And None Shall Be Crowned
Boston Harbor, December 1773
The sea wind stung Maglor’s cheeks with brine and revolution. Dressed in rough colonial garb and glamoured to pass as human, he hoisted a crate of tea onto the lip of the ship and shoved it overboard.
“Liberty!” someone shouted. The word rang hollow in his ears.
The splash of the crate felt final, like a note at the end of a symphony he’d never meant to conduct.
He stood still for a moment, his gloved hands curling at his sides. The wooden deck creaked beneath his boots, slick with sea mist. Around him, men in crude disguises howled and hollered with righteous fury, cloaked in the heady intoxication of revolution. A crate crashed beside him with a splintering crack, and tea leaves spilled like entrails into the harbor.
Maglor flinched. Not at the noise—but at the smell. The tang of seawater, sweat, and fear. It was too close to memory.
Blood on white sands. Flame on moonlit ships. Oaths screamed into wind.
He shut his eyes for a breath.
A boy brushed past him, perhaps fifteen, in a crude feathered headdress, face smeared with soot and charcoal to mimic native warpaint. Maglor groaned. Not at the boy, but at the choice. At the borrowed symbols. At the way humanity seemed ever to leap into fire with someone else’s torch.
“Mark!” someone hissed behind him.
He turned. A printer he knew—Samuel, a decent man with ink-stained fingers and no idea he was speaking to a Kinslayer—held out another crate. “They say the harbor’ll steep like tea for a week. Ain’t it something?”
Maglor took it wordlessly. His hands felt too steady.
“A bitter brew,” he murmured.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
He tipped the crate overboard. Splash. Ripples swallowed it whole.
Around him, someone began to sing—a ragged verse about freedom and kings. Others joined in, stomping time. The notes were off-key, but the fire in them was real.
Maglor did not join the chorus.
His heart beat a different rhythm—older, deeper, written in Quenya and soaked in grief. He had once sung songs to rally armies. Songs that called brothers to blades. Songs that tore the heavens and broke the world.
Those melodies never left you. Not truly.
He looked down at his hands. Still calloused. Still dangerous.
Still his.
And yet—there was something here. Something fragile and furious and half-born, squalling in the cradle of a stolen land. He did not mistake this rebellion for purity. It would bring pain, as all great shifts do. Blood and compromise and a new flag over old wounds.
But in the rhythm of the crowd, in the pounding of fists and boots, he heard the first, unsteady measure of something else.
Not redemption.
But maybe…
A second chance to bear witness.
You don’t know what you’re beginning, he thought, watching the harbor fill with the flotsam of empire.
And then, with a faint, bitter smile:
Neither did I, once.
He picked up another crate.
And kept going.
The sea wind stung Maglor’s cheeks with brine and revolution. Dressed in rough colonial garb and glamoured to pass as human, he hoisted a crate of tea onto the lip of the ship and shoved it overboard.
“Liberty!” someone shouted. The word rang hollow in his ears.
The splash of the crate felt final, like a note at the end of a symphony he’d never meant to conduct.
He stood still for a moment, his gloved hands curling at his sides. The wooden deck creaked beneath his boots, slick with sea mist. Around him, men in crude disguises howled and hollered with righteous fury, cloaked in the heady intoxication of revolution. A crate crashed beside him with a splintering crack, and tea leaves spilled like entrails into the harbor.
Maglor flinched. Not at the noise—but at the smell. The tang of seawater, sweat, and fear. It was too close to memory.
Blood on white sands. Flame on moonlit ships. Oaths screamed into wind.
He shut his eyes for a breath.
A boy brushed past him, perhaps fifteen, in a crude feathered headdress, face smeared with soot and charcoal to mimic native warpaint. Maglor groaned. Not at the boy, but at the choice. At the borrowed symbols. At the way humanity seemed ever to leap into fire with someone else’s torch.
“Mark!” someone hissed behind him.
He turned. A printer he knew—Samuel, a decent man with ink-stained fingers and no idea he was speaking to a Kinslayer—held out another crate. “They say the harbor’ll steep like tea for a week. Ain’t it something?”
Maglor took it wordlessly. His hands felt too steady.
“A bitter brew,” he murmured.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
He tipped the crate overboard. Splash. Ripples swallowed it whole.
Around him, someone began to sing—a ragged verse about freedom and kings. Others joined in, stomping time. The notes were off-key, but the fire in them was real.
Maglor did not join the chorus.
His heart beat a different rhythm—older, deeper, written in Quenya and soaked in grief. He had once sung songs to rally armies. Songs that called brothers to blades. Songs that tore the heavens and broke the world.
Those melodies never left you. Not truly.
He looked down at his hands. Still calloused. Still dangerous.
Still his.
And yet—there was something here. Something fragile and furious and half-born, squalling in the cradle of a stolen land. He did not mistake this rebellion for purity. It would bring pain, as all great shifts do. Blood and compromise and a new flag over old wounds.
But in the rhythm of the crowd, in the pounding of fists and boots, he heard the first, unsteady measure of something else.
Not redemption.
But maybe…
A second chance to bear witness.
You don’t know what you’re beginning, he thought, watching the harbor fill with the flotsam of empire.
And then, with a faint, bitter smile:
Neither did I, once.
He picked up another crate.
And kept going.
Portland, Oregon, October 2025
Sören slammed his coffee mug down so hard it sloshed over the rim, staining the counter.
“I’m going,” he said flatly.
Nicholas barely looked up from the French press. “Where?”
“The No Kings protest. Pioneer Square. This afternoon.”
Maglor glanced up from his sheet music with the weariness of someone who had once burned ships in a greater betrayal. “I’ll go with you.”
“You will?” Sören blinked. “Like, visibly?”
Maglor smiled, the kind that never reached his eyes. “I was at the Boston Tea Party, darling. This feels… appropriate.”
Anthony emerged from the hallway, toweling his hair dry. “We have a monarchy where I’m from,” he muttered, “and they’re bloody useless.”
Sören gave him a sly smile. “Coming, then?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Might even put on some glitter.”
Nicholas exhaled slowly, setting down the press with a soft clunk. “You are trans, Sören. And an immigrant. You risk being detained in an ICE facility as a so-called ‘violent extremist.’”
Sören shrugged. “YOLO.”
Nicholas narrowed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “As you know, Fëanáro, it is not YOLO, and this is how we all got into this mess.”
Anthony snorted. “Remind me who you used to be, Nicholas?”
Nicholas’s eyes flashed. “That is neither here nor—”
“You were Fingolfin,” Anthony said mildly. “You stood against the Dark Lord on your own.”
“And look how that turned out,” Nicholas muttered.
“It turned out,” Maglor said softly, “that you inspired the hearts of generations.”
Nicholas let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Fine. I shall stand with you.” He paused, then glared at Sören. “But I am not wearing wings.”
Sören slammed his coffee mug down so hard it sloshed over the rim, staining the counter.
“I’m going,” he said flatly.
Nicholas barely looked up from the French press. “Where?”
“The No Kings protest. Pioneer Square. This afternoon.”
Maglor glanced up from his sheet music with the weariness of someone who had once burned ships in a greater betrayal. “I’ll go with you.”
“You will?” Sören blinked. “Like, visibly?”
Maglor smiled, the kind that never reached his eyes. “I was at the Boston Tea Party, darling. This feels… appropriate.”
Anthony emerged from the hallway, toweling his hair dry. “We have a monarchy where I’m from,” he muttered, “and they’re bloody useless.”
Sören gave him a sly smile. “Coming, then?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Might even put on some glitter.”
Nicholas exhaled slowly, setting down the press with a soft clunk. “You are trans, Sören. And an immigrant. You risk being detained in an ICE facility as a so-called ‘violent extremist.’”
Sören shrugged. “YOLO.”
Nicholas narrowed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “As you know, Fëanáro, it is not YOLO, and this is how we all got into this mess.”
Anthony snorted. “Remind me who you used to be, Nicholas?”
Nicholas’s eyes flashed. “That is neither here nor—”
“You were Fingolfin,” Anthony said mildly. “You stood against the Dark Lord on your own.”
“And look how that turned out,” Nicholas muttered.
“It turned out,” Maglor said softly, “that you inspired the hearts of generations.”
Nicholas let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Fine. I shall stand with you.” He paused, then glared at Sören. “But I am not wearing wings.”
Two Hours Later
Nicholas stared at his reflection.
“It is a Barney costume,” he said grimly.
Sören adjusted the dinosaur hood on Nicholas’s head and stepped back. “It was the only one left in your size. Also, you look adorable.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look like the hero we need,” Anthony said solemnly, applying shimmer to his own cheeks. The angel wings were strapped across his back, slightly askew.
Maglor, already dressed in his full Elven regalia—gleaming silver circlet, long embroidered tunic of starlit blue—adjusted the American flag he carried on a staff. “I think you look dignified, Nicholas.”
Nicholas glared. “No dignity.”
“No diggity,” Sören sang, winking.
Anthony snorted so hard he choked on glitter.
Downtown Portland
Pioneer Square was a patchwork of absurdity and fury.
People in frog costumes. People in top hats and tutus. A guy on stilts with a papier-mâché guillotine strapped to his back. A woman dressed as Ruth Bader Ginsburg with LED eyes. Hand-painted signs declaring NO KINGS BUT COFFEE, BURN THE CROWN BUT NOT THE PLANET, and VIVA LA DRAG QUEEN ANARCHY.
The quad walked through the crowd like some surreal Pride parade float:
They drew stares. Cheers. Double-takes.
Someone shouted, “LEGOLAS!”
Without breaking stride, Maglor called back, “Macalaurë, actually.”
“Macarena!” the heckler cried.
“¡Dale a tu cuerpo alegría, Macarena!” sang a nearby frog.
Maglor winced.
Nicholas leaned toward him and murmured, “You walked through fire for your kin. Now you’re a meme.”
“I’ve been worse things,” Maglor replied, with the air of someone who had lived long enough to mean it.
Nicholas stared at his reflection.
“It is a Barney costume,” he said grimly.
Sören adjusted the dinosaur hood on Nicholas’s head and stepped back. “It was the only one left in your size. Also, you look adorable.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look like the hero we need,” Anthony said solemnly, applying shimmer to his own cheeks. The angel wings were strapped across his back, slightly askew.
Maglor, already dressed in his full Elven regalia—gleaming silver circlet, long embroidered tunic of starlit blue—adjusted the American flag he carried on a staff. “I think you look dignified, Nicholas.”
Nicholas glared. “No dignity.”
“No diggity,” Sören sang, winking.
Anthony snorted so hard he choked on glitter.
Downtown Portland
Pioneer Square was a patchwork of absurdity and fury.
People in frog costumes. People in top hats and tutus. A guy on stilts with a papier-mâché guillotine strapped to his back. A woman dressed as Ruth Bader Ginsburg with LED eyes. Hand-painted signs declaring NO KINGS BUT COFFEE, BURN THE CROWN BUT NOT THE PLANET, and VIVA LA DRAG QUEEN ANARCHY.
The quad walked through the crowd like some surreal Pride parade float:
- A glimmering unicorn (Sören, tail and all),
- A radiant angel with combat boots (Anthony),
- A dinosaur with the posture of someone questioning every life choice (Nicholas),
- And a literal fucking Elven prince carrying the American flag (Maglor).
They drew stares. Cheers. Double-takes.
Someone shouted, “LEGOLAS!”
Without breaking stride, Maglor called back, “Macalaurë, actually.”
“Macarena!” the heckler cried.
“¡Dale a tu cuerpo alegría, Macarena!” sang a nearby frog.
Maglor winced.
Nicholas leaned toward him and murmured, “You walked through fire for your kin. Now you’re a meme.”
“I’ve been worse things,” Maglor replied, with the air of someone who had lived long enough to mean it.
Sunset
They sat on the red stone steps of Pioneer Courthouse Square, the sky above them turning the color of molten copper as the sun dipped low behind the city skyline.
The costumes were rumpled now—Anthony’s wings a little bent at the tips, Maglor’s circlet askew, Sören’s unicorn horn slightly off-center, and Nicholas’s T. rex tail dragging like the world’s most reluctant punctuation mark.
The protest was over, but the square still held its echo. Chalk hearts scrawled on the bricks. Glitter like fairy dust caught in the cracks. A half-deflated inflatable frog drifted near the fountain like a fallen balloon in a forgotten parade.
Maglor folded the flag in his lap with slow, deliberate hands.
“We used to wear crowns,” Nicholas said, not looking at anyone in particular.
“Yeah,” Sören murmured. “Shiny ones.”
“I don’t miss mine,” Anthony said.
Nicholas gave a dry, wry sound. “You were always the smart one.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “I stayed behind. You rode out alone.”
“You had sense. I had pride.” Nicholas looked down at his claws, flexed them once. “Same thing that got us all in trouble, really.”
Maglor didn’t speak, but his hand stilled on the flag.
Sören glanced sideways at him, then out across the square. “I used to think fire was about lighting the world up, so no one could ignore you. Now I think it’s about who keeps you warm.”
Anthony leaned into his side, resting his head lightly on Sören’s shoulder. “You’ve always burned, Curufinwë. But now you burn with us.”
Nicholas smiled faintly. “Not alone this time.”
The sun touched the tops of the buildings, painting their shadows long across the brick plaza. The American flag caught the last golden light, and Maglor looked down at it in his lap.
“I don’t trust symbols anymore,” he said softly. “But I still believe in stories.”
Anthony looked at him. “What kind of story is this?”
Maglor’s voice was nearly a whisper. “One where the kings gave up their crowns.”
“Not all of them willingly,” Nicholas muttered.
“But we’re here,” Sören said. “No thrones. No armies. Just us. Weird costumes and all.”
A breeze stirred through the square, rustling the mane of his unicorn hoodie and the tattered tail of Nicholas’s costume. Anthony sat up straighter, and his wings flapped.
“I don’t know if the country’s going to make it,” he said. “I don’t think anyone does.”
“Then we fight like it will,” Sören said. “And love like it already did.”
Maglor looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “That sounds like you.”
“It sounds like all of us,” Nicholas added. “We didn’t survive fire and blood and time to sit back and wait for someone else to fix it.”
They fell quiet again as the sky deepened from copper to violet. Someone nearby began strumming a guitar—slow, contemplative chords, nothing urgent, just presence. A drag queen in smeared glitter heels walked past them and nodded solemnly.
Maglor stood first, gathering the flag in his arms like a relic. Not of empire. Not of allegiance.
Of memory.
Nicholas stood with a grunt. “My knees weren’t this bad when I was Fingolfin.”
Sören stretched and cracked his neck. “I’m thirty and I feel a hundred. Want to go get pie?”
Anthony nodded. “And ice cream.”
“Ice cream and pie,” Nicholas muttered. “Revolutionary cuisine.”
“We were kings,” Maglor said as they walked. “Now we build something better.”
Sören looked over at him and smiled. “No kings.”
Nicholas sighed. “No dignity.”
Anthony threw an arm around his shoulder. “No diggity.”
They walked into the city lights as the first stars pricked through the clouds above.
And behind them, the empty square held the silence of kings who had laid down their crowns—and chosen each other instead.
