely remembering the fallen until he slept and they returned to torment him.

His remaining brothers didn’t acknowledge him anymore. They couldn’t piece themselves back together, never mind having time for him. When they discovered the Silmaril was in the Havens he had almost wept with joy. It would be over soon, one way or another.

And then he lost another brother and Elwing had ran and he could not bear anymore blood on his hands. He regrets keeping the twins. He was the one the doomed them to the Iron Hells.

He belongs in Angband. He is a monster, a kinslayer. As they take the price of his crimes out of his flesh he dutifully recites the name to every life he has ruined in one way or another. The Lieutenant rips through his head and carefully extracts all his memories of happiness until he’s with nothing but pain and did you leave your victims in a better state? I think not, little jester. The only mercy he is granted is the twins; the twins who shine still, and take joy from his music.

He knows not where Maedhros is. He does not ask. He did not let his victims know if their loved ones were alive and he does not deserve the mercy.

He is scared that his brother will see how quickly he gave in.

He sings in blackspeech now. It tears up his throat and blood wells at his lips as he chokes, but he keeps singing. His audience of orcs jeer and throw their food at him when it isn’t to their liking. He has blasphemed against the Valar and his family so much that the humiliation of it barely registers any more. He sings of his own failures, of Gondolin’s fall, of Fingon’s death, and Finrod’s pitiful attempts to best the Lieutenant. His Highness raises his glass in approval and he knows he will be allowed eat with the twins tonight. He will gorge himself on questionable elf, he knows it’s elf meat and drink stagnant water and the memories of feasts in Valinor will fade. Afterwards, he will give the Lieutenant his pound of flesh for his crimes and then play the harp until blood runs down his arms and his fingers are rubbed raw to the bone.

He always had been an entertainer.