The Wanderer Who Came Not Back

by TheSummerestSolstice

Summary:

After the First Age of Arda comes to an close, the tale of Middle-Earth is, largely, done with Maglor, so much so that his ending is left unwritten. Certainly, Maglor intends to be done with the world. Whether he gets that wish is significantly more difficult to answer.

Five takes on the mysterious fate of Maglor. Some tragic, some bittersweet.

 

(Content Warning are posted at the beginning of each chapter)

Chapter 1: Give and Take (and Take)

Notes:

Content Warning: toxic relationships, self-loathing, suicide

It’s only now, at the end, that he understands his mistake.

For hundreds of years, he’s followed Maedhros. He did it for love, because his brother had taken care of him from the very start. He did it for loyalty, because his father had always told him that family should stand with each other– always– never mind who he was leaving out of that advice. But maybe more than anything, he followed his brother out of guilt. There was no way he could ever make up for leaving Nelyo to suffer on that cliff, and he’d stopped trying to justify that choice to himself a long time ago. Nelyo had always been the best of them, and Maglor had proven himself the worst. Of course he followed his brother. It was all he had to give, even if Maedhros would never forgive him.
He’d held the gap, on his own, for hundreds of years. It was not easy. It was a lonely, difficult, painful job that left him with little support and huge burdens. He’d held back orc assaults uncountable times, lost good horses and better elves in the process. He’d sung his voice horse, and fought until he thought he’d drop. It hadn’t been enough in the end.
During the Bragollach, he promised himself that he’d die before yielding his position to the dark forces. He hadn’t been able to keep that promise. He couldn’t remember exactly what had happened, only fire and fury and song. Then he’d woken up in Himring. Maedhros had been at his bedside, with a strange expression on his face. He’d told Maglor that the gap had been lost, that their cousins and uncle had perished. He’d known then that he’d failed, almost worse than before. His brother had left then, and Maglor had been almost glad, because he’d never been able to stand Nelyo’s disappointment. His brothers’ whispers later only told him what he already knew. He clearly couldn’t be trusted with his own command. He’d stayed with Maedhros, after that.
Before the Nirnaeth, Maedhros had gotten nervous, and Maglor had had to sing him to sleep almost every night. He’d tried to soothe his brother’s worried mind. It will work, he’d said, and he was sure he believed it at the time. Or had he just imagined that? That seemed to have been the wrong choice too, in the end, not that Maglor trusted his own judgement much any more. He’d felt a moment of bloody triumph when he’d rended Ulfang’s head from his body, but not long later, he realized he’d been far too late.
He’d also been the one to pull Maedhros away from– well. What has left of the high king. Maedhros hadn’t even looked at him for months, after that.
He’d spoken against Doriath. Argued that there was still diplomacy to be tried, perhaps with him instead of Celegorm of Curufin. Argued that Dior was a young king in a vulnerable spot, that there was more to be gained from trying to help him, rather than risking another large battle. Another mire of blood and ash. Argued that it would be trivially easy for Dior to slip the Silmaril away in the uncharted forests that surrounded Doriath. That innocents with no say in Dior’s choice and no grievance against the House of Feanor would bear the brunt of it. Argued that it was better for them to try for the other two Silmarils again–
Maedhros had told him, in no uncertain terms, to stop talking. That was about when the others had stopped listening entirely. His fault, maybe, to bring it up so soon after the disaster of the Nirnaeth. Anyways, he hadn’t done anything to stop the others, afterwards. He’d killed too. The fact that he did so reluctantly changed nothing for those who died on his sword.
In the end, everything he’d warned of had come to pass. The Silmaril escaped, three brothers and hundreds of Feanorian warriors lay dead. Amongst the Doriathrin, many of the dead weren’t even soldiers. He’d watched Maedhros rush off into the woods in hopes of finding Dior’s twin sons, and watched him come back empty handed and silent. They’d buried their brothers, and Maedhros had seemed angry, and Maglor could not quite bring himself to comfort his brother, even if he knew he should. Still, he never once spoke of the folly of Doriath, barely mentioned the battle at all afterwards.
The histories later would not know it, but it had been the Ambarussa who had first wanted to attack Sirion. Maglor remembered a time when his youngest brothers had innocent, sweet children. But Doriath had made them angry in some unreachable, unfixable way. Maybe it would’ve been mendable, if he weren’t himself. He’d seen their eyes as they watched the older brothers burn, and somehow, wasn’t surprised when they suggested attacking Dior’s daughter.
Maglor had, again, objected. More strongly this time. Sirion was no guarded kingdom, after all. It was a refugee haven, one filled half with Noldor. Earendil, Elwing’s husband, was kin to them. And Maglor had a hard time thinking of Elwing as anything but a scared girl. He knew whose fault it was, of course, but– It shouldn’t have surprised him when Maedhros dismissed his concerns, again. He’d remarked, icily, that Maglor’s refusal to act had not worked out very well in the past. It had had the desired effect of making him stop talking. And what was the point of talking to Maedhros? It wasn’t as if he had anything useful to say. He thought he’d seen something almost like guilt flicker across Maedhros’s face after that. He didn’t dwell on it.
He’d used his voice at Sirion, not his sword, not that it mattered much when the soldiers he sent to sleep were just finished off by someone else. None of his intentions ever mattered. He walked through the burning havens like he was in some strange nightmare. He felt numb when he found the Ambarussa, side-by-side and stuck through with arrows. For a moment, they’d been the children they were, instead of the monsters they had become. He’d watched his brother approach Elwing, watched her jump, and felt nothing but aching relief when she soared away.
He’d been the one to climb into her tower, when the battle was largely over. He’d been the one to find her two children curled together under their parents’ bed, shaking. He’d sung to them, softly, still only half present, and carried them from the tower on his shoulders. Maedhros had looked shocked and angry when he saw the children, had told Maglor to leave them behind. If that happened, the orcs would almost certainly get to them before any elves. Maglor hadn’t tried to justify his choices. Hadn’t spoken up against his brother. No point in speaking to someone who never listens. He’d just kept walking.
Maedhros tried to convince him to leave the children several times, during those first few months. He never responded, and never did what he was told to. Eventually, Maedhros gave up. After that, he seemed to avoid Maglor much of the time. Maglor felt guilty– more so than usual– for the relief that brought him.
He couldn’t quite admit to himself that what his brother had done was wrong, even then, because Maedhros was the best of them and always had been. It was the only way he could cope with what his brother had done. What Maglor had done for him.
The next few decades in Amon Ereb, short as they were, were happier. The children, afraid at first, warmed to him quickly. He spent much of his time trying to teach them and ensure they were cared for as best they could be, under the circumstances. They began to call him Atto, after a couple years. Maedhros seemed almost disgusted, the first time he heard it, but he said nothing. Maglor would not have cared either way. His children felt like the only thing he’d done right since that bloody day at Alqualonde, so many years ago.
Maedhros began to talk to him, again. Small things, at first. Once, he’d told Maglor that he’d made the right choice, with the children. Maglor had smiled, and thanked him, and felt better afterwards. Maedhros even began to teach the children as well. Watching his brother and his children together, he felt almost at peace.
It snuck up on him. Valinor’s armies arrived, and Beleriand began to fall apart, and one day, Maedhros told him the children were going to be sent away. Panic had squeezed his heart, then, and he’d stuttered out some objection. But Maedhros had convinced him it was for the best, in the end. They couldn’t keep the twins safe any more, and in any case, once the war was won and the Silmarils retrieved, Maglor would be able to see them again. Maedhros had assured him of that. He didn’t have the heart to tell his children what was going to happen. It was another choice he regretted. It didn’t make handing them off to Gil-Galad’s forces any less heartbreaking. Maglor didn’t think he’d ever forget the look in Elrond’s eyes when he realized that Maglor was giving them up. But he promised himself that he’d be back for them, eventually, and they wouldn’t have to be parted again.
The end of the war, however, didn’t bring a reunion. It brought a final argument with his brother, a tired discussion at this point. Maglor argued against stealing the Silmarils, exhausted. Maedhros argued for, but with little force. He seemed to know that in the end, Maglor would follow in this, as he had followed him in everything. The fact that Maedhros barely even tried to convince him was horrible. The realization that Maedhros was right was somehow worse.
 At the very least, he lets Maglor sings the guards to sleep without killing them, this time. And then, Maedhros picks up the Silmaril, and Maglor thinks, for a moment, that everything will be fine.
Maedhros holds his Silmaril in the prosthetic hand, inarticulate but shaped to hold something about the size of the hilt of a sword. Maglor does not have a hand of metal.

He takes his Silmaril, and it burns. He screams, the flesh on his hand beginning to melt away, and he sees beyond the wonderful, terrible light that Maedhros has dropped his on the ground, that he’s reaching out to Maglor. He speaks more kindly to Maglor than he has in a long time. He tells Maglor that he needs to drop the gem, that it will be alright but that he must stop.
But it’s too late, because Maglor has stopped listening to the brother who led him into blood and death twice over. For whom Maglor crossed so many lines, and shed so much blood. Who he always trusted absolutely, despite so much proof that he should have stopped listening to Maedhros long ago. He was the one who gave up his children. He realizes, dimly, that Maedhros has led him wrong once more. He’ll never see them again. A puddle of blood and melted meat drips from the ruins of his hand. It seems poetic, somehow, that Maedhros has managed to avoid this last pain.
His brother is still talking to him, has his left hand around Maglor’s arm. Maglor wrenches himself away from Maedhros, suddenly angry as he hasn’t himself be in centuries. Has he ever been this angry? At himself, maybe. Not at Maedhros. Never at Maedhros. He understands now that neither love, nor loyalty, nor guilt should have guided his choices, but it’s too late for him to change any of that now. He’s already done too much evil. Even his father’s creation– his father?– thinks so.
Maedhros still talks, more desperate now, but Maglor barely hears. He turns and runs, ignoring the calls behind him. He doesn’t think he could let go of the Silmaril now, even if he wanted to, it’s melted into his hand. He does not want to let go.

Soon, he finds himself standing along the shore. Breathing roughly, he staggers into the ocean, and when a wave washes him out to sea, he doesn’t fight it.

Maglor Feanorian drowns, still holding the Silmaril. This time, though he does not know it, it is his older brother who follows him to death and ruin.

Notes:

Normally, I prefer kinder takes on Maedhros and Maglor's relationship, but there's so much potential for these two to be a toxic shitshow after Thangorodrim. The next chapter will also be horrible for Maglor, just in a different way.

Chapter 2: Justice and Judgement

Notes:

Content Warning: major character death, mind control

He wanders, the years turning to sand and dust. He sings, and he plays, and he calls out to the silent stars– to one star in particular. He sings of the judgement he had once avoided, one he would gladly face now. There’s never an answer; he’s not surprised. He missed that chance long ago, and no ainur remain on these shores. And still, he sings.
He meets many people in his travels, asks for news in exchange for songs. He’s not sure what he’s listening for; not sure why he seeks out news of Elrond and Celebrimbor, knowing he can never see either of them again. There aren’t many elves who recognize him for who he is. He thinks he first hears the name from one of them.
It is the dwarves, next, who begins to whisper to him, to mutter of Istar sent from the west. Of great works and unfaded beauty in elvish Eregion. They do not know what an ainur is, but Maglor does, and their descriptions leave little room for doubt. There is a Maia in his nephew Celebrimbor’s city. And for the first time in uncounted years, Maglor has a choice to make.
He lost his chances for redemption and mercy long ago, he knows that. He lives on only because he can’t bear to follow his brother– at least, that’s what he tells himself. Maybe he just fears Namo, who doomed his family and people so long ago. And perhaps this Maia would just send him there, they’d be well within their right to do so. Whatever they did would be just, certainly. He’s lost redemption, mercy, peace. But now, he at least has another chance at judgement.
The next morning, for the first time in uncounted years, he leaves the shore and waves behind.
It is difficult to sneak into Eregion unseen, but not impossible. He’s not cruel; he won’t force Celebrimbor to deal with his presence. Still, he can’t help but notice the proud, red banners with the eight-pointed star woven in. If he focuses on them, he can almost pretend he’s back in Thargelion. But he can’t get distracted; Thargelion and its lord were both swallowed by the darkness long ago.
It isn’t difficult to find the Maia; they’re doing very little to hide their divine presence. Thankfully, they’re– he’s– alone. He catches a glimpse of the Maia’s face; pale as marble, and just as impassive. Golden hair and golden eyes. He looks more a statue than a person. Somehow, he does not seem surprised when Maglor enters the room and falls to his knees before him.
“Why have you come before me, Maglor Son of Feanor?” His voice is measured, ordered, falling from his lips like silk. Maglor tries not to shiver– most Maiar he’d met were better at forming incarnate voices. He, at least, does not sound angry with Maglor.
“I come for judgement, my lord. Judgement for the many crimes I’ve committed.” There’s a pause, and Maglor reassures himself that this is the right choice. Even the worst punishment would be justified; he has nothing to fear.
“What judgement would you seek? I warn you, the punishment for such disobedience to the Valar will be painful. If you leave now, I’ll tell no one of your presence.” Maglor can’t suppress his shudder this time. Is this a test? Still, he can’t back down. He tried to outrun the Valar’s judgement during the War of Wrath, and all he’d been left with was an open wound where his older brother used to be. Even if he can never be forgiven, there still has to be some good in trying. He forces down his growing unease and speaks.
“I’ll take whatever judgement you will give me, lord.” He chances a glance up at Annatar’s face. There is a strange smile there. Maglor lowers his head and braces for what is to come. The room suddenly feels far, far warmer.
“Good.”

Aragorn tried hard not to let any fear show on his face, his horse pacing before the Black Gate. His challenge issued, his path already set. He tried also not to think too long on Sam and Frodo, probably still struggling through Mordor. Somehow, not even his thoughts felt safe this close to Sauron’s horrible eye.
He was not expecting the messenger, head bowed, riding on a horse that doesn’t quite look solid. The closer they came, the more uneasy he felt. They wore a set of harsh black armor, one that covered all but the lower part of their face, revealing pale skin marked with scars. Something about their slumped posture looked unnatural. He was, rather unwillingly, reminded of the puppet shows held during festivals in Gondor. He’d seen nothing of the sort growing up, being raised in Imladris, and had always found them a bit unsettling.
“Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur.” The voice came soft and toneless, as though the figure was sleeping. Their head turned towards him, but stayed oddly slumped. “Thou wouldst challenge the mighty Sauron, lord of Mordor?” That was no mannish voice. One of the Eldar, then. Aragorn shuddered. He’d seen enough thralls in his time to know when someone wasn’t acting of their own will. “Lord Sauron has agreed to allow your halfling friends safe passage across his lands, if you are willing to leave this place, and allow my Lord proper domination over Mordor and the kingdoms near.” The voice was beautiful, enough that Aragorn had trouble focusing on the words. For a moment, all seemed still, he and his warriors caught in the melody of the messenger’s voice. He felt Gandalf’s hand on his shoulder, Narya warm on his finger. No matter how sweet the voice, he knew he could neither trust Sauron to keep his bargain, nor justify leaving any of Middle Earth undefended.
“Your bargain is heard, messenger, but not accepted. I shall not allow your lord any part of Middle Earth, nor will I leave this place.” The messenger opened his mouth to speak again, but Gandalf interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut through the messenger’s enchantments.
“Thou shall not fool us into submission! We will stay and fight here, no matter what thy master wishes!” Aragorn heard the clamoring of spears and swords behind him, his army roused.
For the first time, the messenger raised their head. Though Aragorn couldn’t see their eyes, he felt watched. “You will die.” He heard a great mustering behind the Black Gate, the sounds of a dreadful force stirring to action.
“No, We will not.” And Aragorn raised his sword and began to speak.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the chasm that Sauron’s defeat had carved into the earth. A moment before, a fell force of darkness had stood there. Now, there was only a great scar. It was over. They had won. His army had already begun the trek back to Gondor, but he’d decided to stay for a bit. He’d hoped to get some sign of Frodo and Sam’s survival, but had seen none; only the rage of Mount Doom, measured out in smoke and fire. He was about to turn back when he heard a horribly familiar gasping– the sound of someone’s life force bleeding away.
Turning, he saw a crumpled heap of black armor lying near the edge of the chasm. His heart was beating in his ears. The messenger.
He knew immediately that they were going to die; a huge gash in their armor just below their ribs had already spilled far too much of their blood. A pang of sorrow ran through him. With Sauron’s defeat, they were probably free, for the first time in– well. Elves were immortal. Possibly hundreds or thousands of years.
The messenger turned their face to Aragorn as he approached, their mouth twisted with pain, blood dripping from their visor.
“King of Gondor.” Awake, their voice was still soft, though now pain gave it an edge. “He is dead?” It was half a question.
Aragorn knelt beside the figure. “Yes, he is.” He paused. “I am sorry, there is nothing I can do for your wounds.” He paused. How many people had he watched die since this quest began? Reaching out, he took one of the messenger’s hands.
There was silence for a moment. “Why does thou stay here? Thou owest nothing to me, certainly.”
“I stay because it is the good thing to do. Speak nothing of owing.” Aragorn made his voice gentle, remembering how his father spoke to the ill and dying in the healing halls.
To his surprise, the figure let out a small, sad laugh. “Thou reminds me of someone…” Their voice trailed off. “Are the stars out now?”
“Not quite, friend.” The sky was still blotted with Sauron’s smoke. He too wished the stars were out, they’d always remind him of the summer nights he’d spent stargazing in Imladris.
“Tis a shame, I’d have liked to see them again. There were none, over Morder. Not while he dwelled there.” It was a cruel thing, to lock an elf away from the light of the stars.
He took one of the messenger’s hand in his own. “I am told that elves may be reborn after dying. I am sure you will see them again, across the sea.” There was a choked sound, almost a sob.
When the figure spoke again, their voice wavered. “Thou hast a good heart, young king. Wilt thou do something for me?”
“I will do my best.”
“When I am dead, please, burn my body. In elder days, we burned our dead on pyres.” Aragorn sighed.
“You are Noldor, then. Fear not, friend, I will see it done properly.” The figure seemed to contemplate for a moment. Opened their lips, briefly. Closed them again. Waited a moment.
“Thank you.”
After thinking a moment, Aragorn began to sing. It was an old Quenya song, one his father had sung for him when he was young. It had always comforted him, in times of darkness. He hoped it would do the same for the messenger now, who began to weep softly.
And Aragorn stayed with the messenger until they died. Letting go of their limp hand, he turned to look at the sky, still dark with smog. He gasped. An eagle was soaring towards Gondor. In its talons was a small, familiar figure.

Notes:

Estel, always where you least expect him. I feel like people overlook Aragorn's compassion, sometimes. To my mind, it's a huge part of what makes him a wonderful character and king.

Chapter 3: and because today is the very last day, they will sing forever

Notes:

Title taken from A Softer World.

CW: self-neglect, general tradegy

(Second Age, 1753)
Lameth has been traveling for months. Through forests, up mountains, and into valleys. Well, she’s a herald, to travel is her job, though this assignment has taken her much farther from home than usual. She’s almost reached her destination when she finally finds the beach. After so long wandering through landlocked terrain, it’s nice to see the ocean again. She’s gotten there a bit ahead of schedule too, which is nice. It allows her to spend a few days fishing to supplement the stale biscuits she has left of her rations.
One night, after she’s already set up camp and started cooking her dinner over the fire, she hears it for the first time. A song, more beautiful– and more terrible– than anything she’s ever heard. It’s words in a language that she doesn’t recognize, one that flows and rolls like the tides, that makes her feel like she’s being swept off into the dark sea. It’s a voice that sounds male and female, changing registers from moment to moment, always with the same lilting beauty. It leaves her frozen in wonder.
Even though she doesn’t understand the words, she can tell that the song is a sad one. Sadness as shock, anguish, despair, desolation; as other words that maybe don’t exist in her tongue. The voice, for all its beauty, seems to shake with the raw tragedy of its words. Without realizing it, she finds that there are tears welling up in her eyes. She wants to ask what its words mean, why they make her feel like she’s drifting away, why it’s singing this wonderful, miserable song on the shore.
Soon, she sees the figure walking along the shore, covered in a long, ragged cloak, carrying a worn, wooden harp in weathered, bandaged hands. She can’t make out the figure’s face under the hood, just long black hair. She’d think they were floating in the cloak, if not for the trail of footprints they leave behind. They walk past her, turning their head towards her slightly, but not stopping. Before she can think much about it, she speaks.
“Stranger, won’t you come have dinner with me?” The figure stops walking, stops singing, cocks their head, looking straight at her. It should be scary, but it’s not, only– well. Sad? The word has never felt so shallow before. It almost makes her ache, somewhere in her chest.
“But what shall I offer in return for your kind invitation?” The voice is unlike the song. It is soft, where the song was loud, and weak, where it was strong. It seems as worn and threadbare as the rest of them. How can such a song come from such a voice? There is some emotion, perhaps, in the voice, but she doesn’t know what.
“Play for me,” she says, because while they’ve been singing the whole time, they have not played a single note on the battered instrument. The figure takes a moment, clearly considering, before nodding. They seem to sweep themself down into a sitting position across from her. And then, they play.
It’s not the same song as before, but it’s no less beautiful. Their voice, powerful again, and the harp, which sounds like no earthly instrument, weave– and why is that the word she thinks of?– together a picture of peace and sunlight that leaves her filled with a longing so intense that she forgets where she is, for a moment. She wants to go home. The song makes her think of her own little cottage, far behind her now, but she also knows, somehow, that the figure sings of somewhere she’s never seen. Somewhere she could never see.
It has been forever and only a few moments when they stop, ending with something almost like a sob. A sound torn from deep inside of them. For a moment, she only sits there and shakes, but then, she remembers herself. She takes the fish off of the fire, hands one of them to the figure. She catches a glimpse of their face, beneath the cloak. Their skin is grayish shade of pale and she sees the faint outlines of their teeth through their cheeks.
There was so much she wanted to ask them about. The strange, unfamiliar language. The unspeakable sadness. The visceral neglect. She can’t seem to get any words out. For a moment, they sit in silence. She is not the one who next breaks the stillness of the night.
“What brings you here, tonight?” Again, their voice is soft, though now that she listens more closely, she hears the melody under it. Perhaps the figure never really stops singing. Perhaps they can’t.
“I– I am a herald.” The figure cocks their head again. “I’m on my way to a city a bit farther south. My leader– a duke, I live over the mountains, in the northeast– sent me to try and negotiate a new trading treaty.” She’s stumbling over her words, they seem so clumsy now, but nevertheless, they beckon her on.
“You see, up where I live, we have wonderful wood, from the evergreen trees. And down here, they’ve got nice metals, ones we can’t mine in the north. So we trade…”
The next morning, that is about as far as she can remember. The figure is gone, as though they were never there. All she is left with is questions. And the desire to finish the negotiations and go back to her cottage as quickly as possible.

(Fourth Age, 157)
Edward has already heard tales of the singer on the shore; that strange, ghostly figure who wanders the beach in some uncharted, unknown pattern. Other folk have told stories of their ancestors’ encounters with them over shared meals, of their willingness to sing such beautiful songs that it could bring listeners to tears; great joy and greater sorrow. All told, he’s almost excited when he first hears the melody, off in the distance. But not long later, he finds the feeling sinking, turn into something closer to dread.
The figure, for all their songs are beautiful, is a ghastly sight. Their cloak seems almost shredded, though it still covers almost their whole form– he wonders if that happened in the storm that blew through the area last week. The figure’s dark hair is ragged and tangled. They carry a harp, but many of the strings on it are broken. Most jarring, they walk with a limp, leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints. He’s struck then with an odd mix of fear and pity. The stories he was told had not been nearly so– like this. The stories had sounded like fairy stories. Fairy stories didn’t bleed. He stands still, hardly daring to breathe, as the figure begins to pass him, not turning towards him. It’s then that sympathy overcomes terror. He’s no healer, but perhaps he can still help this poor soul, whoever they are.
He starts quietly. “Hello?” No response. “Are you alright?” Still nothing. He raises his voice, thinking again of the stories. “What are you singing?” That gets their attention.
“A lament,” comes the quiet response. His mouth opens, closes. He’s certainly got their attention now, and they are completely still as silent as they wait for his response.
“You’re injured.” Something like a nod. “Do you want me to try and help?”
“No.” Comes the voice, softly again.
“Your harp is broken.”
“Yes.” Says the figure, and their voice is so pained at the word that he regrets asking.
“If you came into the village, maybe someone could fix it.” Edward hopes that the words will make the figure happy, but they only seem to sink into themself.
“No.”
“I could take it into the village for you.” The figure seems to consider, before shaking their head.
“None living could mend it.” The words have all the finality of a death. Looking closer, Edward sees the decayed remains of intimate carvings, and metal mechanisms exposed by damage. A few brightly colored paint chips still cling to the wood. He’s never seen an instrument like it, and suddenly feels foolish for the suggestion. Of course no one in his small fishing village would be able to fix something like that.
“I’m sorry.” He says. The stories of the figure had always included their beautiful harp playing. It must’ve been a great loss for them to see the instrument broken beyond repair.
“Would you like me to sing for you?” The voice cuts through his thoughts. He feels strangely like a child, standing next them. Still, he nods. And oh, does the figure sing.
It is later that night when he comes back to himself, out of his strange, dreamlike reverie. The figure is gone, leaving behind only bloody footprints. His only clear memory of the day is watching the figure walk, waist deep, into the ocean, giving their ruined harp over to the waves. He hurries back to the village. He’s not sure he’ll want to talk about his own encounter with the singer. He’d rather the others remember the fairy stories.

(Much, Much Later)
Stella is out for her morning run when she hears it. It’s– a song, she thinks? A chant, maybe? Somewhere between the two. There is no music, only the strange, lone voice. She does not recognize the language, even in passing. It does not sound much like English, or German, or Japanese. The way it flows reminds her a little of French, but it clearly isn’t that either. And oh god, it’s beautiful, even if she doesn’t understand it at all. Getting closer, too. She finds herself going towards the source without caution, without even thinking about it.
She stops dead when she finally sees the singer. They walk along the beach. They’d almost seem to glide, if not for the clear limp they walk with. They are dressed in a long, colorless cloak and hood, worn ragged and ripped in many places. She can she a bandaged, skeletal hand reaching out of the cloak, gripping the figure’s other shoulder, which moves stiffly, as though injured. Their long, matted hair is tangled through with sand, sticks, even seaweed. She stumbles back, suddenly afraid, but the figure doesn’t seem to notice her at all, continuing to walk and sing. The contrast between the beautiful song and the frightful singer leaves her feeling nauseous, off-balance.
She wonders, suddenly, if she should call someone about this person. They’re clearly injured, and almost certainly deeply unwell. Perhaps they’re one of the local homeless folk– but then, she knows most of them and she’s never seen someone like this at all. There’s no service on the beach, but maybe, when she gets back up to her car, she can call an ambulance.
She takes one last look at the figure. They simply continue walking away, into the forever of the morning fog.
Later, she’s told by a friend who works at the hospital that they spent hours looking for the strange person she’d seen on the shores. They’d found no traces of anyone having been there at all. She tries to put it out of her mind after that. She never really succeeds.

Long after the last ship has sailed to Valinor, a broken harp washes up on a quiet, isolated beach in the blessed realm. It is the last thing that will ever make it to the shores of the west.

Notes:

I was going for a very specific atmosphere with this chapter– melancholy and a bit dreamlike. There's a reason I chose to go with outsider POV for it; I don't think there are words for what's happening in this Maglor's mind. I promise the last two chapters will have happier endings.

Chapter 4: I Remember You

Notes:

CW: none this time

Maglor knew that others called his song the Noldolante– the fall of his people. It was not the title he’d have given to the song. The song was everything– the unspooling of his memories; from their cherished beginning in Valinor to the sinking of ruined Beleriand– nothing after that mattered, anyway. He wove names and faces into his song; those that dwelled in other places and those forgotten forever, those who would never see the stars again and those who, still in Arda, had changed much from when he knew them. In his song, all were preserved in their past tragedies and triumphs, lament ever-sung by the shore, sinking into the cold, dark, eternal sea.
Still, as long as the song stretched, as much as it remembered, it always felt incomplete to him. No voice, however powerful, beautiful, resonant could make itself into harmony and melody, cantus firmus and counterpoint. No elvish voice, anyway. When he was younger, it had not seemed so. He’d sung alone, for none else had the patience or skill to sing with him. But much had changed once he’d reached Middle-Earth. Once, duets had been his favorite compositions, slipped into letters, written between lines, refined mind-to-mind during dull diplomatic summits.
Valar, no one even knew what had happened to him.
Eventually, he left the shore. Perhaps the years still meant something to him after all. Maglor felt part of his song was losing his color, the forests’ leaves blurring into mist, the mountains crumbling into mere hills of sand. And that was a travesty he couldn’t have; the song was the most important– the only important– thing he had left. He could not allow it to fade as he had. And so he went to find the forests, mountains, rivers; all that would bleed the color back into his words. And if he was leaving the sand and salt behind, he could hardly regret that.
The sea had always been an unforgiving audience. Maglor knew well enough that Ulmo would never listen, that all the great powers of the world had turned their backs long ago. He’d never liked them, in any case, suspicious as his father. The Valar Morgoth’s kin in control and cruelty, the Maiar their dutiful servants in all of it. Oh, but he’d always preferred the lesser powers. Half-powers. Never had one of them disappointed him as men and elves and Ainur had. Though he’d certainly disappointed them.
The forest he found himself in was not quite the undimmed beauty he sung of, but it worked well enough. Flowers pushed through carpets of moss to bloom in the spring, leaves turned golden and crimson-red in the Autumn. He’d forgotten the birdsong, too. In the forests of Beleriand, and Valinor before it, he’d always sought the birds out, learning to imitate their cries. He sung still, mostly, but he also sometimes stopped and listened, letting the birds carry the melody for a moment.
It was there that he first heard it– the unmistakable call of a nightingale, clear and beautiful above the symphony of noise. He almost thought it a hallucination; months in these woods and he had neither seen nor heard a nightingale, and it would be horribly like him to imagine it, for no bird was dearer to him. And so, he tried to put it from his mind. But every few days, the call would return. And, almost as though he was a child in the woods again, he began to search for the creature.
Of course, his blustering through the woods only seemed to scare it off. And so, remembering his old ways, he thought to sing back to the nightingale, to mirror its call and draw it close. It didn’t work, and Maglor wasn’t surprised.
He’d never been overfond of such familiar sounds, after all, or the comparisons they led to. Neither harmony nor counterpoint could be sung on the same tune as the melody. He’d thought much the same, and while he’d always sung proudly in his own voice, he liked Maglor best in a different tune.
In the old days, the good old days even, of Beleriand, Maglor had used a magpie on his heraldry, as had Finrod. It had been something of a running joke between them, even, two bards using a bird known not for its song, but for a love of all things shiny. Eru, he missed Finrod. On his better days, he could admit that he’d never forgiven his brothers for the death of his golden cousin, Maglor’s friend in all things. He’d heard that Finrod had been reembodied early, even before the War of Wrath. He was glad of that.
It was nice, to sing a magpie’s song instead of his own. It was harsh, nothing like his normal voice, but he’d always found beauty in that too. Birdsong was light and free, unburdened by expectations of greatness or the crushing weight of memory. It took many tries to get it right; he was out of practice. An endless cycle of lament was no preparation songbird’s tune. He heard the nightingale more often, then, and was glad of it, though he’d still never seen the bird.
The terrain had changed, though it took him a long time to realize it. The nightingale had led him somewhere rather different than where he’d started off. The forest here had an odd aura around it, with life flowing through the rivers and and a tinge of silvered light edging the leaves. It he didn’t know better, he’d almost think he was back in Doriath. Maglor wondered if he’d finally broken with reality entirely, and the nightingale had only been the harbinger of his madness. If it was madness, it was a pleasant one at least. Here among the flowers and the trees, it was easy to believe that the world was not the tragedy it was; that not all the beauty had yet faded from it. And so, for the first time in uncounted years, he slept, concerning himself neither with singing, nor with listening.
When he woke, there was a small, white nightingale staring at him expectantly. He stared back.
“You made that more difficult than it had to be. On purpose.” The accusation lacked any heat, the words oddly melodic. Maglor felt ready to find some humor in having sung so long he’d forgotten how to talk properly.
The bird stared, slowly turned his head to look off into the distance, and then turned back.
“Where exactly are you taking me?”
The bird cocked his head. There was silence for a moment.
Maglor sighed. “Fine, I’ll follow.”

 

Bilbo had never seen anything like Rivendell’s gardens– and that was saying something, for hobbits took great pride in their gardening. Lord Elrond had given him permission to wander through and ask whatever questions he liked– which he certainly would once he saw the lord again. Many of the plants in the garden were foreign to him, and some of them defied belief. He had particular questions about a few varieties of sparkling, variegated roses; ones he’d never seen in the Shire–
His thoughts trailed off as he heard birdsong, like nothing he’d heard before. It took him a moment to realize that it was not one bird, but two singing in harmony. He’d never heard of birds doing such a thing, though perhaps it was common behavior in such a mystical place.
Almost without thinking, he found himself creeping closer to the sound. It was easy for him to make no noise, though surely one of his dwarfish companions would’ve found it very difficult.
There, sitting on the head of one of the garden statues– a finely-dressed elf Bilbo didn’t recognize– were two song birds, singing together. Neither looked entirely familiar to Bilbo, one blue-black, the other silver-white. The song they made was beautiful, and Bilbo found himself stopping, taking a moment to just enjoy the wonderful garden and beautiful song.
“Lovely, aren’t they?” Bilbo started, and turned around to see Lord Elrond, their faced turned to look at the birds.
“What birds are they? I don’t think I’ve ever seen those kind before.” Elrond smiled.
“A magpie and a nightingale.” Bilbo squinted. He’d seen many of those in his time and none had ever looked like that. Perhaps it was just another strange part of Rivendell?
“Do they always sing together?”
“Oh, usually. They’ve been with each other for a very long time, after all. Perhaps you’ll see them in the Hall of Fire tonight.” Bilbo laughed at that.
“Birds in the Hall of Fire? That would certainly be an interesting performance!” Elrond laughed too, though the sound wasn’t what he would’ve expected, and Bilbo swore he heard the birds do something similar.
“Well, certainly, but not everything here is quite as it appears.” They smiled. “Tell me Bilbo, how much do you know about the Tale of the Two Mistrels?”
Bilbo blinked. “Why, yes– I have heard something of that– Gandalf used to tell that story to the faunts in the Shire. Come to think of it, he never said whether the minstrels were elves or men or anything else. He was talking about birds?”
“Well, sometimes.” Bilbo squinted. Elrond began back up the path towards the main hall. Bilbo followed, slightly indignant.
“Are none of you wizards or elves able to answer a question without raising another?” The two birds flew overhead, Elrond’s eyes following them as they soared deeper into the valley.
“Wait until you meet my father– he’s worse than I am, I assure you.”

Notes:

Weird elvish magic my beloved! Also Maglor finally getting a happy ending!

Chapter 5: To Sail a Sea of Stars

Notes:

Critical of the Valar and Thingol, but not of Elwing or Earendil.

Content Warning: discussions of Sirion

Though he sung ever on the shore, it was not the ocean he sung to, but Gil-Estel, eternally out of reach. At first, it was an act of desperation, fighting against the reality; that the only thing that could fulfill his father’s oath and save his family from the eternal darkness was forever lost to him. Perhaps, even if he could not reach the stars, his words could. Maybe, just maybe, that would mean something.
Later, when the agonized pressure of those first years died down, when he’d decided that the only way forward was for him to live forever so that the oath may never be forfeit, he continued to sing. He thought less about the light and more about the captain who watched over it. Earendil Ardamire, a figure who has long haunted his dreams. Maglor never saw Earendil, but the half-elf haunted him, nevertheless, with the same gray-blue eyes and sharp teeth as his stolen children. Songs crossed his path often, and a few sang of Earendil. A drinking song about a cheerful man who became a star, an elf prince who slayed a dragon with a harpoon and sheer force of will. A demigod who burns who brightly that no evil can stand to look at him. As disparate as the stories are; knowing what he does about half-elves, they may all be true. Such beings have always been… hard to explain.
He wonders what it must be like, for a mariner who spent his life sailing the sea to sail amongst the stars– to be one of them, even. During the War of Wrath, they said Earendil’s place as the hope star had been a reward; but that had always made Maglor uneasy. The Valar understood so little of incarnates. If mountain tops are always capped with snow, how much colder must it be among the stars? Elrond and Elros had always gotten cold easily. It had worried him when they were smaller. Amon Ereb was barely suited for Elvish habitation by the time they’d come to it. The winters there had been awful.
He goes to Imladris eventually, half-dragged there by his child. He lives there for as long as he can, with the only family left to him in Middle-Earth. He delights in the haven they have built, and the wonderful person they’ve become. But eventually, they too must leave, worn down by years of holding Middle-Earth together. He watched their ship, as it disappears behind the horizon line. The elves fade, but Maglor cannot. He returns to the shore with another lost loved one woven into his songs.
And so he sung to Gil-Estel, not the jewel, but the man. Even as the songs fade, and the story of Ardamire becomes a legend, a myth, and then a whisper carried only by the tides, Maglor remembers. His memories have always been his gift, and his curse. It brought comfort to him, to know that there was always someone else wandering with him on the nights when the beaches he walks were drenched with wind and rain.
One day, Gil-Estel appeared neither in the morning, nor in the evening. When he didn’t appear the next night either, a fear he hadn’t felt in an eternity gripped his heart. He called out for hours, but the star never reappeared. On the morning of the third day he heard it– something like a distant echo of one of his owns songs, the lullaby he’d sang to his children long ago. He followed it.
The route was inhospitable, taking him down rocky beaches that no sane person would try to walk, and by the time he saw the light the soles of his feet were bruised and bleeding. Oh, but he saw the light. He knew what it was, deep in his fea, long before his mind caught up and understood what he was seeing. By that point, he was already wading through waist-deep, dark, cold ocean.
The ship drifted, sails bound, not far from the shore. The craftsmanship was something any Noldo would admire, a huge sailing vessel unlike any ship he’d seen before. On its deck, a light, fainter than it should have been but still unimaginably beautiful, flickered. He began to swim, the water cold and dark around him. The figure on the deck– the figure around whose brow the Silmaril was bound– did not move, but Maglor could hear him, singing faintly. There was a ladder over one side of the ship, and he began to climb it. When he reached the top, a hand appeared over the side, held out. Maglor took it, and before he could register what was happening, he was face to face with Gil-Estel.
“You came.” His voice was odd, rough and worn. When he was able to see past the flickering– fading, please don’t be fading– light, he saw why. Earendil seemed oddly… hollowed out. There was a beauty to him, but also a terrible suffering. His skin was set through with shimmering stardust, but it did nothing to hide how thin he was. His eyes– burned, almost, full of light, but they were surrounded by deep circles. His hair was long and golden, waving like ethereal sunlight, but also tangled, unbraided. Elrond had told him once that Earendil had always worn his hair up in the same pattern Turgon once had. He reminded Maglor of Elrond far more than he was expecting– like something about Earendil was no longer fully human or elvish.
“I did.” He supposed that he must be a much worse sight than Earendil, not that he had seen his own reflection for millennia. He searched for something else to say. “You disappeared. I called.”
“Yes.” Earendil shuddered a bit. “I…” A pause “I need your help, Maglor Feanorian.” He sounded hesitant.
Maglor bowed, slightly. “Then I am at your service, Earendil Ardamire.” Certainly he owed the half-elf that.
Earendil looked up at the sky with an odd expression. “We have been up there for a very long time. Out of the world. Ever since Numenor.” Maglor’s hand tightened around his wrist, his nails digging into it. Once, remembering Numenor had been a comfort, a reminder that some remnant of his mortal son remained in Middle-Earth. Now, because of the Valar, it was gone, buried with Beleriand. “Can’t set foot on Middle-Earth, Valinor either. We’re dying.” Father was right to name the Valar kin to Morgoth. Incarnates are not meant to spend eternity alone. “There’s a way back, maybe, but neither of us is strong enough for it.” He turned, faced Maglor directly. “You will help us?”
“Yes, I–” Maglor stopped, thought. “Us? Is someone else here?” He’d never heard any tales speak of someone else sailing the sky with Earendil. Suddenly, the half-elf looked even more exhausted. He turned towards the cabin.
“Yes, my wife. She chose to stay with me. It is by her power that we have lasted this long though… It has taken much from her.” Elwing. Maglor had never seen her either, at Doriath or at Sirion. To her as well, he owed more than he’d ever be able to pay. But that didn’t mean it was not worth trying.
“Perhaps I can help her, words of power can do many things.” Elrond had restored some of his old healing powers. If there was anyone who deserved that healing, it would be Elwing and Earendil.
Earendil smiled. “Yes, they can.” He cocked his head at Maglor. “I heard you, you know. Every night, for all those years… Thank you.”
Had he not been so out of practice, he would’ve laughed. “Perhaps you should wait until I get you back to Arda.”

Elwing was a small, strange figure, curled up in the bed in the cabin. She looked cold. Maglor had to stop for a moment, at the entrance. Earendil looked a fair bit like his children, but Elwing might have been either of them, if not for the eyes. She did not quite seem awake, though she roused when Earendil called to her. He moved to the side of their bed, whispering something to her. Her eyes flicked over to Maglor. He could not tell what emotion was in them.
“Maglor Feanorian.” She squinted. “You do not look nearly so frightening as I’ve been led to believe. A strong breeze would probably handle you, never mind a good hit.”
He did not think before responding. “Lady, under normal circumstances I’ve grant you that hit, but you don’t seem in any state for it at the moment.” Elwing laughed; a sharp, birdlike noise. Maglor drew out his harp. “I believe I can help you. May I sing for you?” She nodded her ascent.
After Maglor had sung for her, a song of the beauty of the Two Trees, when their glow had held all of Valinor in peaceful light, Elwing turned to him.
“I would like to ask you some questions. About Sirion.” Maglor shut his eyes. He did not want to talk about Sirion, but he had no right to refuse the conversation. He nodded. The First Age seemed so far away now, a nightmare of muddled memories and horrid deeds.
“I will answer honestly.”
“Did you believe you were doing the right thing?” The question gave him pause. There was suspicion in her voice.
“I knew we– I was doing something terrible; and that it was worse than the terrible things I’d done before.” If Elwing heard his slip she didn’t comment on it. Her voice was rough with anger when she spoke again.
“Then why did you do it?”
“The alternative seemed worse.” He wasn’t looking Elwing in the face. He couldn’t.
“How. Exactly.”
“If you died, you would escape Beleriand’s corruption, heal in Mandos, be reborn in Valinor, live a peaceful life. If I died, my brothers and fathers rot in the void forever with Morgoth. And everyone in Amon Ereb knew we were going to die soon enough. Beleriand was falling apart, and even if the Valar eventually came, there would be no aid for us.” There is a silence in which neither of them look at each other.
“Would your family really be sent to the void?” Elwing’s voice was small then. To Maglor, it sounded like it was coming from very far away.
“No. The oath is not forfeit until all of us have failed. That I why I still live, all these years later.” He closed his eyes. He’d never admitted that to anyone, though he was sure Elrond had known, in their own way.
“The oath… I heard horrible rumors about it, my whole life. About you, really. Did it truly– well. What was it like?”
He grimaces. “Think of a shackle, tied around your ankle. It weighs you down, rubs your skin raw with every step you take. You can still walk, with a bit more effort. Everything is fine, if you can ignore the weight, and the pain, and the smell of metal rubbing its way into your infected flesh.” He stopped there. Then again, Elwing had probably seen worse. “The oath is like that, but for the soul. At least, that’s how my brother described it. I never found reason to disagree with him.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t.” There was no real heat behind the words. “I’m not sure I should’ve said that.” She doesn’t continue, though there was still tension in the air. Maglor almost surprised himself when he spoke.
“Whatever you want to ask, ask it. I hardly think there can be more pain between us.”
“Were the Silmarils really made with pieces of your father’s soul?”
He let out a sharp breath. “Yes, they were. Maedhros said as much in the letter he sent, didn’t he?”
“I was told not to believe him.” Maglor snorted.
“No, I suppose you didn’t have any reason to. Thingol and his advisors never accepted the truth about the Silmarils. I suppose if they had, they would’ve had to think about whether it was right to keep from us.” He cut himself off, gathered his thoughts. “It was easy to be angry at him, I suppose. He was supposed to be kind, wise Elwe from Haru’s stories. For some of my brothers, that anger spread to all of Doriath. Even to you.”
“But not for you?”
“You were young and caught in mess of politics while the world fell apart around you. You made the best choices you could.” He tried hard not to think about the panic, and the darkness, and the oath he’d sworn in haste. “I could never fault you for that. I only grieve that it brought you so much pain.”
“Maglor, why haven’t you asked my husband for the Silmaril?”
“I try not to consider things that won’t happen. It never turns out well for me. If you’ll excuse me, Lady, I think I should go ask Earendil what he’s planning.” Without looking at her, he left the cabin.

Earendil was at the helm. The ship now traced through thick fog; Maglor couldn’t tell whether they were on or above the ocean.
“How’s Elwing?”
“Better, I hope. We talked. Where are you taking us?”
Earendil’s voice was light and casual. “The Void.” Maglor stopped, mid-step. He thought he might be sick. Earendil turned to look at him. “Don’t worry, I’ve been there before.”
“Under what circumstances would you–”
“I was looking for someone, alright? The point is, with the light of the Silmaril, the darkness there can be kept at bay; we can get back out. There’s a… gateway here, this place isn’t really in the world, so it operates by strange rules. Getting in isn’t the problem, it’s getting back out.” At this, his voice faded out. Maglor knew why.
“You’re going to go out through the Doors of Night.” He didn’t want to admit how scared he was of that. “But what about Morgoth?”
“That’s where you come in. Elwing is exhausted and I’ve never been much for songs of power, but I know you’ve sung Ainur to sleep before– a balrog, anyway. If you can incapacitate him, even for a couple minutes, we can slip out and seal the doors behind us. Can you do it?”
He purses his lips. “I will try. Though I should warn you, the Valar may not be so understanding when we show up in Valinor without their permission. They can be…”
“Cruel.” Earendil’s voice was choked. “Once I would’ve balked at the idea. But now… All I wanted was to see my family again, was that so much to ask?”
He looked at Earendil, slowly sinking into long-felt misery. “Who told you about the balrog?”
“Elrond did. Back when I was connected to Middle-Earth, it was pretty easy for them to fly up here. Though I haven’t seen them in a very long time.” His throat felt tight, suddenly. He tried not to think of his child too often. Faded as he was, the emotions always hurt more than they should. “That’s a big part of why I need to do this, Maglor. I don’t even know what happened to them– I have to find out–”
“They sailed.” Earendil startled. “A long time ago, after Sauron’s defeat. They would’ve faded otherwise. I lived with them, for a time.” The best years of my life. “I wish I could’ve gone with them, but the way west was closed to me. Saying goodbye to them was one of the hardest things I ever did. I– I care about them very much, Earendil.”
“I know that. Elrond told me about you. Not everything I’m sure, but. Well. You raised them, for better and for worse. They love you, clearly.” He felt unexpectedly warm, at that.
“It will take us a while to get to the gateway. Will you tell us about them?” For the first time in a long time, he smiled.
“Of course.”

The void was dark, cold, endless. He grew more nervous with each passing minute. The oath thrashed inside him in a way it hadn’t since that awful night in Eonwe’s camp. But he stood firm. Earendil and Elwing were close. In the distance, he saw them. The Doors of Night, and before them a hulking figure, a darkness that was far more alive than the one they sailed through. The figure turned to them with cold, dead eyes. Too late, Maglor saw the bits of broken chain around its feet. It turned towards them in strange, shifting movements.
Maglor sang. Almost without thinking, he chose a hymn for the hope-star, one composed by Elrond. It was a song of light, and Morgoth reacted to it as though struck. He raised his voice, but Morgoth did not stop, no matter how loudly he cralled. He realized, in a detached way, that they were probably all going to die in here.
Then, he felt a hand in his, a blazing warmth in a darkness.
“I will lend you my strength! We will not perish here, we will make it back to Valinor!”
“Once, my grandmother sung Morgoth to sleep. Now, I shall try the same.”
Two more voices joined his. They made a tattered chorus, but together, they began to push back Morgoth. He stopped, stumbled. Finally, he fell, sleeping. Earendil and Elwing pulled away as Maglor sank onto the deck of the ship. He twisted, seeing the Doors of Night begin to open, daylight pouring through.
When he looked down, there was a Silmaril in his hand. It did not burn. He laughed. The Silmaril’s light sang too, though most who’d held it never bothered to listen. The voice was familiar. So familiar. He heard someone else’s voice then, something that sounded like his name. He was too far gone to answer.

Maglor woke, lying face down on Vingilot’s dock. Someone was shaking his shoulder, speaking indistinct words. He could barely see when he opened his yes, but he made out a face framed with long, dark hair. Elwing then. He sat up, rising slowly, blinking his eyes a few times in the light. Elwing brushed his hair back from his face, keeping a hand steady on his shoulder.
He turned, and saw Elwing and Earendil on the dock, looking out onto the blessed shores. In Valinor’s light, they looked radiant. Alive. Earendil, Elwing–
He whipped around, heart pounding. Elrond smiled at him, their familiar streaked with tears. He pulled them into an embrace. I’ve found you.

Notes:

I felt like I had to end this with something happy for Maglor– and Elwing, Earendil, and Elrond too. I'm going to write more of these "five takes on canon" stories, so if there's anything you think would be good for a series like that, feel free to put it in the comments.