#houseless for exiles

[outofangband]

Been thinking about Morwen’s line to Túrin “if you wail, other things will find you first”, said to him when he starts to cry before his departure to Doriath

It’s harsh certainly and it’s also undeniably true.

I am thinking, Morwen definitely heard this herself, as a child fleeing the Bragollach with other Bëorian children. Perhaps she even witnessed this statement come true, the cries of her younger kin attracting the attention of enemies or even simply of wild animals.

I think Morwen at her age, eleven or twelve, might have been among the oldest children and more capable than some of the elderly, many of whom I believe died on the road to Brethil. Of the burdens that might have been placed upon this newly orphaned, possibly injured child; to gather materials and other chores she would have been used to, but also to keep watch, to keep children quiet, to dig their graves… all without tears.

I have been thinking a lot lately too about how a lot of her later approach to things could have been influenced by Emeldir…very interested in them having an incredibly complicated, almost contentious relationship; a mutually respectful one, For the most part and she’s learned so much from her but Emeldir absolutely knows that she’s potentially causing a lot of damage to young Morwen and also that she doesn’t really have a choice because the alternative is worse. And Morwen’s awareness (or lack thereof, especially in the beginning) of whether it was damage further complicates things

Anyways I love Morwen very much

#the silmarillion #musing and meta #the children of húrin #morwen #emeldir #houseless for exiles

[bramblepatch]

Occurred to me that some of the impromptu Valas Hune Appreciation Society that's popped up recently might not have seen his profile that ran in Dragon Magazine while WotSQ was being published. (Specifically this is from Dragon #312, if you want to track it down for yourself; there's also game stats but they're 3.5e. He's Rogue 10/Ranger 2/Fighter 4 for the record, although if I were converting him for 5e I'd probably go two fighter levels and the rest scout rogue.)

Transcript for the above images under cut:

Valas Hune of Bregan D'aerthe

Like Ryld Argith, Valas Hune rose from humble origins. He is a commoner from a so-called "merchant House" - a small clan or extended family that practices a particular trade. Some of Menzoberranzan's merchant Houses are actually guilds of craftsmen or skilled professionals, but House Orlzz'Hune was a true mercantile enterprise. Its members organized trade caravans to various nearby cities in the Underdark, trading drow craftwork for the goods produced by Menzoberranzan's neighbors.

Valas spent many decades engaged in the family business, escorting caravans throughout the Underdar. This occupation gave him plenty of opportunity to hone his fighting skills, learn the ways of other races, and become intimately familiar with the Underdark for hundreds of miles around.

About one hundred years ago, House Orlzz'Hune encoutered disaster in the Underdark. Valas and a dozen of his kinfolk were leading a caravan through he region known as the Labyrinth when a great band of minotaur marauders set upon them. Although the Hunes fought desperately, they were swept away, and Valas escaped only by fleeing alone into the darkness after all his companions had fallen. Although he was without food or supplies, Valas Hune survived the Labyrinth, deciphering the riddle of its mazelike passages and evading one hungry monster after another. He eventually found his way to the hidden refuge of House Jaelre, male-dominated House of Vhaeraun worshipers who had been exiled from Menzoberranzan long ago.

Valas remained among the Jaelre for several months, repaying them for their assistance by contributing his sword and his skills to their defense. While there, he befriended the cleric Tzirik. Eventually, however, Valas decided to return to this kinfolk, so he struck out on the path toward home, joining first one caravan and then another to work his way back to Menzoberranzan. But when he finally reached the city, he discovered that the loss of the caravan had left Orlzz'Hune impoverished and defenseless, and its rivals had lost no time in wiping it out.

Fearing for his life, Valas decided to become a sellsword and joined the Bregan D'aerthe mercenary company, hoping to disappear among other Houseless males. His skill at stealth and handiness with a blade impressed the mercenaries, and he flourished in their company. The organizational and leadership skills that he learned in his former House served him well, and he rose quickly among the Bregan D'aerthe.

Valas is small, quiet drow who is ever cautious and alert. He feels more at home roaming the subterranean wilderness of the Underdark than he does navigating the treacherous intrigues of Menzoberranzan. Valas wears a number of charms and trinkets produced by nondrow Underdark races. These ornaments appear uncouth and ugly to most of his fellow dark elves, but several have useful magic powers. He fights with a pair of kukris but prefers to kill from a distance with a composite shortbow.

#valas hune #war of the spider queen #legend of drizzt

[searchingforserendipity25]

Shadow-folk

@feanorianweek | Maglor

For @melestasflight

Hail Gil-Estel, brightest of stars, called the mariners, the travellers, the honest merchants and worried fishermen, the children orphaned by war.

As for the penitents in the gallows and the murderers sleepless in the dark, the debtors in irons and the heartsick generals, the ones who did not dare look at the stars - other prayers have been known to rise from their mouths.

Hail Gil-Estel, brightest of stars, called the mariners, the travellers, the honest merchants and worried fishermen, the children orphaned by war.

As for the penitents in the gallows and the murderers sleepless in the dark, the debtors in irons and the heartsick generals, the ones who did not dare look at the stars - other prayers have been known to rise from their mouths. 

More than the virtuous alone lived in Arda Marred, even when they deserved it not. Yet they did live, undeserving; and among them, there were those craven few who longed for their own houseless pilgrimage. A brave man’s cowardice was a feat of mad courage to those trapped in evil, who saw no path out of evil. They wished for it, if they wished for anything: to escape, not be known, do no harm.

Hail Maglor, Kinslayer and exile, whispered they who could not put their hopes on something holy, the ones who feared the clean light. Hail Maglor, who wanders ever by the sea.

Many a tale was told in the barracks of Númenor, the prisons of Lindon, around the slow fires in the slums of Dol Amroth. Songs were sung, in galleys where thieves were set to work building ships, by those whose hands were burned as a mark of culpability older than memory, that all should know not to trust them or give them shelter. And it happened at times that even pirates were known to take the Singer's escape - toss their swords into the sea and make themselves fishermen. A cherished longing beyond all longing, and undeserved; but it did linger, in the minds and songs of Men.

Among the tales whispered was the one of Amandil the Faithful, who in his long youth was Tar-Aphârazon‘s conquering fist, the master-of-empire. Many versions of he long story of his disaster at sea were lost with Númenor; many more blossomed as weeds in the cracks between walls, wherever Númenor had been, where Númenor's memory and yoke and mourning remained. All agreed on the one passage - how that mighty commander of fleets was washed ashore, lost and wandering as a pauper, and of his speeches with the stranger that walked with a hand bound in dark linens where the tide met the water-line.

Some said the Kinslayer was far in the West, serving time, some awful and very fair notion of justice as the Eldar knew it, and where Men could place all their fears, their cold despair. Some said he was deep in the sea, trapped by the frightful deities of the waves, never to see land or star again - but those were dark tales, and not even the guilty ones who loathed themselves very strongly liked to think of it overlong.

Need a story be true? It was enough that the evil done was regretted, and the good not done not less lamented. It was enough that someone remembered. This was a thing the despairing knew.

From the far heights the star shone its beautiful light, too distant to clearly perceive, too bright to look at for long without harm. But there was life in the dark, in Elenna, Endórë, and perhaps farther East besides, where the Encircling Sea met the strange sands few ever saw.

Hail Maglor, said the criminals who had nothing else to say at the last. Mourn us, we who shall never go home again. And then the noose was bound and pulled taunt. It was not love, and it was not faith. It was only that the monsters of the world did not wish to be alone in their hearts.

The West-bond winds tarried long by the sea, and brought him the prayers of the dead, the dying, the dishonourable.

Where the mists slithered over the adobe walls of the low-rising cities, he was there. Where darkness lurched against the patches of spluttering oil-lamps in the markets of the harbours, he was there. There, in the dark, where the chains and the chained were kept, there was he. The rats did not near him, and very few could see him, or bear to see him- but the vain tears wept by those who had caused far more weeping upon the world did not go unlistened.

At the last of himself, in the dark, alone, he was only a musician. Sounds were his work, and silence. A whisper carried to the right ears, a dim path kept sheltered for the frightened souls that had the need to pass it. The shadow of a key against the wall, and the possibility of opportunity. Out, and no escape from memory; but out, and with the burden of liberty never to be set down, if they had the courage to carry it.

And of those, some were comforted. By an intruder in the dark, a charred hand that brought the food and the clear water left for the exiled, gone in the gloom before dawn without more than a glimpse being seen. The song in the twilight that made the hard hearts of criminals weep, and sorrow, and be ashamed. The evil that was done could not be undone, but to act in evil was not a promise that could not be broken. Even if only at the end; even if only in the end. 

The living he avoided. When they could not be avoided – when they chased him down in despair or madness, a danger to the world as much as themselves - he gave them small bloodless duties till they found others of their own. The ones left exposed in the dunes and cliffs, perishing unmourned he comforted, loved, let them have him as they liked. Some liked a helping hand; some liked to be witnessed, to hate, to rage, to grieve or listen to a mourning song in a language not their own and weep.

The dead he kept company with, for however long their laments needed to be finished. He sang the water to cleanness before the washing and the shrouding, and mingled rosewater and pine-needles and wild lilacs if there were any to be found, gathered misshapen pearls and sleek, dark mother-of-pearl for a death-treasure. He, first among the wretched, gave them the honour in death they had not deserved in life. His paths were repeated enough to seed saplings where there was nothing of worth to be set down in a grave-stone.

And he sang for them. That much Maglor could do.

He was always left alone in the end, but that was as it ought to be. Shadow-folk indeed! Shadow-folk he was; the starlight had rejected him wholly. Shadows were his kin, the last and only; all the rest dead, and forsaken after death as he cast away the Jewel that had bound them more tightly than blood. 

Deedless was a harsh judgement. Accurate, as much of his father had been, but incomplete, skewed, as much of Fëanor had been.

In all fairness, Maglor did weep a greart deal. The sea certainly did not thank him for it, but that did not make the tears vain, he thought. He had quite good use of them.

The Hallowing that sunk him into molten agony as steel on the crucible had but revealed the evil underneath; without words and Song, without purpose and skin. He dwelt by the sea, and there was nothing in him that the sea could love. Nothing stood between the Marring of him and the world. Sand-lizards scurried away from him; herons disdained him, wild foxes howled at the nearness of his self, the long slant of his shadow. 

He learned to make himself insubstantial, where to be otherwise might harm. It grew to be a more terrible thing, the hatred of the world worse than the truth the judgement of the Hallowed Jewel had revealed. He did not wish to wound anything. He did not wish to do ill.

Certainly that was not enough - it could not be enough. There were so many scraps of despair in the wind, brought to him from far off; all of them the same refrain, lamenting the certainty that wishing to do ill was not enough.

No noble songs henceforth; no glory, and nothing of victory that was not the paltry victory of the soul, or of the small selfishness that refused despair one night more, the short length of one small Mannish lifetime.

Hail Maglor, who cast away the stone, prayed the traitors, the frightened thralls and the loyal soldiers, in the mad instant before they stabbed their commanders in the back. And Maglor himself might have had something to say, he who once struck down Uldor of the Easterlings for treachery; but it was not for him to speak of such things. He had cast away the stone, and breached all the promises that ought to have been breached long before. A bad example was better than none, but it could hold its usefulness if well employed, could be a cunning net in rhetoric and a shield against error.

To choose to go was not to choose to stay; and the wisdom to leave a story unfinished was a hard-won victory. And sometimes it was cowardice only, and no wisdom - and all the same, there were times when treachery was all the bravery that could be hoped for.

Once he had been acclaimed for his songs; but more dangerous even had been the arranging of acclaim, the measuring of song-stuff. No wealth of wordcraft had been left undisturbed. Hope had been supple under his hands, soft as fire-warmed gold, made to suitable molds for suitable ends.

This was humble work, beside that. To go alone and deedless through the world was a punishment as fitting as any other, but if it had been punishment he wished for and the duty most pressing, a journey to Lindon or the Falas or the havens beyond the mountains might have been arranged.

At long last, Maglor had lost the need for an audience. This was a performance he was uniquely suited to complete, the only service he could employ himself with to the fullness of his usefulness. If ever a doubting soul sat by the fire, and took dire counsel from a stranger in the dark - much of what was kept out of the songs had its own history better left unremarked.

But some things were remembered, for a lifetime or three. A grandmother three generations back, who wandered far as a child and was found by a figure walking out of the mist-storms that swallowed the sea, the sand, the reed-banks and the trails lost among the cattails. When the sail-weavers stood watching the waves through a curtain of rain with a heavy heart, it was the Mariner they called for, Gil-Estel whose light guided the wayward home. And it was the wanderer by the sea that sang the seas to distraction, and turned Ossë’s wrath on him; long enough that Gil-Estel, Westwards-bound, cast by its course the opposite path of darkness for the sailors to turn the till and point to shore once more.

Was that kinship? A hundred times he had argued about the measures of justice and atonement with pirates over ledgers and caskets of gold, with judges in silks sitting in the damp cold of their cells, old women spinning thread in the shade, comparing the length of their regrets while Arien ran her chariot through the last paces. Was that kinship?

A brave man's courage was nothing like a coward's. Maglor had given his voice to the sea too many times not to know it. As an audience it was entirely without pleasure in it, but he sang to remember what had to be carried and what was bequeathed unto him, not for gratitude.

As for hope beyond hope -

Forgiveness was not his dominion. Only the endurance of the unforgivable. A cautionary tale could be useful; it could not be more than that. For one thing, it would discredit a dozen stories, ruin the songs that most needed listening.

But no one wandered beside him through the mist to know whether he deviated from that task.

"Hail Eärendil, brightest of stars," said Maglor by the sea, in the morrows and the twilights when the Jewel was brightest in the sky. He was very alone, and very weary, in the hours of dawn and dusk, when the world thinned, and not even the old laments rose readily to mind. And yet, all the same: the sea was very beautiful, with the light rising above the dark waters.

Of him it was said that he never did run out of laments, not until the end of all things. Such a thing cannot be assured; only Gil-Estel knows what things he saw from far in the heights, and he, perhaps, knows some songs are better left remembered in silence, or only by the sea.

#maglor #earendil #feanorianweek #feanorian week 2023 #the silmarillion #my fic

[mai-sau]

"Beleriand is wide, and houseless for exiles... If such an evil time should indeed come, what help would there be in Men?” said Morwen. “The House of Bëor has fallen."

edit for @outofangband

#morwen #children of hurin #narn i chin hurin #silm edit #silmarillion #caption from the children of hurin from the childhood of túrin

[kimorahoward]

A Story about Ostracization, Erasure, Displacement, and More

Image: Dontnod Entertainment via Polygon

Homelessness/Houselessness:

What makes Life is Strange 2 special is its overarching themes of displacement, exclusion, and being “the other.” The game explores these themes in a variety of ways. The first way it explores them is by tackling Houselessness/Homelessness, and more importantly, youth Houselessness/Homelessness, which is seldom discussed. Throughout the game, there are various representations of characters who are homeless, nomadic, or are living unconventional lifestyles. Sean and Daniel lose their mother after she leaves to be raised by their father alone and end up losing their father after a racial profiling incident with a police officer occurs; the boys are left with no caretakers. Our protagonists are completely displaced and are considered criminals, thugs, outlaws, murderers, etc. The labels harm them even more, however, due to their Mexican American identities.

On the other end of the homeless/houseless spectrum, are characters like Brody (Brody Holloway), who was raised in an upper-class family but decided the unconventional and nomadic lifestyle was best for him. He becomes a traveling journalist and has the freedom to protest, write blogs, do podcasts, etc. He has the freedom to roam around and be creative because of the high class, safe, and structured upbringing he came from.

There are many other drifters Sean and Daniel meet along their journey. We’re introduced to characters like Cassidy who comes from an emotionally abusive family, where her father was racist and addicted to drugs, and her mother was complacent to it all. There’s also characters like Finn (Finnegan McNamara), whose father ratted him and his brothers out to law enforcement after starting an illegal business with them. The incident resulted in him and his brothers going to jail. Penny was continuously ostracized while growing up in a poor neighborhood in Chicago because of his “queer” identity. We’re also introduced to Jacob (Jacob Hackerman), who grew up in a very pious cult-like community that he was exiled from because of his gay identity. Later on in the game, we learn more about Karen, Sean and Daniel’s mother, who wanted to pave her own path and be set free from the rules set by society. We meet many characters similar to her in the commune that she resides in. The game gives us wide arrange of perspectives on and outcomes of homelessness/houselessness, some choose it, and others don’t have a choice but to live the way they do.

[math-goth]

What is wrong with being an animal? I have believed that the animal world is cruel and violent since I was a child, and I am currently unpacking these beliefs. Not all societies believe that the animal world is less than the human one. Surveying people in our current world likely would tell us that most people think that the animal world is cruel and animals live as houseless wretches in constant want of shelter.

The idea of animality is central to "Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason," a book by Michel Foucault that explores the relationship between madness, Reason, and society in Western culture. The book traces the evolution of attitudes towards madness from the Middle Ages to the Enlightenment, showing how the treatment of the insane changed over time. And I am writing my thoughts on this book after reading it as a record to myself.

In the Middle Ages, madness was a form of spiritual deficiency, and those who suffered from it were put on boats, exiled, or exorcised. Paintings, like Heroinius Bosh's Ship of Fools, chronicle this phenomenon. During the transition to modernity, madpeople took on the moral standing that the leapers did during the middle ages, and former leaper colonies became madhouses. In the Enlightenment, madness was defined as a medical problem and treated as such, with confinement as a therapeutic measure.

Foucault argues that the treatment of madness in each of these periods was a reflection of the time's dominant cultural and intellectual values. He also argues that political and economic considerations and ideas about the nature of madness shaped the treatment of the insane. Additionally, he argues that the treatment of Madness in Western culture has been characterized by a shifting balance between Reason and unreason, with Reason as a means of controlling and mastering the irrationality of madness. The book critically examines Reason and unreason's role in shaping our understanding of the world and our relationship with those different from us. He also points out that a lot of the treatment of the mentally unwell stems from the writings of Descartes. During the middle ages, people considered the insane part of the animal world, which was not treated with the same disdain as it is now. This shift in thinking happened during the transition to modernity. In light of the recent David Graeber book, The Dawn of Everything, I also wonder how much of these European thinkers' disdain for the natural world came from conversations with indigenous thinkers in the new world.

[carlandrea]

@mariniacipher was wondering about how Fëanor's oath affected his sons and whether "Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth…" means they wouldn't get to the Halls of Mandos... I don't know enough Silm to say, can you help?

oh my god ok—@mariniacipher you've hit on kind of a big question that I don't think anyone could answer conclusively, except for maybe Jirt's Ghost, and i'm not even sure about him.

What we know is that Feanor made his sons swear an oath, and we know that it's a consistent throughline in Arda that you can't break oaths—either morally or practically. It's why the paths of the dead exist—these men broke their oath to the king, so they're cursed to be ghosts until they fulfill it. It's how Finrod dies, following his oath to Beren after Beren's father saved his life.

So when Feanor says this:

Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain hear in witness

and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!

Even though the authority he invokes is probably not too keen on this whole situation, this does have some kind of power, and the sons of feanor at least believe that it's binding.

There's also the Doom of Mandos, or the Doom of the Noldor, which is a separate (but related) ominous proclamation, said by the vala of death and prophecy. He says:

For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you.

Which of course the implication of that is that they'll be trapped in Mandos if they die. Which do they. A lot. It is, after all, the silmarillion. (this is also not specific to the sons of feanor, which the oath is, but.) The doom of the noldor is mostly about how much everything will suck for the exiles in middle-earth. which uh. again it does a lot.

So what uh happens to the sons of feanor if they break their oath? How much does it affect their actions? Can they never get to the Halls of Mandos? Are they going to be thrown out into space? uhhhhhh. Those are all great questions.

I like to think they get stuck as ghosts! It's what happens in a couple of other similar situations, and I'm into the tragedy. Maglor definitely ends up a ghost i think, even if the others don't

#oh my god this got long #uhhh hope this helps i #this is kind of a lot of words for “who knows! I certainly don't!” #silm #and this isn't even getting INTO the idea that the Oath has some kind of influence on their minds like WHILE their alive directly #which i've also seen floating around

[mutant-distraction]

Power of hurricane force Resist

Qawem ya sha’abi, qawemhum. Resist my people, resist them.

—Dareen Tatour

Hawaiians are still here. We are still creating, still resisting.

—Haunani-Kay Trask

Stand in rage as wind and current clash

rile lightning and thunder

fire surge and boulder crash

Let the ocean eat and scrape away these walls

Let the sand swallow their fences whole

Let the air between us split the atmosphere

We have no land No country

But we have these bodies these stories

this language of rage left

This resistance is bitter

and tastes like medicine Our lands

replanted in the dark and warm there

We unfurl our tangled roots stretch

to blow salt across

blurred borders of memory

They made themselves

fences and bullets checkpoints

gates and guardposts martial law

They made themselves

hotels and mansions adverse

possession eminent domain and deeds

They made themselves

shine

through the plunder

They say we can never— They say

we will never—because

because they—

and the hills and mountains have been

mined for rock walls the reefs

pillaged for coral floors

They say we can never—

and the deserts and dunes have been

shoveled and taken for their houses and highways—

because we can never— because

the forests have been raided razed

and scorched and we we the wards

refugees houseless present-

absentees recognition refusers exiled

uncivilized disposable natives

protester-activist-terrorist-resisters—

our springs and streams have been

dammed—so they say we can never return

let it go accept this

progress stop living

in the past—

but we make ourselves

strong enough to carry all of our dead

engrave their names in the clouds

We gather to sing whole villages awake

We crouch down to eat rocks like fruit

to hold the dirt the sand in our hands

to fling words

the way fat drops of rain

splatter off tarp or corrugated roofs

We remember the sweetness We rise from the plunder

They say there is no return

they never could really make us leave

Copyright © 2021 by Brandy Nālani McDougall. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 23, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.

Brandy Nālani McDougall

Themes

audio

future

politics

social justice

violence

About Brandy Nālani McDougall >

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About This Poem

“‘Resist’ was inspired by Palestinian poet Dareen Tatour’s courage to stand against the ongoing Israeli occupation of Palestinian land and ethnic cleansing of her people. In 2015, for the poetic line ‘Qawem ya sha’abi, qawemhum’ (Resist, my people, resist them), she was imprisoned on charges of ‘incitement to violence’ and sentenced to five months in jail and years under house arrest. This poem ‘Resist’ reflects on both the militarized violence and creative decolonial connections between Palestine and Hawaiʻi, which was an independent country prior to the U.S. military-backed overthrow in 1893 and the subsequent illegal annexation to the U.S. in 1898. Our own continued struggle as Kānaka ʻŌiwi includes protecting our lands and waters from U.S. military bases and testing, bombing, dumping, housing, and recreational sites, and protecting our people from related health hazards, poverty, and hopelessness. We will forever resist the destruction of our homelands and how they are being used to test weapons that bring horrific violence to others. I intend ‘Resist’ to be a poem of solidarity for the Palestinian people.”

—Brandy Nālani McDougall

More by Brandy Nālani McDougall

Star-Spangled Banner

A betrayal

to stand

with your hand

over your heart

and sing

the song

of the country

occupying

your country

to read every star

on the flag

above

your country’s flag

and see the last one

there: small, white

and pointed

stitched into the blue

with a thin thread

as if

it has always

been that way

as if

it can never

be undone.

Brandy Nālani McDougall

Ka ‘Ōlelo

O ke alelo ka hoe uli o ka ‘ōlelo a ka waha.

The tongue is the steering paddle of the words uttered by the mouth.

– ‘Ōlelo No‘eau

‘ekahi

Think of all the lost words, still unspoken,

waiting to be given use, again, claimed,

or for newly born words to unburden

them of their meanings. There are winds and rains

who have lost their names, descending the slopes

of every mountain, each lush valley's mouth,

and the songs of birds and mo‘o, that cope

with our years of slow unknowing, somehow.

It was not long ago that ‘ōlelo

was silenced, along with its dying race,

who lived, then thrived, reverting to the old

knowing words. English could never replace

the land's unfolding song, nor the ocean's

ancient oli, giving us use again.

‘elua

Like the sea urchin leaves, pimpling its shell

as its many spines let go, turn to sand,

my great-grandfather's Hawaiian words fell

silent, while his children grew, their skin tanned

and too thin to withstand the teacher's stick,

reprimands demanding English only.

The law lasted until 1986,

after three generations of family

swallowed our ʻōlelo like pōhaku,

learned to live with the cold, dark fruit under

our tongues. This is our legacy-- words strewn

among wana spines in the long record

the sand has kept within its grains, closer

to reclaiming our shells, now grown thicker.

‘ekolu

Ka ‘ōlelo has a lilting rhythm

arising from the coastal mountains' moans

as they loosen their salted earth, succumb

to the ocean and its hunger for stone.

It carries the cadence of nā waihī,

born from the fresh rain in nā waipuna

and flowing past the fruiting ‘ulu trees,

wiliwili, kukui, and koa.

It holds the song my grandfather longs for

most, as he remembers his father's voice,

and regrets not asking him to speak more

Hawaiian, so that he may have the choice

to offer words in his inheritance,

knowing his ‘ohā will not be silenced.

‘ehā

Think of all the old words that have succumbed,

their kaona thrown oceanward for English

words we use like nets to catch the full sum

of our being, finding too little fish

caught in the mesh, even as we adjust

the gauge, reshaping them to suit our mouths.

I must admit I love the brittle crust

my only tongue's foreignness forms; it crowns

the dark, churning pith of prenatal earth

rising in the volcano's throat, unspoken

for now, founding my wide island of words.

And kaona, a ho‘okele's current,

circles during my wa‘a’s slow turn inward,

steering my tongue through each old word learned.

‘elima

As the ‘ape shoot, whose delicate shoots

shoot forth their young sprouts, and spread, and bring forth

in their birth, many branches find their roots

in the dark, wet ‘ōlelo the earth bore.

My unripe tongue taps my palate, my teeth,

like a blind ko‘e that must feel its way

through the liquids, mutes and aspirates of speech,

the threading of breath and blood into lei:

"E aloha. ‘O wai kou inoa?"

I ask, after the language CD's voice.

"‘O Kekauoha ko‘u inoa,"

my grandfather answers, "Pehea ‘oe?"

So, we slowly begin, with what ‘ōlelo

we know; E ho‘oulu ana kakou.

Brandy Nālani McDougall

2020

This Island on Which I Love You

And when, on this island on which

I love you, there is only so much land

to drive on, a few hours to encircle

in entirety, and the best of our lands

are touristed, the beaches foam-laced

with rainbowing suntan oil,

the mountains tattooed with asphalt,

pocked by telescoped domes,

hotels and luxury condos blighting

the line between ocean and sky,

I find you between the lines

of such hard edges, sitting on

the kamyo stool, a bowl of coconut,

freshly grated, at your feet.

That I hear the covert jackaling

of helicopters and jets overhead

all night through our open jalousies,

that my throat burns from the scorch

of the grenaded graves of my ancestors,

the vog that smears the Koʻolaus into a blur

of greens, that I wake to hear the grind

of you blending vegetables and fruit,

machine whirl-crunching coffee beans,

your shoulder blades channelling ocean,

a steady flux of current.

Past the guarded military testing grounds,

amphibious assault vehicles emerging

from the waves, beyond the tangles

of tarp cities lining the roads, past

the thick memory of molasses coating

the most intimate coral crevices,

by the box jellyfish congregating under

ʻOle Pau and Kāloa moons, at the park

beneath the emptied trees, I come

to find you shaking five-dollar coconuts

(because this is all we have on this island),

listening to the water to guess

its sweetness and youth.

On this island on which I love you,

something of you is in the rain rippling

through the wind that make the pipes

of Waikīkī burst open. Long brown

fingers of sewage stretch out

from the canal, and pesticided

tendrils flow from every ridge

out to sea, and so we stay inside

to bicker over how a plumeria tree

moves in the wind, let our daughters

ink lines like coarse rootlets

in our notebooks, crayon lines

into ladders on our walls

and sheets. Their first sentences

are sung, moonlit blowhole plumes

of sound that calls pebbles to couple,

caverns to be carved, ʻuala to roll

down the hillside again, and I could

choke on this gratitude for you all.

This island is alive with love,

its storms, the cough of alchemy

expelling every parasitic thing,

teaching me to love you with

the intricacies of island knowing,

to depend on the archipelagic

spelling of you lying next to me,

our blue-screen flares their own

floating islands after our daughter

has finally fallen asleep,

to trust in the shape and curve

of your hand reaching out to hold mine

making and remaking an island our own.

Brandy Nālani McDougall

2020

Related Poems

Land Where My Father Died

land of buildings & no good manners land of sunless people & offspring of colonizers land of no spice & small pox land of fake flowers land of shackle & branches made of rope land of wire fences grabbing sky land that mispronounces my grief land that skins my other land that laughs when my people die & paints targets on my future children’s faces land that steals & says mine land that plants mines & says go back land that poisoned my mother & devoured her body land that makes my other language strange on my tongue land that stripped our saris & clips haloes to its flag land that eliminates cities land that says homeland security land that built the first bomb & the last land that killed my father & then sent back his body land that made me orphan of thee I sing.

Fatimah Asghar

2018

Kumulipo

Hawaiian creation chant

At the time that turned the heat of the earth,

At the time when the heavens turned and changed,

At the time when the light of the sun was subdued

To cause light to break forth,

At the time of the night of Makalii (winter)

Then began the slime which established the earth,

The source of deepest darkness.

Of the depth of darkness, of the depth of darkness,

Of the darkness of the sun, in the depth of night,

It is night,

So was night born

O ke au i kahuli wela ka honua

O ke au i kahuli lole ka lani

O ke au i kukaiaka ka la.

E hoomalamalama i ka malama

O ke au o Makali’i ka po

O ka walewale hookumu honua ia

O ke kumu o ka lipo, i lipo ai

O ke kumu o ka Po, i po ai

O ka lipolipo, o ka lipolipo

O ka lipo o ka la, o ka lipo o ka po

Po wale hoi

Hanau ka po

Queen Liliʻuokalani

1897

[becoming-never-being]

I don’t get how one perpetuates the conservative victim complex. YOU HAVE A WHOLE FUCKING POLITICAL PARTY THAT CONTROLS ROUGHLY HALF THE LEGISLATURE DOING EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT. We can barely get our small “progressive” local government to prevent our houseless neighbors from being practically exiled from the city. It’s all so sickening

[terribleoldwhitemen]

me at the beginning of season four: I know worf is gonna grow on me but honestly I can't be bothered with klingon storylines

me now: thinking about the fact that worf, a man struggling to reconcile two halves of his identity, chooses to side with his morals over his government, and receives exile as a result; ultimately becoming a pariah of klingon society and even suffering the loss of his brother in addition to his father, and then martok comes along, who's been in a dominion prison this whole time and has no idea who worf is or why he's an outcast, who approaches worf without prejudice and judges him on his own merits as a klingon and ultimately recognizes him as a fellow comrade and gives worf that validation and acceptance; and worf in turn gives him his loyalty and friendship, and they save each other's lives enough times that martok says to worf, a man with no society and no living relatives, I don't give a fuck what my government or my wife says; you're family now, and not only you but also your houseless son and your trill wife, and the show doesn't take that away from them: worf comes from a noble house but he never asks for it or wants it back because he belongs to the house of martok now. this is literally the definition of found family. and worf's respect for and faith in martok is such that he makes him chancellor; and martok trusts worf enough to let him. they are an ODD pair canonically: martok one of the most celebrated klingon generals; worf, a starfleet officer, looked down upon even when he wasn't houseless; and yet they have this relationship of equals built on a blank slate and developed through trial and error and by the end of the series they are such important parts of one another's lives that worf KILLS GOWRON in order to prevent him from dishonoring martok (and also I suppose incidentally prevent the fall of the alpha quadrant) but i digress

and man that shit got to me

#ds9 #deep space nine #supplemental log #cleaning out the drafts

[outofangband]

The sheer magnitude of Morwen’s losses even before the Nírnaeth is just hitting me tonight

Everyone she lost in the Bragollach, whether they were killed or she was separated permanently from them.

Lalaith obviously; I am not a parent and thus cannot even begin to imagine the extent of that grief and pain, let alone in the context of what has already happened, of that loss occurring when she should have been safe

And of course Not just people but home, community, childhood possessions, sense of safety and security, the cultural losses

And the story proper hasn’t yet begun…

#the children of húrin #morwen #the silmarillion #musing and meta #houseless for exiles #I’m sorry I’m very tired and can’t say anything substantial but having emotions about this

[sakasakiii]

Inktober Day 1: Crystal

because it's impossible not to think 'Annatar' without also then thinking 'rich widow decked out in jewels he bought with someone else's trust fund'

Inktober Day 2: Suit

look i know i couldve done a suit of armor or smthn but if there's a chance for me to draw the Boys (TM) in suits then you bet im taking it hehehe

Inktober Day 3: Vessel

cursed thought HEAR ME OUT OK how wack would it be if every time Sauron shapeshifted (e.g Annatar back to original body), instead of it being an instantaneous thing, his new form has to crawl out of the old hollow one like a caterpillar or a snake? ...what? that's kinda gross? im sorry i wont do it again but i was running low on ideas oKk

Inktober Day 6: Spirit

Inktober Day 6: Spirit

sometimes i like the idea of the sons of Feanor (sans Amrod) who died via the kinslayings/silmaril lingering by Maglor for the rest of his time in self-imposed exile... bonus points if houseless spirits look like they did when they died too!!

so i tried my hand at inktober for the first time... then gave up after a few days bc im too lazy... idk how those people who do it for the whole month do it, but please sire impart thy determination onto me!!! 🙇‍♀️😂 i might do a second dump in later October if i pick up any other days but for now.... my procrastination calls ✨

#silmarillion #inktober2021 #sauron #maedhros #fingon #i actually really like how day 3 turned out??? #might expand on that concept and do a coloured ver... #if im not lazy #bruhhh four days in and im already pooped #at least b&w is easier to get done in the middle of hw #heheheheh #maglor #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #amras #celebrimbor #(technically) #mairon #annatar #the silmarillion #sons of feanor #inktober #my art #silm #silm art #noldor #the silmarillion fanart #elves #lotr elves

[returntothewilderness]

A Poem for Pesach: We Will Be Your Judges

Pesach is a time to remember the freedom given to the Jewish slaves of Egypt. It is also a time to fight for freedoms we're still waiting on. Here is a prayer from and call to actively work at dismantling the systems who prey on us: To quote the prophet Jeremiah 2:12 "Be appalled, O heavens, at this Be shocked, be utterly desolate"

When it comes time for your soul to leave your body you will not be allowed to enter through the gates of paradise until you are deemed worthy of meeting your maker

And We Will Be Your Judges: the souls of the disabled, those in poverty, those who lost their lives and families, cultures and homes to capitalist, imperialist, colonial games the souls of slaves, of the captives of war, of queers and trans folk, of the exploited, of the sick who received no care, of the houseless, of those harmed daily by racism and white supremacy, of those whose lives were spent behind bars, of refugees left in exile, of the mentally ill and mad

you will answer for your complacency, your indifference, your cheek turned the other way, your inaction, your wars, your travesties, your greed, your enacted genocides, your crimes against humanity

TO US

did you love thy neighbor?

did you feed the hungry?

did you care for the ill & disabled?

did you clothe the cold?

did you house the houseless?

did you give your extras to those in need?

tell me, humble human, when you get to the gates of paradise, will you be greeted by your kin? or the souls of those whose blood is stained on your hands?

#pesach #passover #prayer #prayers #no justice no peace #disability justice #trans rights #blacklivesmatter #free palestine #anti colonization #anti imperialism #anti war #black liberation #the global south #indigenous rights #spirituality #we will be your judges #racial justice #poem #my poem #jewish prayer

[unrestedjade]

More baseless Ferengi headcanons no one asked for: LATINUM EDITION~~~

- Almost every home is a rental, as almost all usable land is corporate-owned. Might as well daydream about owning a moon, it's no less realistic than owning the house you grew up in. (No I'm not frustrated with my $1500 rent at all, no I'm not miserable watching 40-year-old trailer homes selling for $250k to a property management firm that's going to rent it out. Surely a place like Ferenginar wouldn't be equally ridiculous, hahahahahahahahHAHAHAHA. Ahem.) - Latinum as religious fetish. We see Quark offering slips of latinum while he prays to the Blessed Exchequer before bed. He even has a little shrine. What's unclear is whether you're meant to reuse the same slips each day or if you have to actually "give up" the latinum over the longer term for the offering to count. You can break a piggy bank, but it's probably bad to break an image of the Exchequer, unless he's very chillaxed compared to the majority of gods. - Assuming really giving up the latinum is better, is destroying it extra good? Or are you sinning by removing it from the Continuum? Are there Ferengi extremist sects that sink latinum into bogs or launch it into a star?

- What do they think and feel about latinum with regards to the Exchequer? What does a god need with it? Is it meant to be his lifeblood, figuratively? Or literally, via transubstantiation? (Catholic Ferengi. Cathipitolists.)

- How was latinum treated in the days before they knew to process it with gold so it could be handled safely? It's very pretty and ethereal-looking in its raw form, and also very, very toxic. Depending on the symptoms of latinum poisoning, I wonder if it had anything to do with it gaining religious significance? Ancient Ferengi priests seeing visions and going a little funny in the head from handling raw latinum for years and years?

- The way Quark and Brunt talk about taxes in S7 suggests there's not a lot of taxation in Ferengi society (officially, anyway. idk what else you'd call their ubiquitous bribes/tips than unofficial taxation). In any case, since one of the major purposes of taxation in modern economies is to control inflation by removing money (governments create/destroy money; they don't really keep a little checkbook register of surplus/deficit the way a household does) offering latinum to the Exchequer as an act of worship could be a good way to take money out of circulation for a while. - Latinum vs fiat money? Latinum is canonically used as coinage by multiple species. (It would seem like Ferengi are putting themselves at a bit of a disadvantage by also attaching a spiritual importance to it, but who knows, and this is a tangent on a tangent.) Is all their money backed by latinum? It can't be, right? Just conceptually, their stock markets and banks can't possibly be tying every value in every account to a real, physical measure of latinum, that's horribly inefficient. Can "latinum" also mean any legitimate liquid asset? Or does the Exchequer insist on the real thing? Much to ponder. - Brunt implies in Family Business that Ferenginar has houseless people and beggars. There's no point in begging if no one ever gives you anything, so some people must give charity to beggars. What's that look like, is it something kind-hearted Ferengi do in spite of the RoA explicitly stating that charity is only acceptable when you come out richer than you started? What's their rationalization in that case? Are they left feeling shameful about it? (Obviously the people stuck begging feel shitty, by design. Ironically, they might feel less shitty than we would, since the Exchequer doesn't appear to care how you get money, only that you get it.) - If you're moved to give money/material aid to a needy person, you'd probably do it quietly. Here in the good ol' US of A a common view is that "hand-outs" hurt the needy person in the long run because you're removing their impetus to stop being lazy sponges. And that's from people who follow a religion that commands them to care for the needy! So it's gotta be even harsher under a religion that's completely mask-off in its worship of individual prosperity. - (You just know Keldar was one of those people tossing a few slips of latinum for someone sleeping under a shop awning each morning. His business sense sucked but Ishka made him sound like a warm person. Folks gotta eat.) - Reincarnation... Alright, so if you were a dude and you die broke it's implied you can't reincarnate/are damned to the Vault of Eternal Destitution. Cool and fair, nothing to unpack there. What about women? They're half the population but seem to have been overlooked on this point in this here 10k-year-old religion. Which is telling in itself, of course, but you'd think someone would have addressed this? Who reincarnates female? Is the accepted understanding that females reincarnate female and are totally removed from the requirement to bid on their life? But that still doesn't solve the problem, because even if reincarnation were assigned-sex-segregated (god what a shitty idea, compels me tho) you're still losing X number of men to the Vault each generation. - I want to see what Ferengi religious debates look like. Pel is shown to be a serious scholar of the RoA as they've dug into not only the text itself but all the commentaries and refutations and deep-dives others have published about it. That's gotta fuel some spicy convo around the tongo table once everyone's a few drinks in. - Are there multiple sects? People arguing whether this or that rule is meant to be taken literally vs as metaphor? Everyone can't be in lockstep on this stuff. Quark seems to have been raised within the currently-hegemonic sect, but surely there's others.

- There don't appear to be any clergy or equivalent persons, so I wonder if there's different sects how they organize themselves? Do they host different subs on Ferengi Reddit? (Ferengi Reddit...shudder) - Ferengi atheists slacking at work or living as drifters because there's no point saving money for a next life that's not real. Life must drive them to drink. That's when you go out into space to live with the sane people and never call home.

- Is the rest of the population chill with atheists, or is that a no-go? I guess it would depend on how loud the person is and whether they follow the Rules or not.

- You know who they're definitely not chill with: socialists. Do they have Satanic Panics about this or that media turning the youth into commies? If you're an outspoken socialist, are you looking at exile? Arrest? An unexpected date with an Eliminator? - Conspicuous consumption seems to be a thing, and it's interesting in light of the whole "needing a good high score for a good reincarnation" idea. It still boils down to showing off how much you can afford to waste, but the stakes are undoubtedly higher for the faithful. - If something happens and you're at risk if losing everything, is it safer to just off yourself while you still have money? What if you're going to lose more than you'd ever be able to make back? (In economics this is called a perverse incentive lulz)

- The Great Monetary Collapse must have suuuuucked. It's the Great Depression x100, and also your god is mad at you, maybe??? And your next life is totally screwed now, too. Fuckin' dire, man. When Quark mentioned it in the show, it was with this flippant air like he was waiting to see how Miles and Julian reacted. He might have elaborated more if they hadn't reacted...the way he probably assumed they would. (Partially a self-fulfilling prophecy given the way he primed them to treat it as a joke, but I digress.) - Suicide rates are measurably higher in societies that elevate achievement and work ethic (see the Protestant vs Catholic divide on this, it's interesting and very depressing as a lapsed protestant in a protestant-dominated country). Just saying. - On this same bummer track: hedonic depression could be very commonplace among Ferengi. Every minute not spent working is spent on distraction because life is just such an exhausting grind, and a lot of factors determining whether you're a good/successful person are out of your control. Booze, porn, and gambling are all very distracting, and thus very popular. If a lot of this just sounds like regular degular capitalism: yes. It's actually proving difficult to push the fictional society further out because we're already living beyond satire. Maybe that's why I like these awful little guys so much. (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

#star trek #ferengi #meta #meta being a generous term for me making shit up because that's just how i party #i got halfway through the virtue of selfishness for the first time since i was 14 just for this #couldn't make myself power all the way through but i think the depth of my ardor should be proven anyway #suicide mention #because their society is an ancap hellscape

[tanoraqui]

assorted related Silmarillion interpretations/preferred headcanons:

on the Oath of Fëanor:

The language of Oath (per the Annals of Aman, which I'll treat as canon) does consign its swearers to Eternal Darkness if they fail to retrieve the Silmarils. However, the inclusion of "Day's ending" and "world's end" functionally gives them a deadline of Dagor Dagorath - which works well with the part of the prophecy that says the Silmarils shall be retrived at that time, and Feanor will give them up

(Will that consign him to Darkness, or will having all 3 in hand conclude the Oath? Could go either way!)

Neither Feanor nor his sons are likely to make any progress on this goal until Dagor Dagorath, because per the Doom of Mandos, once they die, they're going to be trapped in his Halls yearning for their bodies pretty much forever.

(Though there's also an argument to be made that "thou, Fëanor Finwë's son, by thine oath art exiled" trumps "your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall you abide and yearn for your bodies...", and while all his sons and followers will go to Mandos, Fëanor himself is cursed to wander Arda as a houseless spirit. This isn't necessarily my preferred take, but I would read fanfic of it if anyone has recs.)

The phrase "and Fëanor's kin" lightly bound every single blood relation and maybe those by marriage into the Oath as well, but not enough to doom them to Darkness - just enough to help drive them forward in Fëanor's wake until for various reasons they planted their feet and refused it, and the burning echoes died out without a fight. This might have applied to those born henceforth as well.

on the Doom of Mandos:

As stated, the (deceased) sons of Fëanor, and Fëanor himself, and almost certainly stuck in Mandos for near-eternity, mostly becasue nobody believes they won't make trouble if released

(They're probably right)

(They're definitely right about Fëanor himself)

When the Valar were pardoning people to return to Aman after the War of Wrath, the pardon applied to those already killed as well, and all those deemed suitably healed of their hurts and most vicious hatred were immediately and/or henceforth let out of Mandos.

The reason Finrod specifically is mentioned as reincarnating is that everyone who heard about the circumstances of his death was immediately worried that Gorthaur would trap his soul - Gorthaur who was later known as Sauron and "the Necromancer", y'know. (Sauron probably did, in the like 30 minutes before Luthien fucked him up. Potentially also see: @ceescedasticity's ongoing Orc Bank headcanons, which Idk if I accept fully into my own lore but I sure like them. But the point is that Finrod is fine.)

et cetera:

Dagor Dagorath is a valid prophecy

For every fic or headcanon about Elrond skirting all known rules to keep Maglor and/or Maedhros in his family, I'm legally required to get a fic or headcanon of equal weight about Elwing and Earendil skirting all known rules to look after their descendants despite the varied respective Dooms of all parties. If insufficient are made available to me, I'll start to make them myself. This is a threat.

Edit: almost forgot! AUs are fun but true ending for Maglor through at least the Fourth Age is sadly wandering up and down the western shore of Middle Earth; fading slowly but too regretful, stubborn, and reflexively competent to die; walking through memory as much as the present day; singing songs of loss, yearning, remorse, and most of all the history of his house: some of the good, but mostly the bad and the ugly. No one ever sees him up close, just hears his songs. His burnt hand will never heal until he is forgiven, but others and by himself. Man, Tolkien really understood my needs in a cryptid.

#the silmarillion #damn now i wanna write a fic about the point at which all of feanor's extended relatives (his sons didn't have a choice) consciously #said 'here and no further' #and how much further they did or did not go and how they did or did not miss the spark of it #headcanon i thought of while writing this and skimming hte book for reference which i'm not committed to yet but i do like: #it says morgoth's 'feet were hewn from under him and he was hurled upon his face' but not who did hte hewing and hurling #and you know what maybe finarfin gets this one. like i said: ticking clock in each son #i think for the hewing of the feet he must've hit the same spot that fingolfin did a century ago that left morgoth limping #and this time sliced his leg clean through

[undercat-overdog]

So I think it is interesting and novel to have a Celebrimbor who is half Sindar and wasn’t born in Aman, like in your fic ‘Shall These Bones Live’. What do you think about how it is for your Celebrimbor (and others like Celebrian) to have adapt to living in a place that is strange and new to them? (Unlike a lot of fics where Celebrimbor is returning to a place that was once his home.) Do you feel that Celebrimbor would have been excited to explore new places, and do you think that elves like him miss Middle Earth more than others who were originally from Aman? Since their true home will always be across the sea and forever lost to them?

Thank you for the ask, anonymous! <3 <3

I admit, I, uh, got a bit long winded, because I have so many thoughts on elves from Middle-earth in Valinor (this touches on a few of my headcanons/extrapolations on Middle-earth elves in general in the first half; Celebrimbor himself is in the second).

Short answer, yes. Misses Middle-earth, doesn't see Aman as home. At least not for the first few millenia.

That idea, that feeling among the Elves who came from Middle-earth, that knowledge that they will never go home again and the land they are now in is so different. I think the attitudes of the Middle-earth Elves vary a lot, but wishing to be back in Middle-earth is a common attitude (Dúnedhil, Silvan, and Avari alike). Beleriand might be exile to the Amanyarin Noldor, but Aman is Exile to the elves born in Middle-earth. I’m not sure how much it’s considered, but there are a lot of people who would not be in Aman had they had the choice; many Elves didn’t end up in Aman willingly: plenty of those who wanted to stay in ME would still have chosen Mandos and the potential of rebirth over life as a houseless spirit, or who, like Celebrían, left because they would otherwise fade; Mandos/Aman as the least bad option. Though there are also lots of elves of Middle-earth who were happy to go to Aman and longed for it! I don’t want to forget about those that rejoiced to come either. There are many different experiences, but both Celebrimbor and Celebrían are very much on the “Aman is Exile” side. Neither choose to be there and both miss Middle-earth dearly; I think Celebrimbor in particular thinks of Valinor as a prison at times.

It’s difficult for many to adapt, and for a multitude of reasons. There might not be any familiar faces. Celebrían, for example, knows very few people in Aman: until Gil-Galad is reborn (in the late 3rd Age), Celebrimbor is the only family member she knew in Middle-earth (and Oropher and/or Amdir, if you go with them being related to Celeborn, but I don’t for the sole reason that I would like for there to be a king who’s not related to Elwe or Finwe). There are, I’m sure, a lot of Elves like Celebrían, with no family present, or little. It’s a change, a huge change, and for Elves returning from Mandos there’s the whole “I was dead and now I am not” thing, which is also huge, and to deal with that, while being in a strange land without hope of returning home and possibly without any family or friends? Celebrimbor and Celebrían have it easy in some ways in that, whatever their traumas, both have a social network that's concerned about them as individuals who are loved. Not every elf would have had that and some of those elves would have had as much or more trauma.

There must have been such a culture clash. A northern continental or oceanic climate to tropical and sub-tropical Aman (or tropical/subtropical Tirion, Alqualonde, and Tol Eressea, though Tirion is a highland climate. There are other areas too). Different foods, different fashions, different art and (v. important) jewelry styles, different ways of talking. Some of those culture differences are more serious than others. Two big ones here are the attitude towards death – is it more or less expected or is it unthinkable – and the attitude towards living forever in a land of peace. The Elves born in Middle-earth are accustomed to death, they’ve grown up with it, it’s not shocking; in Mandos they don’t need to come to terms with the fact that death exists. But they are likely much less equipped to deal with eternal life in paradise. And there’s a desire, I think, of many of those of Middle-earth for their own culture to be seen as valid and just as good. The Noldor (and the Iathrim) have a huge superiority complex and that is going to irk a lot of people. I don’t think there are a ton of Middle-earth born elves who live in Tirion on a permanent basis.

They're also now living in a land ruled by the Valar. I think there is a lot of variation among the ME Eldar when it comes to attitudes towards the Valar. Varda I think is well regarded by all – she’s the god of stars and they’re elves and elves like stars to the point that they named themselves the people of the stars – but for the ME Eldar who don’t have high opinions of the Valar, welp, now they find themselves (possibly unwillingly) in the land ruled by the Valar – and the Valar do rule Valinor in a way they don’t Middle-earth. Even those who do revere the Valar revered them at a distance, so the politics of it all is an adjustment. And then there's the Avari! Elves can be cantankerous; there is probably some rhetorical and political rejection of the Valar as rulers, which many who lived through the Darkening respond to with horror and condemnation and fear. So likely a fair bit of political and physical separation, especially once Oropher and Gil-Galad are reborn, and that keeps tensions down a bit.

ALSO! There are a lot of disparate groups from ME. There’s the Dúnedhil, the Eldar of the West of Middle-earth (chiefly descendants of the Sindar and Exilic Noldor with a fair bit of Silvan influence). There’s the non-Noldor of Beleriand who were reembodied in Aman or who sailed there after the War of Wrath. The various Silvan groups. There’s the Avari, who are a whole multitude of different peoples! And any Elda who died on the Great Journey (possibly from fucking too much wtf NoME). There is A. Lot. going on. I suspect the 1st Age Sindar, Amanyarin Noldor, Teleri and Dúnedhil are probably culturally closer to each other than they are to any other group, to the disgruntlement of many in those groups. But there’s always been a lot of cultural contact between the Noldor and the Teleri and in Beleriand the Sindar and Noldor became one people, more or less, and the Dúnedhil descended from that mixed Sindar-Noldor culture, though with a lot of Silvan influence. Tons and tons of tensions, for fairly obvious reasons, and I don’t want to say that various subgroups get along or are allies, but a cultural similarity that does matter.

For Celebrimbor in particular: I will admit that one of my major reasons (I have many) for going with a half-Sinda Celebrimbor is just that it’s never done, and even the “born in Aman, mother stayed” version is almost always played the same with very similar family relationships, and it doesn’t interest me as a writer, because I don’t see anything new that I could play with (no condemnation there at all, just talking about me as a writer/fan). One who's half-Sinda is largely uncharted ground (plus it's easy to make him alienated from his Feanorian relatives, which I like, also because it's almost never done), and it nods to the other versions in which Celebrimbor is a Teler or Sinda, versions which perhaps pop up in universe because there was a time when C was presenting himself as a Sinda? But anyways, one of the things you can do with one who’s not born in Aman is play around with being reborn in a place that is exile.

He misses Middle-earth dearly and a lot of that is also connected to the failure of his ambitions and knowing that Eregion, the land he loved, was ruined and that there is no one to comfort the stones that weep for them. He doesn’t have all the problems other people might have: he’s not particularly bothered by the change in climate, etc. and he does have family (his maternal family, all of whom died in the First Age, are back; he stayed with them after being reborn so there’s plenty of family support). He’s occupied a fair bit with scientific pursuits (of the theoretical kind, not the making Items of Power kind) and is petty enough to be involved in a number of academic arguments and rivalries, which he finds normal and enjoyable; he doesn’t need to find some other occupation like some Elves might. Most of his day to day issues have to do with scientific cultural clashes and wanting to stress that his non-Amanyarin culture is not lesser – lots of emphasizing his Exilic Quenya dialect and the like, as well as rejecting a purely Noldorin identity. Which is all mostly stuff that’s triggered by being in Aman but not intrinsic to the land itself, just fights that he happens to have there because of the situation.

But the stars. The stars are different and that hurts. And the stones and holly trees of Eregion are lost to him forever. The Elves are deeply, deeply connected to their land and that connection is severed, a sharp and final separation.

There’s the sense of exile, but more than that a sense of imprisonment. Less physical and more “all my ambitions were destroyed and I don’t know what to do and I can’t go back (in time or to ME).” He’s perfectly fine day to day – I don’t mean to overstress the angst – but being in Aman is completely tied up with the destruction of Eregion and how his vision, a Middle-earth brighter and fairer and more blessed than Aman, will now never happen. The mere fact that he’s in Aman is a failure.

Finally, there’s a pretty major social issue. I have a lot of reasons for making my version of Celebrimbor half-Sindarin. One of which is that as someone born in Middle-earth, he never met Feanor. Because oh man, I cannot imagine any Celebrimbor who doesn’t have some issues with Feanor and Feanor’s legacy, and this gives me a lot of interesting things to do. “I want to be in Middle-earth” is not the only thing that makes him less than thrilled to be in Aman. The Amanyar look at him and see a lesser version of Feanor and Feanor as a cultural figure is far more important to them than to the Dúnedhil. So Celebrimbor gets: “when are you going to stir up a rebellion?,” “you need to make great things” – which he is not at all up to at the moment and that is something that deeply troubles him – and “oh, it’s cool to meet the second best smith.” By the time of Eregion’s founding Feanor wasn’t much of an issue for him, everyone having gotten past such things more or less after the War of Wrath when a bunch of disputes and heritages just stopped mattering. And… after a certain point there are very few people who knew Feanor in Middle-earth; to most he’s a historical figure. My Celebrimbor doesn’t have mommy or daddy issues (he does have an occasionally fraught relationship with his mother, but it’s over adult disagreements, and he rarely thinks of Curufin, who’s been dead for a few millenia). But for his entire life he has been held up to Feanor and found wanting because Feanor was declared The Greatest™ before his birth and as a result he has a swan-fleet full of Feanor issues.

And now he’s back to everyone looking at him and seeing Feanor. Aside from homesickness, the occasional feeling of imprisonment, I think his biggest issue with Aman itself (as opposed to Aman as a symbol of his failure) is how he’s once again first and foremost a Feanorian, before who he is an an individual person. That may well be one of the underlying reasons he and Nerdanel don’t really have a relationship.

As far as exploring goes, that’s something that Celebrían is much more interested in than Celebrimbor. He’s not a homebody exactly, but not someone who explores for the sake of it. Field expeditions, visiting his grandparents, going to various academic conferences, or being dragged places by Finrod, Amarie, and/or Celebrían are why he travels �� which is a fair bit of traveling and means he sees a fair bit of Aman, though a lot of those bits of Aman are urban settings. Celebrían, though, will absolutely just wander for no other reason than to see new places – or she will once she is emotionally able to, once she feels safe again: she was attacked by the orcs on a trip, after all.

That was a lot of words! I hope it answered your question satisfactorily? And thank you for the ask, anon <3

#ask #anonymous #celebrimbor #middle earth #meta #celebrian #elves in aman #headcanons #shall these bones live #or backstory to it at least