All 6 Spouses
Had you used the goblin shaped door knocker twice and dislodged the gem held within, you would have accepted the Goblin Emperor’s favor
Knocking over the crystal vase and keeping the crystalline candle within gained you the King of Fancies’ favor
Had you partaken of the feast held within the red door room, you would have accepted the Silk Monarch’s favor
Had you eaten the cake in the kitchen, you would have accepted the Fae Queen’s favor
Taking both the small brass key and silver and onyx necklace gained you the favor of the Lord of the House and the Ruler of Shadows
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I've talked before about why I don't like the changes to Galadriel's character, but I have been thinking more about themes lately, and I think changing Galadriel into a Warrior Princess (tm), not only fundamentally alters the character beyond recognition, but it also completely erases what I think an important theme of all of Tolkien's works.
In both Lord of the Rings and the Silmarillion, characters who are strictly martial--that is, who take up arms as a predominant occupation (whether defensively or offensively) do not, in general, end their narratives peacefully. In fact, by and large, characters whose primary occupation is war almost always die because of it, and generally without achieving the ends which they so desperately sought. Now, this doesn't mean Tolkien is saying all fighting is bad--I'd argue that he sees the need for both offense or defense as a necessity to protect and preserve, but the characters who can wield a sword when need calls but are not solely arms bearers are often able to find the peace, fulfillment, and happiness that their counterparts do not.
Take for example, Boromir vs Faramir. Boromir is chiefly a soldier, and while Faramir can and does fight, he is also a scholar. He strives for more than glory in battle. Of the two, Faramir is the one who is able to achieve the peace he has long sought while Boromir, who does still die bravely and honorably, dies with his goals unfinished. Or take Eowyn, who lives for the glory and death that war can provide. It's only when she lets go of the need for death and battle and turns to find joy in healing and growing things, that she is able to find a measure of peace.
We can even look to examples of elves. Celeborn, though certainly martial (he has commanded armies) is also known as Celeborn the Wise primarily, and each one of the kingdoms he and Galadriel established after the War of the Wrath became a safe haven and a refuge for their people. Lorien stands as testament to that fact. Elrond, who likewise has fought battles, is known primarily as a healer and a scholar, and his house is a place of refuge and healing. Of the elves in the first age, the ones who faired the best were Turgon, who simply established his kingdom and conducted no more war (until the betrayal) and Thingol, who likewise established a kingdom and, after his initial fighting to establish a safe cordon, protected it with magic and by and large stayed out of the fighting of the outside world, and remained safe (again, until outside forces acted on him). All of Feanor's son come to ruin, and even Fingolfin and his children (and the majority of Finarfin's) don't fair well in their constant fight against Morgoth.
Or compare Turin to Tuor--Turin's life is an outright tragedy, where Tuor's life is somewhat more golden. Or, perhaps the most obvious example, Aragorn--"the hands of a king are the hands of a healer." It's not the fighting he does at the battle of Pelennor that matters--it's the peace and healing he brings to the sick and injured after. Or, you know, how about how it's the hobbits, in the end, who, without fighting, still save the world.
Now, again, this isn't to say that Tolkien views all fighting or battles as evil or wrong and punishes the characters who do this. But I think there is something to be said about the difference between living for battle and battling to live. Sometimes wars must be fought and lives must be taken, but there is the sense that there must be something more than battles and fighting, and that often it is in protection and healing that we find peace.
Galadriel is the keeper of Nenya, whose powers are preservation and concealment. Galadriel, unlike the majority of her family, has not spent her life in middle earth waging war. In fact, in all of Tolkien's possible histories for Galadriel, the common thread is that she does not take up arms (save for fighting against the Feanorians at Alqualonde, depending on the history). During the first age, she spends her time mostly in Doriath, learning from magic from Melian, and becoming probably the most powerful Noldor in Middle Earth. In the second age, again, she is establishing homes and sanctuaries and kingdoms. Even at the very end, overthrowing Dol Guldor, it is using the magic she has to destroy it's walls.
There is power, I think, in this idea, that power and strength can come from more than one's ability to wield a sword. I'd argue that Galadriel being a wife, a mother, a member of the White Council and the strongest Noldor remaining in Middle Earth is more than enough.
The idea of making her the same sort of female empowerment fantasy, somehow superpowered but not quite enough, but ultimately an empty shell, as the vast majority of heroines lately, runs completely counter both to her character, and to the larger themes of Tolkien's works. It is, once again, taking something and changing the meaning in it's entirety, until it has been perverted beyond recognition. Galadriel should be worth more than the next YA heroine, created in a studio factory somewhere to appeal to the widest swath of viewers based on algorithms created by corporations whose sole motivation is printing money. She deserves better.
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Neither Corinne nor Caroline, – though deep-seated in silver and gold, though shining pillars of force, – a force which, now blood-spattered, battle-weary, perhaps lost its strength as much as its shimmer, – had emerged unscathed; but the fires had burnt long enough to finish the thing; such that when the High Chancellor had bowed and taken their leave, they felt it all suddenly upon them as if the City had taken a last struggling breath, and come down onto them. Corinne blinked blood; knew somewhere, that there oughtn’t to be blood on her face; though there was blood everywhere else; and knew it only, when Caroline shrieked and summoned a spell and clutched her hand. There were better healers about, – Julianne was only just out of earshot: sitting with Marianne beneath Martin’s marble foliage, startlingly unharmed but shaking as the world had, – but she needed to be alone: and that meant with Caroline, Caroline alone, it always did.
She let her doting wife make a rugged job of the knitting; let her throw her gloves aside and with bare hands brush away the blood; then, taking these hands, pulled her away, pulled her from what remained of the Temple, to wander.
As if there were somewhere to go; as if the City half in pieces, had not the dreamlike circular feel of some interminable ruin, – dust and ashen flame; civilians emerging from cellars; survivors lost, battered; spattered remains almost too far gone to know their like, – they clung to each other after the end of the world; found at last some quiet unbroken corner; and collapsed.
‘Here,’ said Corinne, at last: and though her hands were still trembling, though her arm had not quite survived the day, drew half a crumbling baguette from some devoted place beneath her armour.
It was so straight-faced, and so Corinne, that Caroline sputtered laughing; and laughed, maniacally, until the ringing of it had gone flat into the scorched earth, and frazzled into nothing. They broke the bread; it near dissolved in their hands; they shared what was left, in silence. In silence though the City awoke panicked and restless from its nightmare; in silence, in the ringing past echoes of steel on steel; in silence, in companionable silence, they still had that at least.
‘I don’t know,’ said Corinne, who hardly broke it for she leaned in close, ‘if we have failed.’
‘I don’t think,’ returned Caroline, ‘that it matters.’
Not now. Not today. They’d meant to defeat Dagon: and Dagon defeated, they’d not failed. That they were Blades, that they defended an Emperor, did not matter. The City, – and it would have a hard time believing it, it would slip into nightmare, over and over, it would grieve its wrecks and breathe painfully its own dust, – was saved, and they’d saved it. Nothing else mattered.
‘It does not matter,’ said Caroline, again.
And raising a hand, – still in dust and blood and breadcrumbs, – she combed Corinne’s hair straight; wondered at it, that bar the scars, that bar the beading tears, she was still the same, still there, – sighed, placed another spell upon the split which rent her lip.
‘I don’t think,’ said Corinne, whose arm was beginning to pound, but with a weak smile ‘my dear, that that is quite the priority, –’
‘I think so,’ said Caroline, – ‘see, the sun is coming out,’ and felt unharmed, felt unbloodied, felt unchanged, – half closed her eyes that only the sunset beaming on Corinne’s cheeks beamed through, – those lips on hers, timeless.
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(prompt from @druidx, who wanted some 'post-crisis fluff' for these two... there's more blood than fluff but ah well)
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"He made good progress in his studies and as time passed he grew up full of hope and developed his natural abilities. He was a good-looking child for his age and more skilled than men who were older than himself in controlling horses and in riding them at a gallop. He had an excellent memory and he loved listening to stories. He was inclined to be thrifty, but he always remembered the good things that people had done for him, and the bad things as well. He was very like his father; not only did they look alike, but they were of similar build. They walked in the same kind of way and their speech patterns were similar. He had a quick understanding, but he had a stammer. Like his father he had a passion for hearing about history, and he paid attention to the good advice he was given."
- William of Tyre on the young Baldwin IV, quoted in Bernard Hamilton's The Leper King and His Heirs (p. 43)
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