Chapter Text
Not long after the visit to Fëanor’s, Elrond and Celebrían admit that they miss living in a big compound. Imladris was a crossroads, always full of new faces and names. Compared to that, Tirion feels almost lonely.
“If only we had some more neighbors,” Celebrían laments. “Someone to help fill up the silence. Maybe someone who likes music.”
Maglor considers this. “Yeah, that makes sense. I could talk to Finrod if you want, although he’s not the best roommate. He gets up ridiculously early, and one time I caught him making pasta at four in the morning. Four in the morning, Celebrían. Who the hell does that?”
“We’re talking about you , Maglor.”
This is how Maglor finds himself standing uncertainly in Elrond’s kitchen, holding a bag full of sheet music and assorted weapons. He treks up to the top floor and discovers a bedroom with a window facing the ocean. Celebrían finds him there forty minutes later, sitting in a nest of blankets and staring contentedly out at the sea. “I will fight someone for this room,” he informs her. “I don’t want to, but I will.”
Glorfindel and Erestor show up not long after that. “You should have told me you wanted company,” Erestor says, glaring pointedly at Elrond. “I’ve lived in the same building as you for two and a half Ages. Why should I stop now?”
Elrond freezes. “Um…”
Erestor sighs. “You make a home wherever you go, Elrond. Not just for yourself, but for anyone and everyone who’s lucky enough to walk through your door. But you are terrible at figuring out the logistics of a huge compound. Let. Me. Help.”
Elrond agrees, of course. He doesn’t have much of a choice. And sure enough, over the next few months, the yellow house acquires many more residents.
It becomes a kind of waystation: a place where newly re-embodied Elves and stragglers from Middle-Earth can adjust to their new world. Ansel brings in baked goods almost every week, telling everyone she’s made extra. (She isn't fooling anyone.) Maglor and Maedhros pool their cursed-jewel money and use it to build a new wing of the house.
Maglor knows better than to settle anywhere permanently. This is part of the reason he wandered the seashore instead of hiding in a cave somewhere: if you don’t put down roots, you have nothing to lose. But the yellow house is bright and warm and feels more like home than anywhere Maglor has ever been.
Maybe he can stay here for a while.
“And then þauron said the Silmaril couldn’t possibly be fake, because I’d sworn on my father’s grave,” Maglor says, drumming his hands on the table. “And I pointed out that my father doesn’t have a grave, so he could go fuck off.”
“Then what happened?” Ansel watches him expectantly. On the table, her hands twist dough into little shapes. (She, Finrod, and Amras have been talking with the Maiar lately, trying to introduce some of her ideas. They’re meeting with the Valar in two weeks, and Ansel’s been stress-baking enough food to feed an army.)
“Well, then I threw the fake jewel at his face and ran away,” says Maglor. “But I didn’t know where to go, so I just ran in circles until the Orcs caught me and chained me up.”
“I’m going to murder them,” Alta declares from across the room. She’s scribbling something in a notebook, slashing her quill across the paper with a vengeance. (She’s been talking about writing a memoir for several months now. Maybe this is her first draft, in which case Ansel can understand the murder threats.)
“They’re halfway around the world, hon,” Maglor reminds her. “And anyway, the mountain exploded after that. When I woke up, the Orcs were gone and I was back in Gondor.”
“Because of the Eagles?” Ansel asks.
“Yes. They’re really amazing creatures. I should bring them, like, a raw deer carcass or something.” Maglor pauses. “Maybe I’ll ask Celegorm about that one.”
“Good, because you’re not bringing any deer carcasses in here,” says Alta. “Fingon will have a fit.”
“Fingon doesn’t live here,” Maglor points out. “He only thinks he lives here, and no one has contradicted him yet.”
Elrond pokes his head in the door, looking cross. “This is supposed to be a welcoming space, Atar,” he reminds Maglor. “Fingon can--”
“--stop leaving glitter in the hallways,” Maglor finishes. “I completely agree. You always were the reasonable one, Elrond.”
Elrond sighs. “I didn’t know you went to hell to yell at þauron,” he says. “I should probably be angry about that. Shouldn’t I?”
Ansel can’t help but smile as Maglor shakes his head vehemently. This is her life now: petty arguments and crazy stories and far too many people crammed onto one couch.
Over the past few months, they’ve become a family. An overgrown, over- complicated family that takes up far too much space in history books, but a family nonetheless. And Ansel is grateful for all her new uncles and cousins, even when they leave glitter in the hallways and broadswords behind the coat-racks.
Sometimes she wonders what it all means . She’s a part of the most infamous Elven family in all of Arda. Her father participated in three Kinslayings and fought against multiple gods. Her cousin forged the Rings of Power. How is she supposed to fit into all that?
But if Maglor is to be trusted-- and she does trust him-- she’s under no obligation to go on quests or slay dragons. “You were born a Finwëan, and you’ll always be a Finwëan,” he told her. “But that doesn’t mean you have to embrace it or even acknowledge it. I did, and Galadriel didn’t, and we’re both doing very well. Just don’t swear any Oaths and you’ll probably be fine.”
She hardly ever calls Maglor ‘Atar.’ Maybe she never will. It’s easier to think of him as a new friend, someone who’s known her mother for a very long time and tells outrageous stories about gods and dragons.
Their situation is weird, and different , and likely to explode her brain if she thinks about it for too long. So instead, Ansel focuses on the little things: making dinner with Fingon and receiving questionable relationship advice. (“Steal your cousin’s harp and walk through hell for them” only works in very specific situations.) Beating Maglor in a card game and laughing at his horrified expression. Finally learning to play the harp.
“If more people valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world,” Elrond says quietly, staring off into the distance as if looking through an imaginary window.
“Where are you now?” Ansel asks. Her family asks this question a lot. They’re all very old and full of memories that occasionally spill over into the present. This, at least, seems to be a pleasant memory. “Middle-Earth?”
“Yes.” Elrond doesn’t meet her eyes. “I heard that from a Dwarf. He was very proud, but he was brave. You would have liked him, I think.”
Ansel considers this. She’s never been fond of hoarding anything, gold or otherwise. But this house has plenty of food and cheer, and any place with Maglor in it is bound to have music.
She leans back in her chair, inspecting her pastries. They're meant to be flowers, but a few pieces look suspiciously like Fëanorian stars. Maybe she can give them to Amras. He's been visiting a lot lately. (Elrond says Amras is trying to rebuild relationships with his family. Maglor says he's only here for the food.) "I suppose this is a merry world, then," she says.
Elrond blinks a few times. When he smiles at her, Ansel can tell he’s back in the present. “Yes," he says. "Yes, it certainly is.”