who knows where the time goes and who calls it in

More than half of Thargelion’s tapestries are of scenes of the various embarrassing shenanigans his brothers (and assorted cousins) have got up to. Most noteable is the large hanging in the dining hall depicting the time Curufin blew himself and Celegorm up in the forge. Second place goes to the one in the entrance hall of Maglor stuck up a tree.

His brothers, naturally, hate this with a passion and complain bitterly about it whenever they visit his halls.

In another Feanor still burns. Maedhros still rides out to parlay with Morgoth, still takes more troops than agreed, still is ambushed and captured and his soldiers massacred.

In that world Maglor holds his brother’s standard; his place is beside his king, his brother. He does not let go, even as the balrog’s blade pierces him.

Celegorm is left. Third son of the first son of a race of immortals. Kingship should never have been his.

The crown sits heavy on his brow. Too heavy.

He knows that everyone expects him to falter. To fail. To shrug off the shackles of responsibility and fling them upon his younger brothers.

It would be easy.

It would be expected.

But he has always tried to defy the expectations laid upon him.