#and interpret that as 'hunter wants yet another authority figure in his life to physically abuse him but now hes into it bc its willow <3' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tailorvizsla · 4 years

Text

A Proper Mandalorian Courtship - Chapter 1

Title: The Armorer and an Introduction Word Count: ~2350 Pairing: Paz x Reader Rating: PG-13 Warnings: Cursing, canon-typical violence, crack humor that’s also serious Summary:

Mandalorian courtship is very simple: declare your interest in someone, spend time together if they reciprocate, and get married after a year or so. Getting married is even easier – simply swap the vows and announce it a few days later to the Tribe so you can all celebrate the happy news. Then spend the next few months fending off the nosy Elders (who all want to know when they can expect to hear more little feet on the ground). At the end of it all, Mandalorians court the same way the rest of the galaxy does.

Except for Paz Vizla. Despite his Traditionalist background, he goes about this courtship and marriage business in a very nontraditional way...a very, very, very nontraditional way. This can also be found at AO3. Chapters: 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

📚 My Master List 📚 Author’s Notes:

This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter story in a very long time.

I’ve been working on this since February. It’s been finished for a few weeks now, but I’ve been procrastinating in posting because I have had such a hard time justifying why Paz behaves the way he does even though we only see him for like 3 seconds in the series. I’m not sure if anyone else does this, but I like having a reason to write a story, even if it’s just to get the fluff out. For this, I wanted to flesh out Paz’s character for future works, but I have had such a hard time figuring out the words for it that I just...didn’t post. It felt wrong to continue forward without being able to explain to myself why he does what he does. Something that @plexflexico said in one of their responses to a review I left resonated with me and finally inspired me to post this publicly.

“Paz might have had less than a minute of screen time, but that time was VERY enlightening because both scenes were at moments of great tension and high emotion. I felt that any man who could succinctly put his people’s plight into words, and was so angry over this betrayal by someone who should have known better that there was no way this was simply a brute. This is a man who thinks and feels, deeply.”

This. This is exactly what I couldn’t find the words for. This, to me, is Paz Vizla. I have seen stories/HCs that portray him as a brute in an attempt to show him as a strong, confident, and masculine character. I am not fond of that portrayal because it lacks depth. I don't see that from a man whose culture embraces competency and skill before gender or sex. For those of you who have not read Asterism, go do it now, I promise you will love every single word. @plexflexico perfectly captures every emotion and thought of each scene just perfectly. This is Grade Amazing Super Plus Rank writing and Plex deserves an award for their work. And also for the inspiration because her Paz is the man everyone who wants a man deserves to have in their life.

The Foundry is the most sacred place for any Tribe blessed enough to have one of its own. It is the physical manifestation of the Resol'nare: education and armor, self-defense, the tribe, the language, and the leader. Here, children and new recruits receive their first set of beskar'gam and swear their oaths to follow the path, making the Foundry the spiritual birthplace of every member of the Tribe.

At night, when the work is finished, and the flames are dimmed, the young and old gather within so they may learn from and educate one another. Most importantly, this is where most individuals begin their first lessons in Mando'a, under the guidance of the Elders. The foundry is where the armaments are made and dispensed for the protection of each person and the Tribe as a whole. When a hunter returns with their offerings, they return to the Foundry, and disperse it to those who depend upon them for sustenance and care. Finally, the Foundry serves as a place for the leadership to gather.

Armorer has had the distinct honor and privilege of being both armorer and leader to her people for many years, though she is now only the armorer for the tribe. Upon joining with tribe Marell, she relinquished her role as the Alor. However, the respect and authority she commands is not diminished in any capacity. Should Alor Dezha not be available to decide on a course of action, the Tribe will come to her, and her decision will be both supported and respected. Dezha respects her a great deal, and he will often seek her opinion if his path is unclear. Despite the differences in their interpretations of the Oath, they have come to live in harmony with one another. They strengthen what is weak in each other, and that is how it should be in a flourishing Tribe.

Tonight, she once more has the honor of being part of a marriage ceremony. Lifting her heavy hammer, Armorer brings it down onto the glowing ingot of metal, watching as it flattens and spreads under her blow. She continues to strike the metal with slow, methodical precision until it reaches the proper thickness. Then the Armorer takes it back to the flame, where she allows it to glow blazing white. It only takes a few moments, and she returns it to the anvil. The steady clang clang of her hammer is punctuated only by the occasional trip to the flames.

The union of two Mandalorians in marriage is – and always has been – a joyous occasion, for that union brings forth stability for the children and the Tribe. Traditionally, the parents take turns hunting, or if the Tribe has the numbers, both parents will hunt together, and leave their children in the care of the rest of the family. Having that one trusted person, the one who knows their every strength and weakness by their side, leads to success, both in the field and at home.

She pauses once more to check the ingot. When she sees it is properly folded, she divides it in half, and begins to form each blade precisely with her smaller hammer. Two Mandalorians, forged into one soul and body by marriage, whether they are together, or they are apart. Two blades, made from a single piece of steel, to symbolize that union. When they are formed to her satisfaction, she takes the blades to the oil vat and quenches them, a satisfying hiss escaping the bubbling liquid.

Then she returns to the forge, narrowing one of the flames to begin the differential tempering process. Here, the tang and the edges of the blades will be hardened to resist shattering, yet the spines will remain flexible, so that they may flex as needed. Once joined, the couple hardens themselves to outsiders; instead, they will turn their affection and respect inward, so they may grow together. Where one is brittle, the other is flexible, and together, they become stronger than they would be individually. She withdraws the first blade from the flame just as the pale amber color creeps to the edges of the blade and plunges it directly into the water bath to cool.

It takes hours to sharpen the ceremonial blades on the grinding belts, but she works steadily and carefully, honing the edges with precision. The hilts are left bare; they will be wrapped by the parties entering the marriage. When they speak their vows, they will exchange blades, so they may carry a piece of the other with them when they are physically parted. She nestles the blades into separate boxes lined with soft fabric. When she delivers the blades tonight, the newlyweds will handle the rest on their own. Armorer lowers the heat of the flame before she returns to her quarters. There she draws the curtain across her living space. Exhaling, she takes a seat at her low table with a pot of hot tea to await being summoned by the Elders to acknowledge the vows. Her shoulders are tense and tight. It is a good sign of hard work.

It has been many years since she has witnessed a proper Mandalorian courtship unfold and blossom into marriage. The Armorer has known from the start that Paz would be the one to fully embrace the traditional ways. Now, he has chosen to make himself an example to the younger Mandalorians and enter the bonds of matrimony. Her heart swells with pride as she imagines the future progeny they will gift to the Tribe, whether they are born or found. However, she takes the time to close her eyes and pray to the spirits. The newlyweds will need guidance.

Hopefully, the wedding night will not result in nearly as much structural damage as the courtship had.

The first time Paz ever laid eyes upon you was shortly after the Armorer had finished negotiations to join with yours. It took nearly three weeks of negotiations, but your Tribe had ultimately yielded. No sane alor would turn away a dozen Hunters and their children, anyway. Paz admits that he did not find you all that impressive at first. You were – and still are - pretty average. Your armor at the time consisted of a bes’kar helmet and a steel chestplate that looked like the Armorer’s. Everything else was made of leather.

Tradesperson, he thought to himself, and he put you out of his mind.

As time went on, Paz came to like you, and even enjoy spending a few minutes with you here and there as his duties allowed. Even though you openly admitted that were an average warrior (at best), you did your job freakishly well. You had made your desire for a large family vocal, and that, combined with your skills, had caught the attention of several Hunters visiting to deliver the latest news. According to the Elders, the offers of marriage had come flooding in the instant you completed your first hunt, even though you hadn’t completed it until your twenty-third birthday.

When the average Mandalorian completed their first hunt by their nineteenth.

And Paz completed his on his seventeenth.

It didn’t take long for him to understand how you earned the loving-yet-frighteningly-accurate nickname shu’shika from the Tribe – you truly are a tiny disaster. You are dearly loved by your Tribe, but there is a tendency for things to break while you are around.

You are stubborn to a fault. That Paz can deal with. Over the past thirty or so years, he has had plenty of practice to out-stubborn his subordinates, and he always wins. The same holds true with his bounties. With you? There have been a few situations where he has come dangerously close to cracking and losing his temper. It is only your terrible self-defense skills and his affection for you that keep him from simply putting you in a headlock until you submit.

Paz sometimes wonders if you provoke him on purpose because you know he will not throw fists with someone who lacks proper training. He takes no pleasure in winning a fight if it was never a true fight to begin with.

Far too often, you get mouthy with him, to the point where he sometimes wants to grab you around the waist and launch you straight into the lake for being such a brat. You are never truly disrespectful, but you have no problem telling him what you think. Even when he does not ask for your opinion. He does, however, appreciate your honesty with him, since others are usually too intimidated by him to be as direct as you.

You’re kriffing fearless, to the point of recklessness. His threats to launch you into the lake have gone from true threats to playful teasing, and it always earns a laugh from you.

Your forgetfulness…it is truly obnoxious. At this point, he has stopped reminding you to pick up your shit. He has grown used to simply picking up your things off the floor (or the couch, or the tables, or the showers), stuffing them in a bag, and dumping it all on your table in the workshop. Just like everyone else in the Tribe does for you. Or, if he wants to see you, he will pocket your datapad until you come wandering into the common areas, and hand it over without a word. It never ceases to amaze you that Paz somehow seems to know exactly what you are looking for.

Paz has no doubts that if you ever set your bucket down, you will lose it. He kind of finds it endearing. But only from you. He has no problems holding armor, weapons, or personal property for ransom if some idiot leaves it unattended.

If there is even a single power cable in a wide-open room, you will invariably find it and trip over it. Stairs have to be clearly marked with vibrant tape to remind you of their existence even though they’ve been there for ten kriffing years. Your navigational skills are nonexistent. It is all Paz can do to refrain from simply attaching a tracker to your backside to keep you from getting lost whenever someone takes you to the market.

The first time he had taken you to the market, he lost you within forty-eight seconds. He panicked the entire time he looked for you. Fortunately, he found you trying to dig enough money out of your bag to buy some ice cream, with no regards as to how you were going to eat the kriffing ice cream with a damn bucket on your head.

Sometimes, Paz feels like his relationship with you is going to give him a full head of grey hair before his fiftieth birthday. But he thinks you are the most beautiful disaster he has ever seen in his life.

You get his dumb jokes and laugh at his silly puns. You let him steal the end pieces of the bread when you bake. You try so damn hard to improve your hand-to-hand combat skills, even when Doctor Shen threatens to tie you to a bed to keep you from hurting yourself. You turn to him first when you want to learn a new technique. You play hunters-and-prey with the children for hours, like you don’t care that the others are grumbling about you spoiling the kids. You listen to him ramble about whatever random topic he has picked up that week, and while you may not know anything about it, you ask questions and take the time to learn more about what makes him happy. You even offer to share your tiingilar with him, even when you only have a quarter ration of it.

He has spent most of his forty-four years alone in life. His eight-year relationship had ended exactly ten years ago when his partner chose to commit adultery. He was on the verge of proposing marriage when he caught them in his bed. Neither had been wearing their helmet. It was a privilege his partner had never granted him, even after nearly a decade together. After that gut-wrenching betrayal, something had shattered in him. Paz invested himself in his work fervently, his bitterness turning him away from the possibility of a long-term relationship. Now that he is older and wiser, he feels a sort of emptiness to his days. Like his successes mean nothing without having someone to share them with. He wants someone there to encourage and support him in his hunts. Someone who is not as cynical and burnt out from the constant threat of death and war. Someone who still has that shereshoya – that Mandalorian lust for each new day and every experience that it brings. That brightness in your soul draws him to you like a moth to the flame. It is your hidden gentility that has him so happily trapped in your orbit.

He wants to make you strong where you are weak.

He wants you to make him strong where he is weak.

Seeing you waiting for him at the shooting range brings a spring to his step. Hearing your laughter at one of his awful jokes makes him glad he wears a helmet so no one can see the ridiculous grin on his face. Smelling the sweet, flowery soap that you use makes his knees go all wobbly, though he’s not sure if it’s from affection or just from age. Just feeling your hand brush up against his makes him turn into a sweaty, flushed mess.

Paz Vizla feels like he’s strapped to the wing of a TIE fighter spinning out of control as it plummets to the ground below, or something like a fully-grown rath’tar has wrapped itself around his heart to squeeze. His belly is jam-packed with spice-crazed minochs and his heart is pounding wildly. When he thinks about kissing you one day, maybe just gently pressing his helmet against yours, his heart gets so full he can barely breathe.

You make him Feel Things he has never felt before.

Paz Vizla turns into a hot kriffing mess under his armor when he is around you, and he wants off this malfunctioning jetpack.

Feel free to leave comments, concerns, or critiques. I love all sorts of feedback <3

#star wars #the mandalorian #paz vizla #paz vizla x reader #paz vizsla x reader #romance #humor #the armorer #din djarin #original characters #tailor's world #tv: the mandalorian #paz vizsla x f!reader #paz vizla x f!reader #tailor writes #series: a proper mandalorian courtship

221 notes · View notes

clairekatswritingcorner · 7 years

Text

Unexpected Guests

Word Count: 2,010

Summary: A few years after the Great Race of Oban, Spirit reconnects with Eva and Aikka to hear the big proposition Eva has planned for them.

*Author’s Note*: This doesn’t have much of a plot, but it’s a scene I wanted to write for my idea of what an Eva/Aikka/Spirit reunion might look like in the new Oban series! I know we know absolutely nothing about the plot or why any of the characters that have reconnected have done so, but that’s part of why fanfiction exists, right? I also just wanted to take the opportunity to write more Spirit stuff for @aepaex because she deserves it. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

(also available to read on my Ao3, which can be found in my blog links)

Spirit observed the vehicles, both flying and grounded, that crowded the busy city center. Most of the buildings were tall and glossy, surrounded by intricately woven roadways indicative of the futuristic feel Eva had informed him most of humanity, at least those building a majority of Earth's big cities, preferred to use. There wasn’t much to do to pass the time as he waited to meet her and some other unnamed parties she’d yet to reveal the identity of.

He wandered from the monument in the city square to a bridge overlooking a clear waterway, leaning over the railing to see if the water was too far away for him to see his own reflection. He eavesdropped on the people that periodically passed him on foot, some discussing indistinct topics that he knew little about while others whispered about him. Earth had received an uptick in interplanetary traffic in the years following the Great Race, but it was clear humans hadn’t become entirely accustomed to seeing less than human forms on their city streets, especially in regards to more traditionally monster looking species like the Phils.

Spirit didn’t mind the passing comments, though, especially since he was used to them. After his years of experience with other species first reactions to and interpretations of him, Spirit had come to recognize that some things didn’t really change until you got to know an alien, and he had much more important things to be considering anyway. Unfortunately, the water was too distant for his image to even appear as distorted colors in its sloshing waves, and he turned back towards the street just in time to hear a familiar voice calling out to him. Her voice traveled from above him, and Spirit looked up to see Eva flying over the square, a little stunned to see exactly what she was riding and who she was riding with.

“Hey, sorry to keep you waiting!” Eva greeted, waving enthusiastically as she slipped off the giant beetle’s back. Spirit had recognized G’dar in an instant, and as if to reinforce this recognition Aikka leaned forward a bit from the great bug’s back, giving Spirit a small wave.

Spirit returned Eva’s greeting with a nod, and before he knew it she had her arms wrapped around his waist in a friendly embrace. He was still a little caught off guard that the unnamed friend Eva said she was bringing along turned out to be the now proud Nourasian king, Aikka. The last Spirit heard, Aikka had had his hands full with diplomatic affairs and the protocol of transferring power from the previous king to himself, not to mention sorting out the Nourasian’s old and forced alliance with the Crogs. The fact that he had come all the way to Earth, and moreso had apparently been roped in to whatever scheme Eva had concocted that even Spirit knew nothing about yet, was peculiar but not altogether unexpected. After all, Eva and Aikka’s relationship had only strengthened following the Great Race, something they had both meticulously maintained even with the distance between their planets.

Spirit observed the myriad of differences Eva and Aikka displayed since the last time he had spoken with them face to face. There were certain things that remained staples of their physical presentations, such as Eva’s dyed hair, the bright pink music player that never left her hip, and the distinct racing goggles that she never went anywhere without. It appeared that she’d updated her arsenal of technology with a new high tech visor, and her clothing looked fitting for everything from space travel to mechanical maintenance.

Aikka’s clothes reflected a similar purpose, which was surprising considering his newly esteemed royal position. Spirit wondered just how much trouble the new king would be in if his attendants knew the details of his trip across the galaxy in civilian clothing to take part in some sort of assembly orchestrated by a simple Earth girl. His hair was much longer than it had been during the Great Race, fashioned into a high ponytail to keep it out of the way. Spirit considered that both of them looked like intergalactic bandits or bounty hunters, ready at any moment to board a space faring craft and plunge into the cosmos looking for the next big adventure. Knowing Eva, that might be what she had planned anyway.

Spirit patted Eva on the back, making sure she was aware that he was going to connect with her telepathically before asking her through this channel of communication exactly what was going on. He wasn’t necessarily the type who had to be privy to all things at all times, but with the esteemed company she had roped into whatever excursion she was planning on pursuing, Spirit had an inkling that something larger was at play. Eva smiled and released him from her grasp, both of them moving out of the way a bit as Aikka slid off G’dar’s back to join them.

“We had a little bit of navigation trouble once we got into the city,” Aikka explained, filling in the blanks from Eva’s apology for their lateness. “G’dar isn’t exactly skittish when it comes to crowded places like this, but it seems like most of the locals aren’t used to anything more than shiny flying vehicles soaring through the sky. We were lucky we didn’t get arrested for flying a foreign object.”

“Yeah yeah, but what’s important now is that we’re all here together!” Eva replied, patting Aikka on the back. “Your flying has gotten a little rusty though, your Highness. Seems like it was more urgent to get you out of that palace than I thought.”

Aikka opened his mouth to protest, but Eva swiftly switched topics. “So, now that we’re all together, I can elaborate on my proposal.”

Something she had to tell us in person…Spirit thought, noticing the exuberant shine in her eyes. Or perhaps she just really wanted to see our reactions.

“I think we oughta get some more old friends back together,” she began, stretching her arms out behind her and leaning against the bridge’s railing. “I mean, we already have the three of us, and I’ve been able to contact a few others, like Rush. A lot has happened since the Great Race, a lot that’s only shared between those of us that actually experienced it…while I definitely don’t want to return to that, I think it would be fun to hang out together again. A lot of us, all at once, and maybe we can even have some racing meets to see who’s still got their racing fire lit.”

Spirit rested his hand on Eva’s wrist. Doesn’t this seem a little spontaneous? Although both Aikka and I had the time and the means to make this meeting happen, I’m not sure what gathering us all together again really accomplishes.

“You don’t have to worry about that, I don’t really have a sure fire plan anyway,” Eva less than reassuringly replied. “I just…it’s been lonely, and so much has changed. We’ve all grown, undoubtedly become different people than we were during the Great Race. But that experience still lingers within us. None of us will ever truly be able to get rid of those memories, good or bad. I figured it was time to make some sort of impromptu reunion, even if it’s only for a day. You guys are both here already, right? Can’t you humor me with this?”

Spirit had to admit that he knew where Eva was coming from. There were certainly things he had seen, and even more he had heard about after the fact from racers like her, that shook him to his core. Although he sometimes felt tempted to share his feelings or thoughts on the matter with his family or friends, he knew that not only was it a dangerous idea to involve them in such a dreadful affair, but they would never be able to truly understand. The only people who could offer support for and relate to the pilots who participated in the Great Race of Oban were fellow pilots and various other individuals who had shared the experience with them. Spirit mimicked Eva’s relaxed posture, extending a hand to Aikka to ask him what he thought about all this.

“Well, I’m not here because I don’t want to be,” he began, an unmistakable blush coloring his cheeks. “I think there’s merit to what Eva says. Apart from needing a break from my duties, I think there are bigger things that need to be discussed. Some things…that although they may never be completely dealt with, they can at least be worked through. All of us have suffered at the hands of the Great Race in one way or another, some deeper than others. I have questions, many of which I’m sure have no hope of being answered, but maybe the more of us that join together, the closer we can get to uncovering the truth.”

So a mixture of a research expedition and a friendly support meetup. That sounded like about as Eva an idea as any of the ones Spirit had already heard or been apart of throughout the years. After the Great Race, while many racers had gone their separate ways, Eva and the group of those who had been with her through her roughest patches and knew about the deepest pains of her past had remained in consistent and close contact with her and each other.

Eva had come out of the Great Race with an altered perception of fate, a new set of friends, and an infinitely widened view of both life and the universe. Spirit still didn’t know every detail of what transpired on Oban with her, her faithful racing team, and King Aikka. Although part of him would always be achingly curious to have her divulge the full story, another part knew that it would be detrimental both to him and the parties involved to plunge them too deeply into territory they weren’t properly armed to tackle.

Spirit simply nodded in agreement then, knowing that no matter what came next, it would surely be an adventure he didn’t want to miss. He wanted to uncover more about the Great Race for himself, as well as catch up in person with racers who understood him for more than the enigmatic Phils champion that many assumed him to be. Even just being around Eva and Aikka again brought him a peace that he hadn’t known since he had last had the pleasure of sharing their company. There was a deep, unspoken camaraderie between many of the racers who participated in the Great Race. Whether it was fate, or trauma, or the simple desire to reconnect with those Spirit once saw as nothing more but fellow competitors, he had a yearning to join Eva’s expedition. He ruffled her hair, cut shorter than she had worn it when she was younger, and in the gesture passed along his thanks for her kindness in reaching out to him.

Eva laughed, grabbing his hand with one of her own as she smoothed her hair with the other. You don’t need to thank me, it was a no brainer. It wouldn’t be the same without one of my best friends.

Spirit felt the wellspring in his chest expand, doing his best to keep his composure while also sharing the elated feeling with her. She considered him a friend, a sentiment that made him feel more than he felt he would ever be able to share or communicate, even with telepathy. Aikka smiled gently at them both, and Eva yanked him over to them, pulling them all into a group hug that made Spirit feel like he was truly at home. This was the beginning of a grand adventure, one that had no perceivable direction. But spontaneity was what Eva did best, and with her at the helm, Spirit was sure they would make it out of even the darkest recesses of space they might dare to traverse.

#oban star racers #oban star-racers #eva wei #prince aikka #spirit (oban star racers)#molly wei #spirit #implied mokka #implied eva/aikka #implied molly/aikka #oban series 2 #post series fic #kind of i guess #one shot #gift fic #my writing #claire writes

11 notes · View notes

hellosaltysaladcollectionstuff · 5 years

Link

WHEN I THINK ABOUT J. R. R. Tolkien’s unpublished writings, I think of them in terms that probably would please the old master: as the literary equivalent of the Staffordshire hoard in England’s West Midlands. Discovered in 2009 by a fortune hunter with a very good metal detector, the hoard contains mangled Anglo-Saxon weapons, golden jewelry, military implements, other metalwork, and rings inscribed with runic characters (though not the language of Mordor). All of it gives us — thanks to a team of devoted archaeologists — a richer understanding of the era of Anglo-Saxon Britain.

The same can be said of the “Tolkien hoard” — the reams of drafts, faded notes, indecipherable scribbles, and fragmented stories that were never published in Tolkien’s lifetime. But because of the tireless work of his son, Christopher, we have an even richer understanding today of Middle-earth than we did when his father died in 1973.

Ever since the publication of The Silmarillion in 1977, Tolkien fils has slowly worked through these materials and produced annotated versions of tales taking place long before the events chronicled in The Hobbit (1937) and Lord of the Rings (1954–’55). Now, with nearly 30 works added to his father’s oeuvre, Christopher Tolkien is finished. His service as his father’s literary guardian and interpreter ended last August with the publication of the earliest story of Middle-earth that Tolkien ever wrote, The Fall of Gondolin. “I ‘presumed’ […] that Beren and Lúthien would be my last,” he writes in the new book’s preface, referring to another story that he edited and published in 2017. “I must now say that ‘in my ninety-fourth year The Fall of Gondolin is (indubitably) the last.’”

What a long and distinguished run — and what a high note to end on. Christopher Tolkien’s edition of his father’s Gondolin manuscripts is nothing less than a triumph — a substantial contribution to our understanding of his father’s early vision of the Middle-earth cosmogony and a gift to all lovers of Tolkien, young and old. And Alan Lee’s accompanying illustrations — along with a foldout map — enrich this book even more, giving Tolkien’s First Age a vivid physical reality that Westeros and Narnia just don’t have.

Not everyone will agree, I’m sure; Philip Pullman certainly won’t. Last fall, Pullman published the essay collection Daemon Voices: On Stories and Storytelling, in which he doesn’t hesitate to dismiss Tolkien’s world-making. For him, Tolkien’s characterizations are shallow and the settings “no more real than the horse-brasses and the posthorns in an Olde English theme-pub — a place called The Hobbit and Firkin,” he writes in the essay “The Republic of Heaven.”

“C’mon now,” I’d like to tell him, “lighten up.” There’s room enough for everyone in fantasy, isn’t there? Pullman’s certainly free to dismiss whomever he likes, of course, but it seems beneath the dignity of Lyra Belacqua’s creator to sound so jealous of another’s success.

At the very least the publication of this book gives us a reason to applaud the son’s long commitment to his father’s work … and to readers (like this reviewer) who see Tolkien’s early vision of Middle-earth in the tale of Gondolin’s destruction.

The human hero at the center of The Fall of Gondolin is Tuor — Elrond of Rivendell is descended from him — who searches for the hidden city of Gondolin, an elven stronghold that has escaped enslavement by the evil Melkor, also known as Morgoth, predecessor of Sauron.

In the original 1916 version of the story — which opens the book and runs to about 75 pages — Tuor is sent on his quest by the sea god Ulmo, one of the Valar. Ulmo wants Gondolin to raise its army against Melkor and his shadowy legions of Orcs, Balrogs, and other ghoulish creatures before they find and attack the city. But Tuor fails to persuade them to fight — they are confident (too confident) that Melkor will never find them — and he decides to join them in their idyllic seclusion instead. He gives up the goal of his quest and weds the king’s lovely daughter, Idril.

Whenever an author introduces a note of hubris, you know it’s a bad sign — and suffice to say that the smugness of the citizens of Gondolin is the key to their undoing (like Théoden’s flawed conviction, in 1954’s The Two Towers, that the Hornburg can resist any force).

But that isn’t the only version of the Gondolin story in this book. Many of the best Tolkien scholars, especially Tom Shippey and Verlyn Flieger, have reminded us that Tolkien’s vision of Middle-earth was constantly evolving. And as that vision evolved, Tolkien struggled to adapt and adjust his material to harmonize with these changes. His son provides us with other draft variations assembled in chronological order, with commentary. Over 35 years, Tolkien continued to change and expand the story before finally abandoning another version — to his son’s initial perplexity — in 1951 (a version of which appears in 1980’s Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth).

All of these drafts display a style that’s far from the conventional storytelling you find in The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. The Gondolin drafts are steeped in grandiose, archaic expressions and the kind of reversed syntax that Yoda would probably like: “Here they abode very long indeed,” or “Timber he had that came down the hidden river; a goodly wood it was.” At first the style makes for tough reading, but soon it grows on you like moss on Treebeard’s chin.

To be fair, these drafts are First Age stories, and they’re supposed to sound like the foundational myths of Western civilization. Tolkien didn’t hide the fact that he believed his vision of Middle-earth’s ancient days deserved to be placed alongside the world’s great epics. Gondolin’s fall wasn’t just some quaint fairy tale that he scribbled as he recovered from trench fever during World War I. For him, its tragic fate ranked — outranked, actually — what happened to some of the greatest cities of antiquity:

Glory dwelt in that city of Gondolin of the Seven Names, and its ruin was the most dread of all the sacks of cities upon the face of Earth. Nor Bablon, nor Ninwi, nor the towers of Trui, nor all the many takings of Rûm that is greatest among Men, saw such terror as fell that day …

Even though the collapse of Troy and the sacking of Rome don’t measure up to the tale of Gondolin’s terrible destruction, Tolkien couldn’t finish it. Why not? Was his artistic vision just too big for his talents? Hardly. Even as late as 1951, long after he’d demonstrated his artistry with The Hobbit and had Lord of the Rings under his belt, Tolkien’s last attempt at the story takes us only as far as Tuor’s arrival at the Gate of the Noldor (a name for the craftsman elves). In this draft, he doesn’t fall in love with Idril or help the city-dwellers escape destruction. All Tuor gets is a glimpse of Gondolin’s gleaming armies before the narrative breaks off.

So what happened? For Tolkien’s son, in a chapter near the end of the book called “The Evolution of the Story,” what finally snuffed his father’s enthusiasm for his Gondolin narrative (and other uncompleted First Age works forming the core of The Silmarillion) was his pessimism over publishing them despite the success of The Hobbit. Tolkien wanted these stories published with Lord of the Rings as “one long Saga of the Jewels and the Rings,” but in the years right after World War II, that was an unrealistic expectation. Everything was in short supply, especially paper, and this would have been a ridiculously expensive undertaking for any publisher. Tolkien realized that. Disappointedly, he gave up, and his son describes his gloom in another work, Morgoth’s Ring (1993):

[L]ittle of all the work begun at that time was completed. The new Lay of Leithian, the new tale of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin, the Grey Annals (of Beleriand), the revision of the Quenta Silmarillion, were all abandoned. I have little doubt that despair of publication, at least in the form that he regarded as essential, was the prime cause.

“Despair of publication” — it is hard to believe that Tolkien ever worried about such things. But he did. He worried about publication, and he worried about making money, just like any writer. His doubts that Gondolin and the other heroic tales would ever be published in a form “he regarded as essential” were enough to discourage him.

Of course, that didn’t end his career. Far from it. Three years later, Lord of the Rings appeared in three volumes, followed by other stories, works of scholarship, and translations. Tolkien was fêted and celebrated as the modern-day equivalent of an Icelandic skald crossed with a medieval scholiast. Fans wouldn’t leave him alone; the counterculture movement (and Led Zeppelin) embraced his mythology as their own; awards and money flowed in — his old friend and colleague C. S. Lewis nominated him for a Nobel Prize. Life was good.

And yet. One can’t help seeing something in those photos of him tucking on his pipe — something wistful about the eyes — that suggests the master was still thinking, even then, at the peak of his success, about all those precious pieces of his legendarium that remained in fragments at home.

Anything, even a fragment — as the Staffordshire archaeologists know well — can be valuable. They can tell us a great deal, despite what’s missing. That is certainly true of the Gondolin fragments. They provide us with an opportunity to glimpse some of the first great figures and dramatic situations of Tolkien’s mythology — figures and situations that would later resurface, more fully integrated and realized, in the pages of Lord of the Rings.

Already in 1916 we have the golden-armored elf Glorfindel — second only to Elrond in Rivendell — long before his crucial appearance late in The Fellowship of the Ring (1954), when he stops the Black Riders from nabbing Frodo. Glorfindel plays a similar role in the 1916 fragment as the Gondolin citizens flee the burning city. But instead of the Nazgûl, he faces a terrifying Balrog — its whips blazing and crackling — that bars the people’s escape. As Glorfindel leaps to the rescue, Tolkien writes,

[his] left hand sought a dirk, and this he thrust up that it pierced the Balrog’s belly nigh his own face (for that demon was double his stature); and it shrieked, and fell backward from the rock, and falling clutched Glorfindel’s yellow locks beneath his cap, and those twain fell into the abyss.

Their deadly combat should be familiar to any student of Tolkien. In Fellowship, Gandalf replaces Glorfindel in a fight with the horrific Balrog known as Durin’s Bane in the Mines of Moria. They take a similar plunge into the abyss, too … but with a much better result for Gandalf.

The Gondolin drafts anticipate and echo the famous stories of Middle-earth’s Third Age in other ways as well. We encounter Elrond’s father, Eärendil, as well as Círdan the Shipwright, who is the master of the Grey Havens. We meet the elf Legolas Greenleaf — who, despite his name, is not the warrior of Lord of the Rings. This Legolas isn’t gifted with a bow, but he is “night-sighted,” which enables him to lead the Gondolin citizens through pitch darkness to safety. These drafts also contain plenty of wolves, Orcs, eagles, and dragons — and Melkor’s evil influence hovers over the landscape with the same shapeless menace as Sauron’s.

What also hovers over these drafts — particularly the 1916 version — is Tolkien’s brief experience of World War I. Some critics have been reluctant to draw too close a connection between Gondolin’s destruction and Tolkien’s experience of the Battle of the Somme, but it seems equally bizarre to ignore it. That battle was fresh in Tolkien’s mind when he was invalided back to England — ironically, to Staffordshire, where that Anglo-Saxon booty would stay hidden for nearly another 100 years — and started writing about Gondolin as he recovered.

In the draft that opens this book, as Melkor’s forces drive toward Gondolin’s walls, they employ strange, armored machines — “things of iron that could coil themselves around and above all obstacles before them.” At the mention of those coils, one can’t help imagining the caterpillar treads of a tank (the first ones ever used in warfare appeared on the Western Front) that Tolkien might have seen while he was there:

[T]heir hollow bellies clanged beneath the buffeting, yet it availed not for they might not be broken, and the fires rolled off them. Then were the topmost opened about their middles, and an innumerable host of the Orcs, the goblins of hatred, poured therefrom into the breach.

The 1916 fragment alone is worth the price of this book. It is thrilling to consider — even if some would object — that in this apocalyptic scene we have a veiled reference to the horrors Tolkien might have witnessed on the Western Front.

Late in his life, when Tolkien looked back on his first yearnings to create a fresh mythology for England, he said that he had had in mind

a body of more or less connected legend, ranging from the large and cosmogonic, to the level of romantic fairy-story […] I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many only placed in the scheme, and sketched. The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama. Absurd.

But it really wasn’t absurd, even if Tolkien pretended to be embarrassed by his own grandiose vision. In the end, though he died far sooner than he expected, Tolkien had achieved this goal. Gondolin and the other pieces remained unfinished, but that is okay: their state of incompletion fits with his vision of the legendarium. Some tales are complete, others aren’t, and “other minds and hands” are welcome to step forward and contribute, too.

Tolkien’s son certainly seems to be the best example of one of these. The same can be said of Alan Lee … and John Howe. Howe’s A Middle-earth Traveler: Sketches from Bag End to Mordor gives us not only the massive vistas of Tolkien’s world (the majestic view from atop Minas Tirith or Ilúvatar’s creation of the universe) but also a great deal of minutiae — what you’ll find in a hobbit’s kitchen, the variety of axes and war hammers used by dwarves, the styles of armor worn by Orcs, the mess and disorder of Radagast’s leaning study, and the details carved into the logs of the skin-changer Beorn’s home.

A conceptual artist (alongside Lee) on Peter Jackson’s Tolkien films, Howe gives us in his book a rich and exhaustive — though not exhausting — taxonomy of goblin faces, twisting forests and passageways, fortresses, castles, and caves inhabited by the human and nonhuman citizens of Tolkien’s work and Jackson’s franchise. His tome is a lovely addition to anyone’s expanding collection of Tolkienana and an ideal shelf companion for the book — brought out a few years ago by the same publisher — of Tolkien’s own drawings of the world of The Hobbit.

In his introduction, Howe says that, as he began to create his own versions of Tolkien’s world, he realized that a “sense of reality, of personal experience, pervades much of Middle-earth.” That sense is so strong, in fact, that “we are tempted to seek out a real place for every locality he describes,” whether it’s the Shire’s resemblance to the English countryside or Tolkien’s 1911 walking tour of Switzerland that inspired Esgaroth, the wooden Lake-town destroyed by Smaug.

But the same can be said of Howe’s drawings, too — many of these were inspired by New Zealand localities as he worked on Jackson’s films. “So many of the fantastical landscapes we painted to replace the green screens were almost directly taken from real landscapes we wandered through,” he writes. Howe likens himself and the films’ other artists to “hobbits with sketchbooks, drawing the world as they went. There. Back again. And the journey between, which is of course the best part.”

He’s right; often the journey is the best part, in writing and in many other parts of life, too. Christopher Tolkien would probably agree. His own journey with his father’s work has lasted more than four decades and has given us so much that is essential to the legendarium.

And now, with that journey done, the only thing left to say to him is also the simplest: thank you.

Nick Owchar is a PhD candidate in English at Claremont Graduate University and the founder of Impressive Content, an editing and content production service. He was formerly the deputy book review editor of the Los Angeles Times.

The post The Final Treasure from the Tolkien Hoard appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books https://ift.tt/2WlPwNc

#Blogger

0 notes

topmixtrends · 5 years

Link

In the original 1916 version of the story — which opens the book and runs to about 75 pages — Tuor is sent on his quest by the sea god Ulmo, one of the Valar. Ulmo wants Gondolin to raise its army against Melko and his shadowy legions of Orcs, Balrogs, and other ghoulish creatures before they find and attack the city. But Tuor fails to persuade them to fight — they are confident (too confident) that Melko will never find them — and he decides to join them in their idyllic seclusion instead. He gives up the goal of his quest and weds the king’s lovely daughter, Idril.

The Gondolin drafts anticipate and echo the famous stories of Middle-earth’s Third Age in other ways as well. We encounter Elrond’s father, Eärendil, as well as Círdan the Shipwright, who is the master of the Grey Havens. We meet the elf Legolas Greenleaf — who, despite his name, is not the warrior of Lord of the Rings. This Legolas isn’t gifted with a bow, but he is “night-sighted,” which enables him to lead the Gondolin citizens through pitch darkness to safety. These drafts also contain plenty of wolves, Orcs, eagles, and dragons — and Melko’s evil influence hovers over the landscape with the same shapeless menace as Sauron’s.

In the draft that opens this book, as Melko’s forces drive toward Gondolin’s walls, they employ strange, armored machines — “things of iron that could coil themselves around and above all obstacles before them.” At the mention of those coils, one can’t help imagining the caterpillar treads of a tank (the first ones ever used in warfare appeared on the Western Front) that Tolkien might have seen while he was there:

Late in his life, when Tolkien looked back on his first yearnings to create a fresh mythology for England, he said that he had had in mind

And now, with that journey done, the only thing left to say to him is also the simplest: thank you.

The post The Final Treasure from the Tolkien Hoard appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books https://ift.tt/2WlPwNc

#Los Angeles Review of Books #topmixtrends

0 notes