... whooops

FeanorianWeek Day #2
  • Day 2-Maglor -> Childhood, Music & Songs of Power, Elrond & Elros, Kingship, Maglor’s  Gap, Redemption


The world is fading. That is the only explanation for the utter lack of music.

Maglor pants, and the sound is harsh in his own ears. Doubled over and gasping for breath, he stopped running some time ago – he has neither the wind nor the soundness of foot to carry himself much further – but his lungs do not seem to hold the air. So he gasps, and gasps, and overhead the sea-birds wheel and scream.  

Once, they would have been mocking him, or serving as a counterpoint to the softer, wilder notes of the wind. Now, though, they are just birds, and their cries just mean that he has reached the new coastline where once would have stretched some of the greatest woods of Beleriand.

He gasps, and gasps, and waits, but the image has no poetry to it. The thought that he has almost reached the coast just conjures up memories of sand, and rocks, and water, when really it should be some elegant turn of phrase resonating with an elegiac wistfulness: as if the heart of the land has been ripped from its ribcage, shattered beyond repair by some cruel hand of Fate… 

Mmm, if he’s come to repeating Findarato’s sloppy excuses for verse than he really must be half-dead.

His breath has quieted somewhat, so Maglor straightens his head at least, unfolding half his body so that he is simply leaning forward, his hands on his knees and his breath merely quick pants rather than lung-rattling gasps. He prods at the idea of Finrod, dead in a filthy grotto some centuries past, to see if that stirs any poetry.

Nothing. No insights into how love long-thwarted can be twisted to unimaginable ends, no stirring figures of speech comparing transience with materiality, no melody immortalizing the clank of chain and gleam of bone. Finrod’s death no longer sounds tragic, or titillating, or even terrifying – it just seems pitiful. Painful.

Lonely.

Maglor straightens all the way up from his crouch and starts to run again. Arrow-sharp, he unbent the knee / And away raced roaming / His great heart haunted…

And the words simply desert him.

Maglor runs and he runs, and that is all – there’s no greater significance or value to it. His feet are bleeding, which just means his boots are old, not that he’s earning his salvation. The birds overhead are growing louder, and the wind is cold through the holes in his cloak, and that just means he’s closer to the Sea, not that he is approaching some crisis of faith or some great opportunity to recoup the least of his people’s treasures. None of it means anything anymore.

It’s not that his ears don’t work – the right one still does, at least. He punctured the left yesterday, a slip of his dagger when, in a spirit of inquiry, he had tried to determine whether the music’s fading was a purely physiological fault. No, the rush of blood seemed fairly conclusive: it stemmed from some more metaphysical source. Maglor had left his right ear alone.  

Limping, he reaches the cliffs at sunset.

There is no significance to the fact that he can barely stand. No reason why it matters that the sky is growing dark as he comes to stand at the edge of the world, mere steps from the Sea crashing below. No further verses of the great lay he has been writing since his father’s impassioned speech in Tirion suggest themselves.

The Noldolante will never be finished now, and even that certitude means nothing more than the fact that it is.

Maglor shakes his head, and opens his fist. A pretty rock plummets into the Sea below, and a cold white star gleams suddenly overhead, and none of it means anything at all.

itsaconquestofimagination  asked:

Ok but what about reader comforting crime boss Kylo after he comes back from a long job away from home? Readers just happy he's alive and Kylo is beyond grateful he has someone to come home to who knows who he really is but loves him still

the boy loves you so much he just doesn’t know what to do with all his feelings! Seriously! You just being there helps a ton! 
So I’m not sure if this is what you were looking for soo I hope it’s ok! 

His once intimidating frame seems to deflate as it passes through the door. Sinking lower and lower until it looks as if it’ll give way under the weight of the world or rather the spots he’s darkened through poor or selfish decisions. “If I don’t someone else will he” kylo repeated over and over again in his mind; a never failing mantra or an excuse? Even he doesn’t know at this point. It was just better than the places his mind would go when left alone. The rain clung heavily to him, washing away the little speck of blood that made incomprehensible patterns on his long neck. He was surgical in his precision, almost an artist if his knights were asked but, something snapped tonight. Rage boiling over consuming everything in it’s path with a single fowl swoop. His hands were stained not for the first time or the last, not even the typhoon like weather he drove home in could cleanse him of that.

The thoughts kept spinning around in his head; how the night went, what he could of done differently. He could have been better he could always be better; isn’t that what snoke would say? He left him all of this, left him this way. Hands balled and skin taught to the point of whiting around his knuckles. The skin ruined, blossoming a painful red that had stopped bleeding long ago. He’s treat them; interest long gone from his own well being or comfort. He just had to calm down, he made it, he was home. But the cold air of the well lived in kicken did little to deter the dark thoughts that were miles away focused on unseeing eyes and splatters of deep red seeping into the floor like spilled ink.

Kylo doesn’t even bother to shut the door gently as he normally does, though he at least had enough mind to sneak in through the kitchen rather than the squeaking front door. His one track mind is set on easing his body down on the bar stool adjacent to the happy breakfast island. Melting into the worn upholstery of the well loved seat. Sleepy honey colored eyes dance along the papers thrown about, no doubt (y/n)’s doing. A small smile graced his features as he looked at the messy half print, half cursive, scrawl. Transfixed by the small hint that you were in fact real; that he hadn’t made you up during some drunken stupor or adrenaline high.

“Kylo?” The voice was soft, swaddled in a warm sort of tired that could only be associated with just waking up.
“Hey beautiful. Sorry I didn't’ mean to wake you”. He graveled out, swallowing quickly as he shot up, sitting stalk straight. Resembling more of an animal on high alert than a man in his own house. The instinct to pretend and play the ever poised man kicking in. Marble like perfection, cold and purposeful failing to reach his bloodshot eyes, or to even stop the slight tremble of the lower lip he worried between his teeth. Your face softened, outlined by the soft glow of the lamp somewhere off in the hall. Concern flashed across the (e/c) eyes he so loved. Resolve breaking with each gentle sock padded footstep. His body shook as violently as the the storm raging outside.

Mentally taking stock of all you could see your voice broke through the silence giving away your ever present concern.
“You’re all wet! You’ll catch a cold”.
With ease you would your arms around his gargantuan frame pulling him to your smaller one. Yet in this instance he didn’t doubt the strength behind your arms. He pulled you closer placing you and the space between his legs all but, curling around your welcomed warmth. Familiar and safe keeping him together without fear of being cut by the sharp jagged edges of his personality that he prided himself on. All it took was a handful of words and the tears fell openly. A messy head of sticky wet hair connecting with your shoulder wetting the soft material. Clad in one of the sweaters he favored but always found it’s way on your frame. Cold rain water mixing with warm tears as he gently squeezed, breathing in your scent mixed with his own. “I know I just…I” he didn’t know what he wanted to say. That he didn’t think he deserved to be taken care of? That he no longer had the energy to pull himself up? That all it took was one bad day for him to go back to the scared little boy he tried so hard to erase..

“Shh it’s ok. You’re home. Whatever happened, we can talk about it ok. We’ll work it out. We just don’t have to right now”. Small hands carted through his tangled locks finding their way to a strong jawline. With ease you lifted him up to face you. He didn’t protest, languidly moving where you wanted him to. Eye level now that he was sitting. He didn’t think he’d ever want to talk about it, not fully but, he was grateful for the fact that you didn’t force him and that in return for your patience he’d slowly open up his world to you. Though what was out there could not compare to what was here. With you, not in the house the two of you spent grueling august days renovating but, the arms that kept him, the thing everyone feared safe.

Each morning he comes back expecting an empty home smelling faintly of you. The only thing you’d leave behind. Like a dream too far out of reach or water through clenched fingers. You were smart, beautiful and deserved so much better than he could give. He knew this all too well but, you looked at him in a way he didn’t deserve. A way he might never deserve. Much too selfish to let go of his little piece of heaven he clung onto your comfort. Kylo knew that if there was a hell he’d one day end up there and he made peace with that but, until than he’d take every moment he had with you. “Thank you.”

“Hmm?”

Startled by his voice you perked up, expecting him to shut down until you gently coaxed him out of his shell. “Thank you for everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you but, I sure as hell know who I would be. You keep me sane. You know what I am, what i’ve done but here you are. You stayed.” He wet his lips before continuing stumbling through the mix of emotions that had settled in his throat. “You’re my conscious you’re what keeps whatever little good you see in me there. ” His lips captured your own, fingers running along the soft pajama bottoms you wore before settling in the crook of your knee. It was a kiss that was desperate sloppy as he tried to memorize the shape of your lips with his own. One that spoke volumes, splaying his heart open to you and only you to with as you wished.

Behind the two of you morning broke, with it the storm turned from the raging winds that threatened to unearth your home, to a gentle drizzle. Neither cared as they pulled apart and drank each other in. Content in the shared breaths and small space between one another. “Come on let’s go shower you smell like you fell into a bar.” He blinked once, twice, before the laughter rumbled out. Deep and thunderous, going through you in your close proximity. His own storm quieted by the light you shined. “I thought you liked tequila?”.