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Maglor did not understand what exactly was going on.
He had been minding his business, quite happily (or miserably really) singing his lament to the waves and the wind, debating on whether he wanted crab or oysters for dinner. The next thing he knew, a host of soldiers in Turgon’s colours surrounded him and bundled him onto the back of a horse in the most undignified position he had seen since Fingon’s rescue of Maedhros.
Somehow, and he suspected magic or potion involved, he had ended up bound to a chair in a very pleasant, airy room that smelled of lilac.
It was a room that most likely would have been even more pleasant, had the curtains been opened to let in the sunlight, and if it did not contain the last of his cousins and his (stolen) son.
As both had very good reason to kill him, mostly due to his particularly poor life choices (such as the aforementioned stealing of his son), finding himself defenceless in a room with them arguing was not the most enjoyable experience.
“I do believe, Elrond, that this is one of the most ridiculous ideas of yours I have heard since you decided to throw yourself from the observatory tower to see if you could grow wings.”
“You’re being a little unfair there. My plan to jump from the observatory tower was based on a peer reviewed hypothesis and methodology.”
“Celebrimbor did not, and will never count as ‘peer review’. Especially when it comes to potentially life threatening experiments. Or did you forget the exploding plates?”
Maglor listened with quite some horror. He had sent Elrond and Elros to Gil-galad and Celebrimbor to be safe! Not to take part in experiments that sounded like ones his father would have been proud of!
He did not say any of that though. Such a thing would draw their attention his way, and he did not like his odds.
Not when Galadriel looked terrifyingly like their grandfather in that moment.
“Just think,” Elrond said in the voice he had used as a child to wheedle dessert from the kitchens, “With the track record of High Kings of the Noldor, he’ll die in a fire related incident soon enough.”
Galadriel pursed her lips, “You make a compelling point. I suppose if he gets too annoying it shouldn’t be too difficult to find a nice balrog or volcano.”
It was possible that Maglor should have been upset by them talking about such traumatising events in front of him. He was a little too busy still trying to understand what exactly they were planning.
And why there was a crown that looked suspiciously like Fingon’s on the side.
“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you both.” He eventually found the courage to say, “But what exactly are you arguing about? And why am I here?”
Elrond smiled at him with far too many (sharp, serrated like a shark) teeth for it to be anything but a threat. “Why, ada, we were just discussing the merits and logistics of your coronation.”
His what?
“My what?”
It was Galadriel who spoke next, with a smile that was disconcertingly like Elrond’s for someone without Maiar blood. “Why, dearest cousin, your coronation. You can hardly be named as High King of the Noldor without one.”
Quite against his will, Maglor felt his vision start to darken as he embraced the sweet pull of unconsciousness. Maybe when he woke up it would all have been a bad mussel induced dream.
Unfortunately, when he woke up, he was still tied to the chair. Someone had, at least, been kind enough to place a pillow between his head and his shoulder.
Or perhaps, not so kindly, for as soon as he moved a host of tassels went up his nose and prompted a frankly enormous sneeze.
It sounded rather similar to the hunting horn that Celegorm had favoured.
Footsteps hurried towards him, his sneeze likely having alerted them to his awakening. A cunning plan. One that was almost certainly Elrond’s.
“Oh good, you didn’t die.” Galadriel said, her tone not matching her words at all. “It would have been irritating to have put all this effort in, only for you to die.”
“I’m glad my continued survival isn’t too disappointing to you, sweet cousin.” He croaked, suddenly aware that he hadn’t had a drink since dawn.
“You should be. Life would be so much easier for everyone if they realised they should work so that they do not disappoint me.”
“Humble as ever, I see.”
Galadriel frowned, and left his sight for a moment. When she returned it was with a glass filled with a pale yellow liquid. Maglor hoped that it was for him, but he would not put it past her to be so petty as to drink it in front of him.
To his joy, however, she held it gently to his cracked lips so that he could sip at its contents. It was a sour juice that stung a little, yet was so good he wanted even more.
He hadn’t had anything so flavourful, so fresh, in what seemed like millennia.
“What have you done to yourself, cousin.” She said softly, obviously not expecting an answer.
And yet Maglor pulled away from the cup to give her one.
“I walked and sang and sang some more.” He said, “I could hardly have done anything else.”
Anger flashed across her face, “You could have helped! When Celebrimbor fell, when we marched to Mordor! You could have helped!”
Maglor twisted his lips into a rueful smile, “My Oath is not complete. It could have been twisted, used against us all. I could not risk it. Better I stayed away.”
“And so your fear meant that Sauron murdered both your nephews.”
“That, Artanis, was cruel.”
“It was the truth, if said unkindly. But the loss of your nephews, of my cousins, has led the Noldor without a king.” She raised a single eyebrow, “And that is where you come in.”
It took a moment for her words to register.
“Me? You want me to be the king?”
He did not deserve the scathing look that received.
“Yes.”
“Did you forget that my family line was to be forever dispossessed? Never to hold the crown of the Noldor again?”
Galadriel flapped her hand as though she was batting away a fly. “Invalid. Especially considering we all know that dear Russo gave more than a hand in raising Ereinion.”
The joke was as terrible falling from her lips as it ever had been from Fingon’s. Worse, in fact.
“I still do not understand why it has to be me.”
“You are the last of us who could bear the crown. I do not want it, I am content with Loth Lorien and my Celeborn. He would not enjoy living in Lindon, nor would a long separation be something we would explore. As for Elrond, well, he has often and loudly declared how he will throw himself into the nearest fiery chasm if anyone even thinks about placing a crown on his head.” A smirk took hold, “Unless, of course, they are someone who is particularly fervent in their declaration that he is the heir of Thingol. That leads to a very serious and solemn promise that, should anyone try to give him Thingol’s crown, he will go to the dwarves and ask them to help him on his journey to the Halls.”
Maglor tried to place his head in his hands, but was somewhat hindered by the ropes binding him. Instead he tilted his head up to the ceiling and bemoaned whoever had taught Elrond to be so dramatic.
It had probably been Maedhros. Everyone knew he was the dramatic one.
“What if I don’t want the crown?”
“Your opinion doesn’t matter. You chose to attack Doriath and Sirion, now you can reap the consequences.”
“So you’ve chosen to reward me for kinslaying by making me king?”
“It is no choice, no reward. It is a necessity. Our people are fracturing. Already they are splitting into groups and reigniting old feuds, they need someone to rally behind.” Teeth flashed at him in a predator’s smile, “And that, dear cousin, is something you have always excelled at.”