#it's a long way to say that you could theoretically just make a quenya name and maybe add a sindarin one and be fine in most cases

[cilil]

✧˖ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑨𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 °.

Are you looking to name a Maia or Vala OC or to write about an Ainu character, but aren't sure how to name them/refer to them? You've come to the right place! Here's a fun little breakdown of Ainur names (there's also a tldr at the bottom for quick answers). Hope it helps!

Level 1: What others call them (near, far, wherever they are)

Much like other characters in the legendarium, Ainur have different names in different languages and their identities may be seen differently depending on which culture they're currently interacting with.

One great example for this is Gandalf. His original name in Valinor was Olórin (related to "olos"/"olor" which means dream or vision), while the name Gandalf came from old northern Mannish and means "Wand-Elf". To the Dwarves, he was known as Tharkûn, which is Khuzdul for "Staff-man", and his Sindarin name was Mithrandir, which means "grey wanderer". These are just a few examples of his various names and nicknames, but you get the idea.

If you have other characters referring to the Ainu in question, consider which language(s) they would speak and see if a name has already been given to that Ainu in the specific language. Otherwise you can translate one of their existing names or give them a new one based on how you think the culture/group of people whose perspective you're currently writing would view the Ainu. An example to illustrate the latter: On Númenor Mairon was referred to as Zigûr, which means "wizard" in Adûnaic - fitting for a sorcerer.

As for the Ainu(r) character(s) you're writing, consider that they may also need different names in different languages depending on who they interact with. Ainur are omnilingual and will typically introduce themselves according to the language others around them speak. Depending on how open they want to be with their identity, they may simply give a slightly altered version of their name that reflects the other language (for example the Adûnaic version of Melkor is Mulkhêr), translate their name or make up a new one or accept one that was given to them. However, the name they identify with and use in their inner monologue may be a different one*... and this is where we move to the next level.

*Important side note regarding this: While Morgoth and Sauron are commonly used names for Melkor and Mairon, these names were given to them by other people and are intended to be derogatory, so even though it's not always explicit in the text, we can safely assume that they do not self-identify as such and stick to their more "flattering" original names.

Level 2: Quenya

When Ainur are introduced in canon, a Quenya name is usually given as their "real" name. Again, Olórin is an example (one among many) for this.

Having a Quenya name is pretty essential for every Ainu who lives in/has ties to Valinor and can be important for the ones in Middle-earth too depending on the time period and how they self-identify. Be sure to look up the Quenya names of existing Ainur characters and have a Quenya name ready for your OCs, unless they were never in Valinor and explicitly cut themselves off from their kin and culture. Gothmog might be an example for this, being an Ainu who is pretty much exclusively identified with a Sindarin name and seems to at least not object to the usage of his "evil Balrog name"/isn't mentioned to identify with a different name instead. However, even in such a case consider that other Ainur might still remember the character in question by their Quenya name and continue to use it.

Level 3: Valarin

As you probably know already, Valarin is the language of the Ainur that they created when they began taking physical forms. While they still use it among themselves and some Valarin words were adopted into Quenya, the alien and at times unpleasant sound of Valarin prompted them to learn Quenya instead to converse with Elves.

Would the Valarin name be a more "accurate" name of an Ainu, given how it was their first language and they only later translated their names? You could say that, and some authors have chosen to use Valarin names for that reason.

However, the main issue with Valarin is that so little is known about it and it can be intimidating and/or infuriating to even try using it aside from the few known Valarin names, which are:

Aȝūlēz (Aulë) Arōmēz (Oromë) Mānawenūz (Manwë) Oš(o)šai (Ossë) Tulukhastāz (Tulkas) Ullubōz (Ulmo)

Alright, don't panic. Valarin is, at least in my humble opinion, not a must. The texts themselves use Quenya, the Quenya names are a translation of the Valarin names and the Ainur in general are known to self-identify by their Quenya names a lot, for example Mairon liked calling himself "Tar-Mairon".

If this however isn't satisfying to you and you would still prefer to have Valarin names ready for the Ainur you're writing, but can't make much of what little is known (less than 20 words and names respectively), you can still "make up" your own Valarin rendition of the Quenyan names. Here's how:

If you look at the ones I listed above, you may have already noticed that there are strong similarities between the names. Manwë, for example, comes from the Quenya root "man" with the ending "wë", and you can see these elements being present in his Valarin name as well. So I'd suggest you take the Quenya root and simply... make up a name that sounds like it could be proper Valarin (yup, we cheese it). To give you an example I've seen floating around in fanon: Melkor's name comes from the Common Eldarin (common ancestor of all Elven languages) "melek"/"mbelek", which means powerful (root "bel"/"mbel"), and Valarin names people use for him are usually some variant of "(M)Belekorōz".

Level 4: "True Names"?

But wait, some of you may say, didn't you say that the Ainur only invented Valarin when they took physical forms? Yup, I sure did. The Ainur in fact existed before language was even a thing - as spirit beings who communicate telepathically (via good old ósanwë) by nature they don't need it among themselves.

And this why I think not even the Valarin names are technically the "true names" of the Ainur and that they in fact don't have "one true name". Given how the use of ósanwë, especially in an environment like the Timeless Halls where no physical barriers exist, allows them to pretty much project their entire identity, emotional state and being to one another, there should have been no need for names. Rather, they would have "titles" or "descriptors", a sort of summary of who their identity and function. You can arguably see that in Melkor's name still: "He who arises in might".

Now, again, what I'm saying in the paragraph above isn't explicitly spelled out in canon, but rather the conclusion I've come to after researching and thinking about it. I would also advise against giving various Ainur half a sentence as their original "name" for your Timeless Halls fics - I thought about it, but realized it would be both obnoxious to write and unpleasant to read.

[TLDR] To conclude my advice is this: Quenya as the original/default name is completely fine, you can create a Valarin version if you want to and otherwise you may need additional names in other languages depending on the setting and situation, as outlined in level 1. With that being said: Happy writing and character creating!

#ainur answers #ainur #maiar #valar #writing guide #tolkien oc #tolkien legendarium #silmarillion #silmarillion oc #ainu oc #it's a long way to say that you could theoretically just make a quenya name and maybe add a sindarin one and be fine in most cases #anyway uh #if you have further questions #feel free to send asks #or dm

[daywillcomeagain]

fëanor

i’ve started a series in which i do retellings of the events of a tolkien character’s life, from their perspective, framed to make them sympathetic and help the reader understand their choices. you can read the others here.

3.7K words under the cut!

i want you to imagine.

you are ten years old when your mom dies. (it is because of you. everyone is careful not to say it like that where you can hear them, but you can tell just as well by the way that they carefully talk around it. you wish they would just come out and say it and end the pointless game of careful implication.) nobody has ever died before, nobody, not in the long history of the universe. and now they have. because of you. she was kind and gentle, soft and sad, always kissing your imaginary injuries and rocking you to sleep. you were too much for her. fëanáro, she names you, soul of fire, because you have stolen all her fire, because she has given all her soul to you and kept none for herself.

you keep vigil by her grave for a time. then, you throw yourself into your work. you loudly correct everyone who says her name wrong.

when you are nineteen--still a very small child; later, they will say that elves in their twenties are comparable in appearance to human children of seven years old, though more skilled with words and tools, and they do not say how they compare in emotional maturity--your father falls in love again. she is nothing like your mother. she laughs often and loudly, and sings brash and joyful songs that make all who listen to them want to dance. you are still grieving, still working. he's never around anymore. it would be easier if you could hate her, but you don't fully, not really. or maybe you do. you hate something. you are not sure what you hate. (you would hate the world, for being so unfair, for tearing her from you, but that can only mean two things. either you could hate her, for choosing to die, and you never could do that--or you could hate the gods, for lying to you, lying to everyone, when they called this place the Undying Lands, and you are pretty sure that's blasphemy. it's easier to hate her, for taking your father away from you.)

the debate happens when you are twenty-nine. you hear the whole thing. it is a debate on whether your father should be allowed to remarry. in truth, it is a debate on whether you are evil or whether your mom is. they declare that your birth was a portent of evil, that it proves that you yourself are evil--they declare that your mom is at fault, for having no strength left, in those last days, exhausted and miserable--

--and you don't hate them. not yet.

they declare that your father may get married again.

(but. if.)

they declare that it is unnatural, for anyone to have more than one living spouse. (indeed, they have said repeatedly that it is unnatural for anyone to fall in love more than once, ever. they are compromising on this only because they cannot control it.)

your father can get married, so long as your mother stays dead forever.

she was always so insistent that she would never wish to return, but--you had dreamed, so often, that she would. that she would get her energy back. that she would recover. that she would change her mind. if she marries your father, they are issuing a sentence: that she will stay dead forever, no matter what, no matter if she begs and pleads to see you again.

they get married five years later. a short betrothal, as the elves reckon it. she makes your father happier than you had ever seen him. she pronounces your mother's name wrong, every time.

you think maybe you hate her a little, now. you don't tell anyone. you wonder if this is proof that the valar were right when they said you were evil.

you take on an apprenticeship to the only vala who had said, no, the death of míriel þerindë cannot have been a sin, because fëanáro is untainted and so is she.  you learn the forge. you hammer your hatred into metal, you make the rock beneath you do what you tell it to do.

they have another child, and another, and another. a daughter, a son, a daughter, a son. you don't hate them, but nor are you friends--you are not famed for your cool head, and you have not stopped grieving. all of them, all of them, say your mother's name exactly the way she hated it.

you have not stopped working. you hammer metal and study linguistics and cut gems and experiment with chemicals. you learn the language of the gods, the language that nobody else can quite pronounce. you invent writing--phonetically perfect, each letter conveying voicing and place of articulation, spelled exactly how it's pronounced. (you make sure her name is spelled the way she wants it pronounced, and you didn't invent sound but you invented writing, if you teach them this is how you spell her name they can't disagree with you.) you invent long-distance communication.

the playing with chemicals goes well. you invent artificial light. it is your city now, bathed in the light of your lamps, their glory written in your letters.

you keep working and working and working, trying so hard to bring beauty to this world, because somewhere in the back of your mind you are not quite sure that you can ever make up for your crime of having been born. (you killed your mother, and perhaps in a different world, writing and light and long-distance communication could have saved lives, but this is paradise, and so they are trinkets, curiosities, and your mother is dead and your half-family still does not pronounce her name right no matter how many papers you write railing against the linguistic evolution of quenya that made the thorn obsolete, and you have changed nothing.)

melkor is released. he promises he is penitent. you do not trust him. almost everyone else does. perhaps it is because you are the one of only two people in the whole world who understand the stakes. it is after a debate, of course, and you wonder at these gods, who are so willing to pardon torturers and so willing to decry children. of course, that isn't quite fair--you were never sentenced to three thousand years chained in the Void--but you think it anyway.

when you were still a child, you had passed a girl on the street, who was arguing passionately that you can't just REPLACE his mother, mothers aren't INTERCHANGEABLE, even rocks are different and mothers are certainly even more so. you hadn't seen her again until now. you are wandering aimless, hiking in the great wilderness, because at dinner your father had called her your mother and even that ever-present balm of overwork is not enough to calm your stuttering heart. and you run into her.

her hair is shockingly red, curls of frizz trying to escape the knot she has it in. freckles dot her skin. her lips are thin, her nose crooked.

as soon as you see her again, you know you are going to marry her.

you do. you learn that she is named nerdanel and that she is a sculptor and that she apprenticed under the same vala as you and you fall in love all over again when you see her statues, looking as though they are about ready to jump into life. people gossip on the streets about how the crown prince's bride is not beautiful, and you forge two rings and cut two jewels and you do not care what people on the street think. you have seven sons. your father's name is finwë. you are curufinwë--skilled finwë. your half-brothers: ñolofinwë, wise finwë; arafinwë, noble finwë.

you name your first child nelyafinwë. third finwë.

you have seven sons, all in all. every time, you are terrified that your wife is going to break, that this one, this one, she will run out of soul. they say that that is why women do not work as craftsmen or composers (--or broidresses--), staying instead to mathematics and astronomy, theoretical work, observational. they say that is why women do not have many children, only three or four. every time a woman creates, she gives away a little bit of herself. (they say that is why your mom died. they say that is why you are a genius at creation. she was already putting energy and soul into her weaving, and then she created you, and she had no more to give.)

she gives birth to your sixth and seventh children--twins--and kisses you on the forehead and goes back to work chiseling at a statue and tells you that it is nonsense.

you work. somewhere deep, where even you do not fully know it, you are terrified that they will realize who you are, and you hope that your inventions will buy you time, will buy you love, because you know that they will never ever be enough to buy penance, to buy redemption, to buy your mother life and joy again. you demand unconditional loyalty from your family because you are certain that, if it is conditional, you will lose it. you are terrified that, one day, you will go too far and discover the conditions.

gems and artificial light shine in your workshop. finally there is a breakthrough.

you work non-stop for almost a decade, day and night. nerdanel brings you food and water when you don't get enough on your own. you observe the trees, that light-which-is-more-than-light, more than lamp or fire, that light that finwë gave up the stars for, that caused elwë to grow so much taller than anyone had ever before imagined was possible.

finally, you have your breakthrough.

the silmarilli shine more beautifully than you had thought possible.

gradually, things change.

you hear whispers, in the forge, of how to make armor and weapons from steel. in the street you hear that your half-brother means to put himself above you in succession for the throne.

you go back to the forge. you invent the first sword.

it has not been a week before your half-brother is wearing one.

it goes on like this for twenty years, the slow escalation. you know your work isn’t enough, anymore. you clutch to the allegiance of your wife and sons like a drowning man would to a rope. you are not sure you can trust anyone else. you have decided that maybe you hate all of them, your half-brothers and your stepmother, all those who play-acted family while pronouncing your mom's name wrong. you hold the silmaril light close to your chest and wonder what stars look like.

finwë calls a council. ñolofinwë (not fingolfin, not yet) comes early, of course. he begs finwë to restrain "the spirit of fire". he says that you mean to leave valinor, which is true enough, and to drive him out of the city, which is not, yet. he says that, if finwë disowns you now, then at least he will still have two loyal sons.

you come in with your sword drawn. its tip hovers barely a hair's width from ñolofinwë's chest as you speak.

a trial is called, a council, a debate. the valar mean to judge you, of course. it would be more interesting if they had not judged you guilty the moment your mother died.

it comes out in the trial that the past twenty years have been melkor's lies. that he whispered of weapons and plots of overthrow to the people at both of your forges, that he used every escalation on either side as proof. you still do not love each other, but you forgive each other. ñolofinwë says: "I will release my brother."

the valar sentence you to exile for twelve years. they do not find melkor, and they cannot sentence someone they cannot find. you leave the city without speaking a word. your sons come with you, as does your father. your half-family remains.

they invite you to a festival. you go in forge-clothes, hair tied up loosely, a sword hanging at your belt half out of spite and half out of unfounded paranoia. your silmarils you leave at home. they do not deserve to brighten the halls of the valar. you have to go--it is only an invitation out of politeness, it could so easily turn to command, or at the very least turn to more proof of your inherent evil--so you go, but your family remains in exile. in protest.

ñolofinwë is there. he turns to you and says, i forgive you, unconditionally, and i would still like to be your brother, if you would have me. his hand is out, his eyes trusting. he is wearing no sword.

so be it, you say, and shake his hand.

it is that moment when everything goes dark.

at first, the dark is terrible, oppressive. it is not the absence of light; it is a presence, almost tangible, of void. it is a claustrophobic sort of darkness, a thick thing through which nothing could pass.

the winds clear it away, eventually, and then it is just a regular sort of darkness, a vast emptiness. you can see the stars; they're as beautiful as you had imagined. maybe more.

finally, someone speaks, and then everyone speaks at once, as though a spell had been broken. you all gather together, in the square, to see the dead and withered forms of the two trees that had once lit up all of valinor.

you realize then that you are no longer afraid to hate paradise, to hate the gods themselves, so you do.

they call a silence, after not too long. they beg you to break your silmarils, to destroy your jewels, to light up the world again.

you want to sob. you have lost everything, and this--this--

you, of all people, know that elves can die of grief, that elves can die because they have poured too much of their own soul into their creation and there is none left over for themselves. you know that breaking your jewels would be signing your own execution. and here they are, asking you to kill yourself so that their city might be brighter, because the stars are not enough for them to show off the lovely paradise they have built.

you tell them this. the worst part of it is that you know that they will take this as the proof they have always longed for, that you are evil and selfish and prideful and corrupted. you say that if they force you to do otherwise, you will regard that as the first murder.

"not the first," námo says, and for a moment you wonder if he has finally admitted what he did to your mother when he allowed your father to remarry.

i say it is only for a moment because, a moment later, your oldest son arrives.

"your father is dead."

and with that--

you give melkor a new name. moringoþo, you call him, black foe of the world.

and then--

you scream. and you run. you run and run, into the darkness, into the wildness.

everyone searches for you. they are terrified you have killed yourself. you are not entirely sure that they are wrong to be afraid of that.

but eventually, you are found. there is more news: the silmarilli are gone, stolen by moringoþo. and, well--

"you're king now," someone tells you, softly, and it is then that you begin to break.

only two people have died since the universe began, and you are an orphan.

you hear that moringoþo, who took your light and your father, who stole from you all that you loved, is in middle-earth now. well, you had always wanted to go there.

you are still exiled, technically. you don't really care anymore. you don't care much about anything other than making him pay. you arrive in the streets of the capital and call on all to come, to listen to you. your speech is wild with grief and anger, all the hatred you have held in for three thousand years spilling out in the cracking voice and perfect words of a linguist and writer. (the valar name it pride, rebellion. they say it is the wicked lies of moringotto that come from your lips.)

you swear a terrible oath, anguish on your voice, that you will pursue anyone who takes your silmarils, whether they be a monster or the brightest of valar. you swear that you will pursue morgoth to the ends of the earth and past it. whatever it takes. you say that you will be damned worse than death if you fail. your voice rings stronger than the most sacred of vows.

you are so, so comforted, when your sons leap up without hesitation to take the same vow beside you. that you are not alone, that not all that you love has left you. that, with dead parents and a wife who refuses to follow you, that the loyalty and the people you have clung to has not entirely failed.

you are king now. you tell your people to follow you back to middle-earth.

the valar say they do not intend to trap you. at first you are almost grateful.

you discover soon enough that you cannot cross the Grinding Ice. you must go by sea.

you have no boats.

you beg for boats. you are told: no, we will not give you boats, they are our heart's love, as dear to us as your silmarils are to you. you beg to be taught to make boats of your own. you are told: no, we will not teach you to make boats, not without the blessing of the valar. (and of course you will not get the blessing of the valar. you remember when they told you that you were free to leave, and almost curse yourself for still wanting to believe them.)

and with every minute of delay, moringoþo is out there, having killed your father, the silmarilli shining proudly from his brow, having faced no consequences. and you are in paradise, doing nothing.

eventually, you tell your people to get in the boats, draw up the anchors, man the oars.

the teleri throw your people into the water.

it is only then, hoping with all your heart that they knew how to swim, that you draw your sword.

the valar doom you, of course. the valar declare you as evil. the valar are proven right in everything they have ever said about a small, grieving boy. the valar name you kinslayer. the valar promise to forgive you--not if you help the survivors, not if you send aid and food and let them keep all their ships but one, but if you repent of your rebellion and stay in valinor.

you do not particularly care if you are doomed. you cannot live with this in your heart without leaving and fighting. you have made an oath, and you are not about to break it. you would rather die a million painful deaths, fight a thousand hopeless wars, than spend another day in paradise. and so you speak your own doom, as true as theirs. you say you will never be a coward. you say you will never be forgotten.

námo has no answer, to that.

there are boats, now, but not enough. the trust so tenuously built between you and ñolofinwë has come crashing down again. arafinwë has forsaken the march altogether, leaving his children to go to middle-earth alone.

that night, everyone is asleep but you. you cannot sleep here. you are not sure if you can ever sleep again.

you wake your sons and the most trustworthy of your people. you take the boats.

safely on the other side, surrounded only by people you trust, you burn the boats. you do not want ñolofinwë camping in the dark, in the cold, waiting for a return trip that never comes. sometimes destroying all hope is its own sort of mercy.

your sons help you set them ablaze. all except one. finally you have gone too far, discovered the conditions for the loyalty of your oldest son. your arm throws torches with as much violence as it can. you laugh, but your laughter is not lighthearted. the fire glitters on your cheeks.

in truth, you are grateful when the battle comes. finally your hatred can be unleashed upon a worthy enemy; at last your sword can break the ribs of people who are to blame instead of merely in the way. in so many ways, this has all you have ever wanted. with every orc dead, you are making a difference, a real one, not just giving trivial trinkets to people who already have everything they need. you are too much, too marred, destructive and short-tempered and evil and finally you are only hurting and killing people who deserve it. it requires focus, precision, as much as the most detailed smithing, and for a moment you can almost forget the grief in this whirlwind of death.

you keep going, and going, and going. you lose everything in the haze of sight and sound, the black blood of orcs and the great fire of balrogs-- --so many balrogs-- --too many balrogs-- --but you're too far in now and you knew this was going to happen and you don't care, exactly, when you fall to the ground with a sickening thump.

your sons carry you away when the battle ends. you gasp out your dying wish: you want them to keep their oath. you want to die comfortable in the knowledge that the person who did this, to you, to your father before you--you want to know that he will pay for it. (you never said you weren't selfish.)

they promise. you dissolve, then, into the fire that always burned inside your soul.

in the years to come, your grandson will denounce his family and then carve your symbol into the stone wall of a door. your sons will come to hate your oath, though they will never break it. thousands and thousands of years later, they will call you a monster with the letters you invented, by the light of fëanorian lamps, and the weapon at their belt will be a sword. and one day, a hobbit will ask who you are, not knowing the answer, and he will be told by an old wizard that you were fair beyond imagining.

#fëanor #the silmarillion #he had neither burial nor tomb #my writing #different names for the same thing #who prays for satan?