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lamemaster · 18 days

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The Curse of Bloodlines (Epilogue 😔)

Request: For the annon who sends me this request every day. You know who you are and you have my respect fellow gremlin.

Pairing: Thranduil x Reader

AN: I never wanted to write this. But alas for those who cannot live without a happy ending go thrive. Please no more requests for this AU after this.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Epilogue |

"Atyo!" You peel Celegorm's hands off Thranduil's throat. At once your uncles are at the task of taking him to another room as you follow them. Not daring to look back at him. Too scared that you might not be able to leave if you do.

Perhaps it was the fear of finding the same disdained look you had witnessed in Arda. The fear of being subjected to it had left your eyes anywhere but, Thranduil.

So you focus all your attention on your father, who almost escapes the grasp of 4 of his brothers, including Uncle Maedhros, who towered over the majority in Valinor.

"Ata, not now," your voice cuts through the din, surprisingly firm despite the tremor in your heart. Your father's face contorted in a snarl, but something in your voice, perhaps the raw emotion, caused him to pause.

"Let me go!" he roared, his voice thick with fury. "I won't be mocked by that… that…" he trailed off, his tongue failing him to find an insult that wouldn't ignite another confrontation.

You shake your head and lead him out. "Let's leave. Grandfather is waiting."

You clenched your jaw, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. This meeting, the one you'd dreaded since your days in the Halls of Mandos, had been a disaster. And the worst part? It was just the beginning.

Meeting your father was something you had wished for forever. An unfulfilled yearning you grew up with. The same yearning Legolas grew up with. Absence of a bond that made the entirety of an existence.

Settling in his arms was a comfort unknown to you in life. Death had been kinder in many ways.

The agony of right and wrong seared on both you and your father. Ignorance of the bond that is most priced above any other. Blood that had cost you the love of your husband and the chance to watch your son grow.

But things that once shredded your heart into pieces now were distant worries. The sting of betrayal and the ache of lost years paled in comparison to the warmth of your father's embrace. His tearful apologies, whispered promises of redemption, were a balm to your wounded soul.

You met then, your uncles, your grandfather, your great-grandfather, An entire clan doomed in the halls of death. And so the task of stitching back together the House of Finwe began.

From uncountable days spent sharing stories by the pillar of your Grandfather, Feanor's firey pillar, to bringing along the souls of your troubled cousins Aegnor and Maeglin. Finweans started healing.

And you became the princess of Noldor. A title that came with a hefty price.

Legolas' friendship with Finrod wasn't a surprise. Both, you realized, carried the weight of a love lost to time – a grief you could never fully understand or soothe.

Legolas, however, found solace elsewhere. Celebrimbor, with his gentle spirit, became his closest confidante. He regaled Amrod and Amras with tales of Middle-earth, earning their playful grumbles about being called "grandfathers." Feanor, a name whispered in legends, became a complex figure he learned about through stories and perhaps, even fleeting glimpses of him to and from the forge.

Your interactions with Legolas were tentative at first. You were a stranger to him, a face from stories whispered in hushed tones. He longed to know the woman who carried him.

Awkward silences hung heavy in the air, punctuated by whispered stories of his life in Greenwood. He spoke of Thranduil with respect, but a flicker of sadness lingered in his eyes. He spoke of a man named Estel, a human who had become a dear friend, a story that filled you with bittersweet joy.

Then came the inevitable – a meeting with Master Gimli. Their shared tales of their unlikely friendship brought laughter to the once desolate House of Feanor.

Finally, after much coaxing, you managed to convince Legolas to attend Oropher's feast. You knew a march to invite the entire Noldorian royal family was a tad excessive, even by his standards.

Noldor marching was almost always was a perilous idea.

"Apply this twice a day," you mutter, handing him the small vial. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to meet his gaze. "For the bruises," you clarified, pointing to the dark marks of your father's grip on his throat.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, then settled into a mask of stoicism. His eyes, those same eyes that once held the warmth of a thousand sunrises, seemed distant, etched with the weight of untold ages. They held an emotion you couldn't quite define - a far cry from the hatred that burned in them during your last moments together.

His hand brushed against yours as he reached for the vial, sending a jolt through you. The grief that had settled between you, heavy and suffocating, felt like a tangible presence in the air.

"I apologize for my father," you began, your voice barely a whisper. "He is…"

"Troubled," he finished the sentence, his voice surprisingly gentle. "As are we all."

A heavy silence descended upon you once more. He spoke, breaking the quietude, his voice laced with a weary resignation. "I do not know what penance I shall bear to ever right the wrongs I have committed. I have searched for ages, scouring the world, but I cannot find a path back to the past I crave."

"I do not know what repentance I shall bear to ever right the wrongs I have committed," he continued, his voice barely above a murmur. "This yearning for what we once had consumes me, yet I detest it, for I do not believe I am worthy of it." His voice cracked, and for a moment, the once proud king you knew of was now stripped bare, revealing an elf consumed by regret.

The air around you seemed to crackle with unspoken apologies and unspoken yearning. You gathered your courage, forcing the words from your lips. "I do not know much of right or wrong," you began, your voice surprisingly steady. "Neither do I understand the intricacies of penance or forgiveness. Yet, from all I have learned in this strange realm, one thing resonates."

He averted his gaze, his back turned to you, his broad shoulders slumped in defeat. All the air seemed to have been sucked from the room, leaving a hollow ache in your chest.

Your mind raced, searching for the right words. "No act is set in stone. No grievance can hold its power over the relentless march of time. My kin, they wronged many, yet even they found a measure of peace." You thought of your uncles, of your father, finally released from the burdens of their choices.

"They were able to return to the light of Aman because they allowed themselves to seek forgiveness," you continued. "Beyond mine or Legolas', it is your own that you require the most." You reached out then, your fingers brushing against his cheek.

"We have all the time in the world." You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a whisper of a kiss. A flawed marriage, a flawed separation, and a flawed reunion, yet, nothing had managed to make it any less sweeter.

#the hobbit #the silmarillion #tolkien elves #noldor #thranduil x reader #Feanorian reader #celegorm #angst #middle earth #thranduil x wife #thranduil #Istg I will not write this ever again

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dawnfelagund · 10 days

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At the Tolkien at UVM Conference this year, I presented a paper on Grief, Grieving, and Permission to Mourn in the Quenta Silmarillion. The paper is now posted on my website and the Silmarillion Writers' Guild. Here are some highlights:

The Quenta Silmarillion is a dangerous time to be alive! Eighty-eight named characters die ninety deaths in its pages. While some demographics are slightly better off than others, the key word there is slightly. No one is safe.

War is the number one cause of death in the Quenta Silmarillion.

There is a surprising lack of grief and mourning, and what exists reflects the bias of the narrator Pengolodh.

Characters disfavored by Pengolodh (or his patrons) don't receive grief and mourning, which draws attention away from their humanity and toward their deeds as explanations of the history of the First Age. (The Fëanorians, Aredhel, and Maeglin are prime examples here.)

Those who receive the most grief and mourning are those not just favored by Pengolodh and his patrons but often those whose deaths raise moral and ethical questions that threaten their legacy. In particular, Pengolodh likes to attribute some power beyond the grave to kings who make choices that threaten their people's safety but who, politically, are not subjects for his condemnation: Fingolfin, Finrod Felagund, and Elu Thingol. This piling on of grief shows that these kings' people regard their legacy as positive, and the posthumous after-effects negate the argument that they endangered their people with their choices. Instead, they are permitted to protect and restore from beyond the grave.

The complete paper has the full details!

#silmarillion #tolkien #pengolodh #tolkien at uvm #tolkien and historical bias #tolkien as historical texts #tolkien and historiography

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ardafanonarch · 3 months

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Hi omg I love this thank you for doing it! I have seen a lot about what named sword did or didn't or might have belonged to whom - do we actually know the names of any First Age swords and who wielded them? (other than Eol's cursed pair).

Thank you!

[Anon, this one got so long that I have divided it into 3 parts so people can navigate more easily to weapons that most interest them. Thanks so much for sending this ask, I went down many rabbit holes researching and learned some new things myself.]

The Iron Gang: Anglachel-Gurthang, Anguirel, Angrist

Swords of the First Age, Part 1 of 3

Anglachel

Meaning: Uncertain. Possibly a combination of ang “iron”, lach “flame” and êl “star” (Eldamo). Sindarin.

Maker: Eöl

Owned/wielded by: Eöl, Thingol, Beleg, (Gwindor), Túrin

Notable for: forged from meteoritic iron; given as fee to Thingol for leave to dwell in Nan Elmoth; slaying Beleg

Fate: Reforged in Nargothrond as Gurthang

Then Beleg chose Anglachel; and that was a sword of great worth, and it was so named because it was made of iron that fell from heaven as a blazing star; it would cleave all earth-delved iron. One other sword only in Middle-earth was like to it. That sword does not enter into this tale, though it was made of the same ore by the same smith; and that smith was Eöl the Dark Elf, who took Aredhel Turgon’s sister to wife. He gave Anglachel to Thingol as fee, which he begrudged, for leave to dwell in Nan Elmoth; but its mate Anguirel he kept, until it was stolen from him by Maeglin, his son. The Silmarillion, ‘Of Túrin Turambar’

Discussion

Anglachel and its mate Anguirel are remarkable weapons. Not only because they were forged from “star iron”, against which the mere iron ores of Earth were no match, but also — certainly in the case of Anglachel and probably likewise with Anguirel — they seem to have possessed a sort of dark power, even sentience.

When Thingol gives Anglachel to Beleg, Melian says:

‘There is malice in this sword. The dark heart of the smith still dwells in it. It will not love the hand it serves; neither will it abide with you long.’

Melian’s words, as usual, prove prescient: Anglachel goes on to be the instrument of Beleg’s demise, wielded against him by Túrin as Beleg attempts to cut the fetters holding his friend captive. Gwindor then briefly carries Anglachel, until he and Túrin come to the Pool of Ivrin and Túrin is released of the madness of his grief over Beleg. Túrin notes that the blade has blackened and become blunt, and Gwindor remarks:

‘This is a strange blade, and unlike any that I have seen in Middle-earth. It mourns for Beleg even as you do.’ The Children of Húrin, Chapter 9: Death of Beleg

The implication seems to be that Anglachel has weathered unnaturally after losing its master.

Presumably because of this damage, Anglachel is reforged in Nargothrond. We do not know who specifically reforged the swords, but it is popular fanon that Celebrimbor, who remained in Nargothrond following his father’s expulsion, may have been involved. After reforging, Anglachel becomes Gurthang.

Gurthang (Anglachel reforged)

Meaning: Iron of Death. Sindarin.

Maker: Eöl, reforged by smiths of Nargothrond

Owned/wielded by: Túrin

Notable for: slaying Glaurung, Brandir, Túrin

Fate: Broken under Túrin’s body in his suicide. Shards buried with him.

The sword Anglachel was forged anew for him by the cunning smiths of Nargothrond, and though ever black its edges shone with pale fire. The Silmarillion, ‘Of Túrin Turambar’ Then they lifted up Túrin, and saw that his sword was broken asunder. So passed all that he possessed. The Children of Húrin, Chapter 13: The Death of Túrin

Discussion

Anglachel’s seeming-sentience is amplified by its reforging as Gurthang. In this incarnation, the weapon frequently flickers and flames as if it houses a fire of its own. Most notably, when Túrin prepares to take his own life, Gurthang speaks:

Then he drew forth his sword, and said: 'Hail Gurthang, iron of death, you alone now remain! But what lord or loyalty do you know, save the hand that wields you? From no blood will you shrink. Will you take Túrin Turambar? Will you slay me swiftly?' And from the blade rang a cold voice in answer: 'Yes, I will drink your blood, that I may forget the blood of Beleg my master, and the blood of Brandir slain unjustly. I will slay you swiftly.' Then Túrin set the hilts upon the ground, and cast himself upon the point of Gurthang, and the black blade took his life. The Children of Húrin, Chapter 13: The Death of Túrin

A Tangent: The Enigma of the Sentient Sword

There is no explanation in the legendarium for why or how Gurthang speaks, but a speaking sword is an enduring feature of Túrin’s story that goes all the way back to the earliest version, Turambar and the Foalókë (c. 1917-19, published in The History of Middle-earth Vol. 2: The Book of Lost Tales Part Two). So why did Gurthang speak, and why was this feature so dear to Tolkien? Well, here’s a passage on the death of the hero of the Tale of Kullervo in the Kalevala, a Finnish epic that Tolkien read as a teenager and which was a major inspiration behind the story of Túrin.

Kullervo, Kalervo's offspring, Grasped the sharpened sword he carried, Looked upon the sword and turned it, And he questioned it and asked it, And he asked the sword's opinion, If it was disposed to slay him, To devour his guilty body, And his evil blood to swallow. Understood the sword his meaning, Understood the hero's question, And it answered him as follows: "Wherefore at thy heart's desire Should I not thy flesh devour, And drink up thy blood so evil? I who guiltless flesh have eaten, Drank the blood of those who sinned not?" Kalevala, Rune XXXVI, translated by W.F. Kirby (1907)

Very familiar, isn’t it? The existence of a talking sword in-universe provides opportunity for all sorts of imaginative explanations, but the influence of Kullervo offers, I think, a compelling Doylist one.

Finally, it’s common to read interpretations where Anglachel and Anguirel exhibit the same properties as Gurthang. But there’s not, to the best of my knowledge, explicit canonical evidence that “speech” was an ability these two swords had from the time of their forging by Eöl. (I was also fascinated to find, during research for this post, that Anglachel and Anguirel were probably not always black. I made a separate post about it.)

Anguirel

Meaning: Uncertain. Possibly a combination of Sindarin ang “iron”, (unattested) uir “fiery” (or Noldorin uir “eternity”), and êl “star” (Eldamo).

Maker: Eöl

Owned/wielded by: Eöl, Maeglin

Fate: Unknown; presumably lost in the fall of Gondolin

Discussion

Compared to Anglachel, we know little of the history of its mate Anguirel, save that it was stolen from Eöl by Maeglin, presumably at the time Maeglin left Nan Elmoth for Gondolin.

Angrist (knife)

Meaning: Iron Cleaver. Sindarin.

Maker: Telchar of Nogrod

Owned/wielded by: Curufin, Beren

Fate: Breaks in Beren’s attempt to cut a second Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown.

Then Beren did Curufin release; but took his horse and coat of mail, and took his knife there gleaming pale, hanging sheathless, wrought of steel. No flesh could leeches ever heal that point had pierced; for long ago the dwarves had made it, singing slow enchantments, where their hammers fell in Nogrod, ringing like a bell. Iron as tender wood it cleft, and sundered mail like woollen weft. But other hands its haft now held; its master lay by mortal felled. The Lay of Leithian, 3051-3063

Then Lúthien rising forbade the slaying of Curufin; but Beren despoiled him of his gear and weapons, and took his knife, Angrist. That knife was made by Telchar of Nogrod, and hung sheathless by his side; iron it would cleave as if it were green wood. The Silmarillion, ‘Of Beren and Lúthien’

Discussion

Although of a different maker (and of unknown metallic composition), Angrist has interesting similarities with Anglachel and Anguirel. Besides the initial ang- element, all three blades are noted for an ability to cut through iron, and both Anglachel and Angrist end up “turning against” their masters as a pivotal moment: Angrist by breaking as Beren tries to cut a second Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown, and Anglachel by being the instrument of Beleg's death. As Eöl is also noted to have learned from the Dwarves, some fans have imagined these three blades may have been forged from the same meteoritic iron, or at least to share some of the same “enchantment”.

Note that the quote from Lay of Leithian does not explicitly apply to Angrist, which is a name for Curufin’s knife that Tolkien first used in the 1937 Quenta Silmarillion.

Part 2 | Part 3

#weapons #anglachel #gurthang #anguirel #angrist #the children of hurin #the lay of leithian #kalevala #turin turambar #beleg #eol #maeglin #curufin #anon

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aipilosse · 9 months

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Why Pengolodh of all people is able to stoke such rage within me on his behalf is so bizarre. Like, he's a non-character, a name and some facts Tolkien came up with in his carousel of in-universe authors to keep the layers of narration he loved, but the way he is maligned in this fandom is tragic.

I've touched on before that treating the Silmarillion as if it were written and relayed by a single author is entirely incorrect so I won't go into that here, and honestly I'm sure I've said this all before BUT

The idea that Penny is for some reason *least* suited to write most of the events of the Silmarillion is PATENTLY ridiculous, and I would challenge anyone who says that to a duel, either intellectual or physical (even in my current weakened state... Tulkas is on my side I cannot fail). First of all, the one place where nobody else knows anything about what happened is GONDOLIN, so I think if anyone is going to be writing about most of the events of the Silm, they either need to be from Gondolin or need to live in Sirion with survivors.

OH WHAT'S THAT.... SIRION?!?

Yeah, Sirion! The place where not only are there survivors of Gondolin, but there are survivors of Doriath and Nargothrond AND any remnants of the Beorians, Hadorian, and Haladin. Like, I can think of no other place where the Mannish legends would be able to be recounted, and put on the same level, as the Elvish ones.

"But the Feanorians," you squall. "He's so *unfair* to them, and how could he know ANYTHING about them? That's why we know sooo little about the Feanorians and why they are soooo unjustly maligned."

Ok, first of all, ya basic. Second of all, HE HAS ACCESS TO FEANORIAN SOURCES TOO.

There is Celebrimbor, and all the other former followers of Curufin and Celegorm that could of course tell Penny what was up in Himlad and afterwards while he was in Gondolin. Also, there were probably Feanorians who lived after turning on Maedhros and Maglor during the sack of the Havens who could fill in what happened after The Luthien Incident. So, actually, Pengolodh had multiple sources to literally all of the essential events of the Silmarillion.

OH YEAH THE SACK OF THE HAVENS. Despite living through what is described as the worst atrocity of elf v elf, despite having people we KNOW were friends with him KILLED during that fight, despite having his home destroyed by fellow Noldor, he *really* gives Maglor and Maedhros every excuse. "they felt bad, they're so tired, love grew between them and their victims" etc etc. The Silm is sympathetic to the Feanorians and you can't convince me otherwise (you're not some crazy rebel because you like them!) (They are also Doomed by the narrative, but attributing that to an in-universe author requires getting into the territory of events that occurred not actually occurring and... what's the point if you're going to say that the things that the book is about didn't happen? why are you even here?)

I see people say that the bias is against the 3 Cs, Caranthir especially, which is an ABSURD statement to make in conjunction with the 'Pengolodh, sole conveyer of the Silm' theory. Like, Pengolodh most likely never met any of the 3 Cs or if he did he was very young -- why would he dislike them more than the brothers that massacred his friends? I think the theory here is that he's just such a huge Turgon fan and just absorbed Turgon's opinions on the 3 Cs, which is just conjecture on top of conjecture with no solid footing.

I think there is more credence to him being biased against Maeglin on account of the Fall of Gondolin. But, I ask you, is it really *bias* when the guy is partially responsible for the sack of the city you spent most of your life in and likely the deaths of most of your friends and relatives? And Maeglin too in the published Silm is not without his good qualities! If you hate someone, it can be very hard to admit they're handsome and smart, but Penny does not have that issue.

Anyway, justice for Pengolodh. You didn't write the whole thing, Penny, but what you did write was I'm sure fucking fantastic.

#Pengolodh #justice for pengolodh #pengolodh nation rise up

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laoih · 2 years

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I don't mind adaptations, and I don't mind people doing different things with adaptations. People can say "we made this adaptation the way we liked with our own ideas". They can say "the source material didn't work as a series so we changed a lot". They can even say "the source material was outdated in our eyes, so we took it only for inspiration but then did our own thing".

However, be honest about it.

If you create a series only inspired by some of Tolkien's writings, but ignore essential parts of it, you shouldn't claim that you stay as close to Tolkien's writing as possible or promote it that way.

At SDCC the showrunner Payne said:

“So, one, always back to Tolkien. And two, when Tolkien was silent, we tried to invent as Tolkienian a way as possible."

Yet they even ignore those parts where Tolkien wasn't silent. If you always go back to Tolkien like you pretend you do, then

why is the Second Age reduced from more than 3000 years to about 1500?

why is Sauron's reign in Middle-earth reduced from more than 1500 years to the span of one short Númenórean life?

why are Hobbits playing a part in the Second Age when Tolkien explicitly said they only became relevant towards the end of the Third Age? And Harfoots are a variety of Hobbits, Tolkien explicitly wrote that.

why is the Elf Adar leading Orcs? There was never a cooperation between these two peoples out of free will, even in the case of Maeglin it was because of Morgoth's influence over Maeglin after his capture, and neither Sauron nor Morgoth can do that now.

why do two Durins exist at the same time when according to Tolkien's writings Dwarves believe that they are reincarnations of each other?

why do the Dwarf-women don't have beards when Tolkien explicitly wrote that they have beards?

why do many of your Elves have short hair even though every Elf where the hair length was described by Tolkien had long hair?

why is Galadriel portrayed as "brash" and "angry" and "full of piss and vinegar", as running around wielding a sword, when at this time she is thousands of years old, has been Melian's student, has mostly avoided the conflicts in the First Age, and it's in general unlike what her character has been described as? Female characters can be strong characters even when they don't act like their male counterparts.

why does Celebrimbor look like an old human with pointy ears when Elves are supposed to be ageless and more beautiful than the average human?

why does Elrond look more like a teenage leprechaun with light-brown hair than an Elf who is thousand years old and has dark hair? At the time of the creation of the Rings of Power Elrond was already leading Gil-galad's armies into battle.

why is Gil-galad wearing so much gold, when in Tolkien's writings he is associated with silver? The casting also shows too much age for an Elf who is certainly younger than Galadriel.

why is there a large Númenórean cavalry with heavy armour when Tolkien wrote that the Númenoreans used horses in war only for couriers and light-armed archers?

why is Galadriel riding with the Númenorean cavalry? While Galadriel had contact with Aldarion, she was not involved in the military afairs of Númenor and there was no longer contact with Númenor during Pharazôn's and Míriel's time.

why is Míriel ruling as Queen, when Pharazôn took the throne directly after Tar-Palantir's death?

why does Pharazôn have a son with the Quenya name "Kemen", which is even a part of a Vala name, when Elvish was completely avoided by those in Númenór who hated the Valar and the Elves?

...and these are only a few things I could spot in trailers and interviews, and it's only the things that Tolkien wrote about – I'm not even going into the things that they think are Tolkienian but that Tolkien was silent about. These aren't things that had to be changed for a series adaptation, because they can all be done as Tolkien wrote it if you wanted to.

You can change things in your adaptation, but be fucking honest about it.

#the rings of power #lotr rop #lotr the rings of power #rings of power #me musing about shitty promotion #lotr rop critical #tbd

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imakemywings · 6 months

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Yoooo Im still reeling at the fact that the Kings of Numenor are descendants of Turgon like FREAKING TURGON HOLY SHIT. Do you like Turgon? He's such an interesting character and I never saw his action of building a hidden city as an act of cowardice despite popular belief.

I LOVE Turgon he's so cool. My traumatized little mew mew.

Usually when a divine power comes to you in a dream and says "hey do this to save your people" you might want to at least consider doing it (and his downfall comes when he stops listening to Ulmo). And one thing I think is always relevant to consider when thinking about Turgon's character is that he convinced all these people to do Gondolin with him. Literally a THIRD of the Nolofinwean forces go with Turgon and just disappear into the ether never to be seen again as far as anyone else is concerned. A THIRD of their forces decided Turgon was the guy to follow. Even Aredhel, who backs out later, initially was onboard. Personally, I think it says a lot about how close they were--which is why my h/c is that they were each other's favorite sibling. This says something about him: either that he's very persuasive, or a very strong leader, or very likeable, or something. People don't just up and abandon their king to follow a different guy for no reason, and we know that Fingolfin was also well-liked, so Turgon did have competition.

And I don't think that protecting the people who chose to come with him was an act of cowardice. Turgon had a responsibility to the Gondolindrim and I think he took it very seriously, possibly especially after the trauma of the Helcaraxe and then their first battle in Middle-earth where his little brother Argon died. If Turgon had a downfall, it wasn't cowardice, it was pride, and allowing himself to believe that staying in Gondolin was safer than taking Ulmo's advice and abandoning the city (although in his defense, you can imagine how he convinced himself they were safer with city walls than no city walls, Valar be damned).

Turgon was also such a warrior that even in Bilbo's time the goblins still fear his sword. In The Lay of the Children of Hurin Tolkien calls him "Turgon the mighty" and notes that Melkor particularly wanted to catch Turgon at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. In this same battle, he also gets the sexy sexy epithet "Turgon the terrible towering in anger" as he hacks an escape from the battle for him and his soldiers.

And this is another thing--while staying hidden was key to keeping Gondolin safe--Melkor never did find it except through trickery--he still comes to Fingon's aid during the Nirnaeth.

"But now a cry went up, passing up the wind from the south from vale to vale, and Elves and Men lifted their voices in wonder and joy. For unsummoned and unlooked for Turgon had opened the leageur of Gondolin, and was come with an army ten thousand strong, with bright mail and long swords and spears like a forest. When Fingon heard from afar the great trumpet of Turgon his brother, the shadow passed and his heart was uplifted, and he shouted aloud: ...The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!'"

Turgon also does a great job making buddies with Men which is fun for him.

"Now in the phalanx of the guard of the King broke through the ranks of the Orcs, and Turgon hewed his way to the side of his brother; and it is told that the meeting of Turgon with Hurin, who stood beside Fingon, was glad in the midst of battle."

He stands out to me for how we never get any indication that he takes issue with his daughter Idril choosing to marry Tuor, a mortal, even though this means that should Turgon ever die, a Man will become prince consort of Gondolin (Idril is named as his heir, so presumably she would be a ruling queen).

I've never bought into the notion of Turgon having a contentious relationship with Maeglin either, for reasons explained here.

This man has just had so much trauma...Elenwe dying on the Helcaraxe, Argon getting killed as soon as they arrive, Aredhel being murdered right in front of him by her abusive spouse, Fingon getting stomped into jelly, Fingolfin's mutilated corpse getting delivered to him after the duel with Melkor...is it any WONDER he chooses to go down with the city when he realizes he made the wrong choice in staying?

"And [Thorondor] laid [Fingolfin] upon a mountain-top that looked from the north upon the hidden valley of Gondolin; and Turgon coming built a high cairn over his father. No Orc dared ever after to pass over the mount of Fingolfin or draw nigh his tomb, until the doom of Gondolin was come and treachery was born among his kin."

Want to talk about carrying on the family legacy? By the time Turgon takes the crown of high king of the Noldor, he is the last one left of Fingolfin's immediate descendants.

And you know, I think it's fun and cool of him to never forgive the Feanorians for abandoning the rest of them after Alqualonde. He should get to say whatever nasty shit to them he wants to. Worst cousins of Arda until Maeglin decides to give them a run for their money.

You know who else is related to Turgon of course--Elrond and Arwen. No wonder they're so cool and sexy.

#asks #anonymous #turgon

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nothinghereisworking · 7 months

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Celegorm Appreciation

Celegorm is many things, and has changed across various iterations of the legendarium, but I agree that he is not stupid - he is not mindless or a beast.

Celegorm is still a son of Feanor, proud, intelligent, persuasive. Capable of leading and inspiring and - if the occasion calls for it - instilling bone deep terror in his audience.

You don't overthrow and usurp the "fairest and most beloved of the house of Finwë" being an idiot. That takes talent.

To that end, let's have some Celegorm appreciation! Feel free to add your own or those you love to the list!

_________________

The Marks That Bind Us by @polutrope In Ossiriand after Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Celegorm meets the Green-elf he deserves. T, M/F: Celegorm/OFC, 1,796 words

A Salve by @polutrope Battered and humiliated after the encounter with Beren and Lúthien, Curufin must reestablish the bond that holds him and his brother together. T, Gen with shades of M/M: Celegorm/Curufin, 860 words

Do Not Go Alone by @dreamingthroughthenoise (boy I hope I parsed those screen names correctly!) Dying was taking longer than Celegorm would have liked. T, Gen, Celegorm & Dior, 1,919 words

The In-Between by @melestasflight Celegorm falls at Doriath by Dior's hand, but the journey does not end there. T, 1,160 words

We'll grow old together by @ettelene Four cousins have fun by the sea. G, Gen, Aegnor, Angrod, Celegorm, Curufin, 610 words

Broken promises by @ettelene In Nargothrond, Celegorm thinks about Finrod. G, Gen, 330 words

Change of Heart by @arofili Celegorm is uneasy with the new turn of events. G, Gen, 300 words

As the Hare Flees Before the Wolf by @emyn-arnens Curufin is not the only son of Fëanor Eöl meets upon the plains of Himlad.

Or, Eöl meets Celegorm while pursuing Aredhel and Maeglin, and things go very badly for him. T, Gen, 1,792 words

Some of my own:

Moonlight In His Cave The Dagor Bragollach has broken the Noldorin siege and scattered the Sons of Fëanor across Beleriand. Celegorm and Curufin are at last overrun and forced to flee, ending up in the last place they had ever expected: Nargothrond. This is the account of their years there, and how it all came crashing down again. M, M/M, 15,040 words (in work)

Mercy Celegorm has many lessons to teach, not all of them expected or wanted. Finrod has learned the lesson, but perhaps not the one Celegorm thought he was teaching. T, Gen, 2,987 words

Chapter 4: Mousetrap A little thief is caught red-handed in an unexpected encounter. G, Gen, ~600 words

Chapter 4: The Hunt Turko has been teaching the Twins to use their hunting weapons and how to track prey. Now he puts them to the test with their first hunt. G, Gen, ~900 words

#celegorm #celegorm appreciation #tolkien fanfiction #recommendations

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polutrope · 1 month

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Why should the Fëanorians get to have all the incest?

Inspired by this post, here are a few fic recs for dark and delicious incest between kin who do not slay* but who are otherwise just as messy. I know there's much more -- please reblog with your additions!

*Unless they are named Fingon.

Against His Wisdom by @melestasflight. Fingolfin/Fingon, Fingon/Maedhros. Poetic, heartbreaking codependence. An especially sensitive treatment of first degree incest.

For Whom His Heart Yearned by me. Aredhel/Turgon. They both loved Elenwë, now they have only each other.

Listen. Leave. by @littlewhitemouseagain. Aredhel/Turgon, Maeglin/Turgon and others. Idril's POV on her father's terrible coping mechanisms through the ages. Disturbing and brilliant, makes too much sense.

A Lamentation Before Their Eyes by LadyBrooke. Fingolfin/Lalwen. Contemplations on forbidden love and the horror of LaCE.

The One You Want by smutcatt. Aredhel/Turgon. Helcaraxë, drabble.

nearest to her heart by spellworth. Finrod/Galadriel. Helcaraxë angst. So much tension and religious guilt, I get twisted up thinking about it.

Sharp as a flame by @ettelene. Aegnor/Finrod. Andreth angst, drabble.

And some canonical incest...

Twice Beloved by iddump. Nienor/Túrin. Dreams of Doom by @camille-lachenille. Nienor/Túrin.

These two fics both capture so beautifully how happy these sibs were with each other, despite how Morgoth tried to twist their love.

#fic recs #fic rec #rec list #sorry I didn't use the cw tag because apparently this flags it as a post that violates tumblr's “community guidelines”#which sorry but fuck that

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emyn-arnens · 10 months

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As the Hare Flees Before the Wolf

Eöl & Celegorm | T | 1.8k | @tolkiengenweek Day 3: Enemies | AO3

The light of the open plains burned in Eöl’s eyes as he urged his horse onward, heedless of the wind lashing at his face. Again and again he cursed the names of his wife and son, turning their names into a drumbeat of rage that pounded steadily with the beat of Morroch’s hooves.

Aredhel, as faithless as the rest of her kin, bending to Maeglin’s whims and treachery as soon as Eöl’s gaze was turned away from her. And Maeglin, whose hatred had festered under the eaves of Nan Elmoth, and turned into a foul, fetid malignancy.

They would be punished justly, and his servants as well for not noticing their escape. He knew now that none could be trusted.

Eöl ground the reins into his palms and dug his heels into Morroch’s sides. He focused on the ground streaming beneath the horse’s hooves, averting his gaze from the accursed sun that burned high overhead.

Thus it was that he did not notice the half-ring of Elves that stood barring his passage, until a cold voice called for him to halt, and looking up and narrowing his eyes against the light, he found himself penned.

Eöl noted the light in their eyes, bright and burning with unearthly brilliance, and he resisted the urge to spit at their feet. Noldor. And sons or followers of Fëanor no less, for they wore the eight-pointed stars of all his ilk.

As Eöl drew Morroch to a halt, one of the Elves called to him, his voice mocking. “What errand have you in these lands that one so sun-shy as you would brave the sunlight? A matter of haste, perhaps?”

Though bitter anger rose in his heart, Eöl mastered his features and did the Elves courtesy, knowing his danger. Dismounting and bowing his head, he said, “I beg your leave, lords. I am following my wife and son, who departed from Nan Elmoth two days ago, while I was away. They rode to visit you, and I, seeing it fitting, sought to join them on their errand.”

“We marked their passing,” the leader of the Elves said, “though they did not halt to greet us, nor indeed stay with us, for that was not their errand.” He was pale and fair-haired, and in his hand he held a great hunting bow. He wore a wolf pelt about his shoulders, pinned in place with an eight-pointed star that was larger and glinted more brightly than those of the Elves around him, save for the dark-haired Elf that stood to his right, his posture languid but his gaze sharp. They were the lords Celegorm and Curufin, then, the cruellest of all of Fëanor’s cursed spawn. Curufin it was who had first called to Eöl, mocking him.

Celegorm dismounted and stepped forward, handing his bow to his brother. “We suffered them to pass, for their need seemed great, and their flight was as hares that flee before the hunting wolf.” His voice was fluid and sinuous, a voice that entrapped and ensnared.

“So either you seek to deceive us or you are yourself deceived, Eöl,” he continued. “I would warn you that it will fare better for you if it is the latter that is the truth, though I doubt that one such as you is capable of truth.” The Elf-lord’s face was cruel and perilous, and the scornful glance of his eyes as his gaze swept over Eöl in one dismissive motion sent rage burning through him.

But Eöl held his tongue and stood still and straight before Celegorm as the Elf paced slowly around him, his pale hair glinting in the harsh sunlight of the open plain. Although fear trickled through him, he tilted his chin. He would not be cowed by a kinslayer, perilous though Celegorm was.

Eöl mastered his expression as the Elf-lord again paced in front of him. “Perhaps, Lord Celegorm, you will give me leave to depart so that I might discover the truth of this matter.”

Celegorm stopped and laughed coldly. “And so let the fox loose from the trap so that he might again feast in the henhouse? I think not. It shall be decided here, with my brother and our men as witnesses.” He motioned to the Elves behind him.

He resumed pacing. “How would you bid us to decide in this matter, Dark Elf? To trust the words of one whose speech does not align with his actions, or to trust rather the counsel of my heart, which urges me to consider why the Lady Aredhel and her son seemed to flee as if the very hounds of Morgoth were upon them, and why you, not two days later, fly at their heels even in the light of the sun?”

“You misread the matter, Lord Celegorm,” Eöl said.

“Do I? Tell me the truth of it, then.”

Though Eöl felt his peril growing, he straightened as much as he could and answered, “My wife does not understand the customs of my house, and she suffers from an affliction of the mind, for I regret to say that she has weakened in mind and spirit since the birth of our son, and strange notions have entered her mind that never would have before. A healer has advised that she remain at home, where my servants can keep her in comfort and banish her delusions of discontent. Surely, kinsman, you understand now why I ride with haste after her. I fear for her well-being and that of my son, whom she surely has convinced to believe her delusions to be truthful.”

Celegorm came to a stop in front of him, and any trace of mockery had left his face, which had turned suddenly stern and cold. “Those who steal the daughters of the Noldor should be less heedless with their tongues, if they value the gift of speech. I name you no kin of mine, Dark Elf.”

Eöl stiffened. “I did not steal what came to me willingly.”

“Did she, or was she ensnared by the enchantments and entrapments you have long devised in the secret hollows and twisting paths of the forest? Do not think word of your work has not spread from the shadowed eaves of Nan Elmoth.”

Eöl’s lips twisted into a snarl. “Why should I bandy words with one who slaughtered his own kin?” he spat. He whirled and reached for his javelin, which was fastened to his saddle.

With a growl, the beast standing next to Celegorm lunged forward and wrested the javelin from Eöl’s hand.

Celegorm took the javelin from the beast, examining it. He ran his finger over the blade, where the poison glistened in the sunlight, then sniffed his finger. His gaze flicked up to Eöl’s. Eöl thought to see anger or triumph flicker in the Elf-lord’s eyes, but they were cold and impassive, and when he spoke, his voice was deadly quiet. “I wonder: Who was this meant for—your wife, or your son?”

Eöl felt the blood drain from his face, and he reached for the hilt of his sword.

But the Elf-lord was faster. In one fluid movement, the cold blade of a hunting knife pressed against Eöl’s throat, and Celegorm’s lips brushed Eöl’s hair as he whispered, “Who is the kinslayer now, I wonder? For all our misdeeds, we have never slaughtered our wives or children.”

Gritting his teeth in anger, Eöl kept his gaze fixed ahead, not allowing the Elf the pleasure of seeing his fear, though his heart hammered in his chest.

Celegorm withdrew the knife from Eöl’s neck, and before he could react, the Elf-lord wrenched Eöl’s hand up and swiftly drew the blade of the javelin head across his palm in a stinging slice.

Cold dread trickled down Eol’s spine, and his face contorted in fury as he looked up at Celegorm. “Thou art a kinslayer twice over, son of Fëanor.”

Celegorm said nothing in response, now flint-eyed and in a perilous mood, and he stepped back and addressed the encircling Elves. “Though his words are honeyed lies, his hands have shown the truth of his dark purposes, and he has felt the bite of his own poison. He will be dead by morning, perhaps, but there is now the matter of what to do in the hours until dawn.”

Even now Eöl felt the poison enter his veins, and his heart quailed. “Will you not release me to die as I see fit, or at the least kill me swiftly—or will you not suffer even those comforts, kinslayer?”

The Elf-lord’s smile as he turned upon Eöl was wolf-sharp, and Eöl knew now that the peril he had felt before had been merely a shadow of the peril he now faced. “To hasten the hour of your death would be too merciful, Dark Elf. Do not forget that I once followed Oromë. I can deliver mercy and withhold it just as easily.”

“You would break all laws of the Eldar.” Eöl looked from Celegorm to the other Elves, beseeching. But there was no kindness to be found in their gazes.

“You would have had Irissë die even as you do now, in slow agony of pain unrelenting. Is it not just that you should feel the same fear that she would have?” The light in Celegorm's eyes was wild and fey, and Eöl cowered beneath his glance.

“What will you now do with me?”

A smile curved Celegorm’s lips. “The hunt is about to begin, and we are in need of prey.”

Eöl paled, even as the Elves’ voices rose in laughter, and he leapt atop Morroch and dug his heels in, lashing the ends of the reins against the horse’s flank. Still laughing, the Elves parted as Morroch broke through their half-ring and lengthened his stride into a gallop.

As they fled over the plains, Eöl leaned low over Morroch’s neck and peered back over his shoulder.

Already, Celegorm, Curufin, and their followers outfitted themselves for a hunt. The great hunting bow hung at Celegorm’s back, and Curufin held a tall spear that glinted in the sun. Their followers leapt astride their horses, and hounds milled about the horse’s legs. Celegorm ordered the formation of the riders, and the hounds gathered in front, Celegorm’s slavering beast foremost.

With a cry of fear, Eöl urged Morroch faster, until sweat flecked the horse’s dark flanks, and foam showed about his mouth.

The sharp blasting of horns carried over the plains, and the baying of the hounds joined the bitter cries of the hunters. A howl rose above the din, louder than that of any wolf that stalked the dark forests of Beleriand.

And above all came the sound of cold laughter carried on the wind.

#tolkiengenweek #silm fic #tolkien fic #silmarillion #celegorm #eol #fotfics #create the canon you wish to see in the world (eol suffering)#huan is arda's no. 1 opponent of sexism #the silmarillion #my fic #domestic abuse cw #(mentioned only)

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warrioreowynofrohan · 29 days

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Silmarillion Daily - Of Fëanor, and the Dwarves

Two major developments today in Silm Daily!

First, Fëanor reaches the peak of his skills. I put this paragraph here (year 1250 of the Years of Trees) as it’s when History of Middle-earth dates his developement of the Tengwar (and also mentions his work on other gems, including the palantíri).

Fëanor is at this point around 70, which is still young for an elf (probably the Elven equivalent of mid-20s?).

Fëanor was tall, and fair of face, and masterful, his eyes piercingly bright and his hair raven-dark; in the pursuit of all his purposes eager and steadfast. Few ever changed his courses by counsel, none by force. He became of all the Noldor, then or after, the most subtle in mind and the most skilled in hand. In his youth, bettering the work of Rúmil, he devised those letters which bear his name, and which the Eldar used ever after; and he it was who, first of the Noldor, discovered how gems greater and brighter than those of the Earth might be made with skill. The first gems that Fëanor made were white and colourless, but being set under starlight they would blaze with blue and silver fires brighter than Helluin; and other crystals he made also, wherein things far away could be seen small but clear, as with the eyes of the eagles of Manwë. Seldom were the hands and mind of Fëanor at rest.

And, pretty much at the same time, we get the first meeting between the Sindar and the Dwarves, which actually goes very well! As an interesting note, by this time Khazad-dum is already well-established and flourishing; it could easily have been the oldest realm in Middle-earth.

It came to pass during the second age of the captivity of Melkor that Dwarves came over the Blue Mountains of Ered Luin into Beleriand. Themselves they named Khazâd, but the Sindar called them Naugrim, the Stunted People, and Gonnhirrim, Masters of Stone. Far to the east were the most ancient dwellings of the Naugrim, but they had delved for themselves great halls and mansions, after the manner of their kind, in the eastern side of Ered Luin; and those cities were named in their own tongue Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar. To the north of the great height of Mount Dolmed was Gabilgathol, which the Elves interpreted in their tongue Belegost, that is Mickleburg; and southward was delved Tumunzahar, by the Elves named Nogrod, the Hollowbold. Greatest of all the mansions of the Dwarves was Khazad-dûm, the Dwarrowdelf, Hadhodrond in the Elvish tongue, that was afterward in the days of its darkness called Moria; but it was far off in the Mountains of Mist beyond the wide leagues of Eriador, and to the Eldar came but as a name and a rumour from the words of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains.

From Nogrod and Belegost the Naugrim came forth into Beleriand; and the Elves were filled with amazement, for they had believed themselves to be the only living things in Middle-earth that spoke with words or wrought with hands, and that all others were but birds and beasts. But they could understand no word of the tongue of the Naugrim, which to their ears was cumbrous and unlovely; and few ever of the Eldar have achieved the mastery of it. But the Dwarves were swift to learn and indeed were more willing to learn the Elven-tongue than to teach their own to those of alien race. Few of the Eldar went ever to Nogrod or Belegost, save Eöl of Nan Elmoth and Maeglin his son; but the Dwarves trafficked into Beleriand, and they made a great road that passed under the shoulders of Mount Dolmed and followed the course of the River Ascar, crossing Gelion at Sarn Athrad, the Ford of Stones, where battle after befell. Ever cool was the friendship between the Naugrim and the Eldar, though much profit they had one of the other; but at that time those griefs that lay between them had not yet come to pass, and King Thingol welcomed them. But the Naugrim gave their friendship more readily to the Noldor in after days than to any others of Elves and Men, because of their love and reverence for Aulë; and the gems of the Noldor they praised above all other wealth. In the darkness of Arda already the Dwarves wrought great works, for even from the first days of their Fathers they had marvellous skill with metals and with stone; but in that ancient time iron and copper they loved to work, rather than silver or gold.

Given the mentions of both language and craft in both passages here, the occurence of both these events at around the same time makes me wonder about what could have happened if all the Elves had remained in Middle-earth. Fëanor and the dwarves might have really hit it off, and who knows what inventions they’d have come up with.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #silmarillion daily #feanor #dwarves #sindar #thingol

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echo-bleu · 10 months

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those towers we built

Alright, so the (very AU) concept I've been toying with for a bit is this: the Valar, fundamentally misunderstanding the nature of elves and the concepts of consent and self-determination, after beating Morgoth and getting the Silmarils back, decide to just... erase the war.

Like, Ëonwë doesn't let Maedhros and Maglor go, instead fights them, they drop the Silmarils when they get burned and run (and still kill themselves/end up wandering). Everyone goes back to Aman, Yavanna restores the Trees, and the Valar, who don't understand the nature of trauma, decide that the best way to heal everyone is to just erase their memories of what happened. Námo agrees to release everyone who died (short of Finwë and Fëanor) and everyone's memories of everything from the Darkening forward is removed.

The Valar kind of suggest a version of events (Morgoth killed Finwë, Ungoliant ate the trees, there was a fight, but Morgoth was captured and Fëanor sacrificed the Silmarils and himself to remake the trees) and lets the Song run from there. The Noldor naturally take Maedhros as their king, and he has no reason to abdicate.

Eärendil, who doesn't have a star to sail with, is the only one whose memories weren't removed, and he's tasked with watching the seas, so no one can sail between Middle Earth and Valinor. In Middle Earth, everything is going as programmed, with Maglor and Galadriel among the only Exiles remaining. Their family thinks them dead in the Darkening and not ready to come back.

Of course, the issue with all that is that erasing memory doesn't erase trauma, and none of the re-embodied elves were actually ready to be re-embodied. Everyone's memories are kind of vague, but the suggestive power of the Valar is strong enough that they're not exactly questioning anything. They have the strangest triggers and nightmares. It's especially noticeable with the Exiles who were very young, or those actually born in Middle Earth, like Maeglin, who straight up doesn't remember his former life.

There's a general uneasiness that no-one can quite put a name to, and they ascribe it to Arda Marred. More people are re-embodied with no or confusing memories -- Gil-galad, Celebrimbor.

And then one day in Middle Earth, Elrond, watching his wife start to fade, prays loud enough that his father hears it. And Eärendil, fed up with the charade and deciding that he'll show up for his son the way he couldn't before, sails with his daughter-in-law to Aman.

Celebrían's memories and knowledge of the First Age are veiled on the way, but things have already started to unravel, and the mismatches are becoming glaringly evident. King Nelyafinwë Maitimo is no fool, and neither are his Consort Findekáno or his First Advisor Ingoldo. It might take them another five hundred years, but they'll get to the bottom of this mystery, and find the missing members of their family in the process.

Only the truth may prove to be much harder to bear than the lie they've been fed for six thousand years.

#silmarillion #tolkien #tolkien legendarium #silm fic #or fic concept anyway #i've started writing it it but i'm a slowish writer #maedhros #celebrian #elrond #earendil #echo's fanfiction

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starspray · 6 months

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White Flowers

written for @nolofinweanweek, also on the SWG

(minor warning for canonical character death)

“Do babies always take this long to be born?” Turukáno asked Findekáno. They were perched in the tallest tree in their mother’s garden, which gave them a great view of the house and the surrounding countryside, and the walls of Tirion not far off, gleaming white under Laurelin’s radiance. Turukáno had been banished from the house early that morning when Anairë had felt her first labor pains, and Findekáno had come out to join him after a while, claiming that he recalled how lonely and worrisome it had been for him when Turukáno had been born.

“I don’t know,” said Findekáno, swinging his legs idly as he leaned against the trunk. He had a lyre in his hands and was plucking at the strings absently. “You didn’t take very long, as I recall, but I have been told that it varies.” He strummed a few chords. To all appearances he was utterly unconcerned and at ease, but Turukáno could see his eyes flick toward their mother’s windows every few seconds. Figures were moving about inside, and occasionally a faint cry reached them in the garden.

At last, the windows opened, and Turukáno heard a sharper wail as their father leaned out to call them in. Findekáno immediately leaped to the ground, and caught Turukáno when he jumped after him. “Where are you going?” he asked, when Turukáno did not immediately follow him to the door.

“Wait for me!” Turukáno said as he gathered a bunch of flowers, tiny white ones with a sweet scent that grew in clusters like little stars, and one or two pale pink dahlias that his mother loved. He ran after Findekáno, inside and upstairs, where their Aunt Ëarwen opened the door to usher them in.

Their mother lay in bed propped up on a mound of pillows, and their father was beside her, holding a small squirming bundle. “Flowers! Oh, thank you, my love,” said Anairë, taking the bouquet and kissing Turukáno on the nose. “Come, meet your sister.”

“What is her name?” Findekáno asked as he leaned over Nolofinwë’s shoulder to peer at the baby. When Nolofinwë handed her back to Anairë, Turukáno finally got a look at her, little and flushed and wrinkly, her tiny hands balled into fists. She was the loveliest thing Turukáno had ever seen.

“Irissë,” said Anairë.

Irissë opened her eyes and cooed, reaching up for the flowers. Her grip was strong and tight, and once she had hold of the stems she would not let go, and tiny white petals rained down on her face, making her sneeze and the rest of them laugh. “Hello, Irissë,” Turukáno said, reaching out to run his fingers through the soft dark hair atop her head. “Hello, baby sister.”

The sun shone with blinding brightness and heat down upon Gondolin. All was quiet. No bells rang in the towers, and there was no music, no singing, no flutes or drums or harps. Even the flowing fountains seemed muted. Outside the city gates, upon the green grass of Tumladen, a cairn was being prepared. In life Aredhel had rebelled against walls, and so in death she would rest outside them, where the wildflowers grew and the wind passed whispering through the grass. How bitterly Turgon wished he had kept her inside the encircling mountains in life—that he had kept her safe.

The funeral would be held late in the afternoon, as the sun began to sink and the air cooled. Until then Aredhel lay in state, and all who wished could pass by to say farewell. Turgon stayed away. He did not want to witness others’ grief, nor to have witnesses to his own outside his own household. He did not know where Maeglin was—nor what he would say when he saw him again.

The flowers that had grown in their mother’s garden outside Tirion long ago did not grow in Beleriand. There were similar blossoms, tiny white things like stars, but their scent was not as sweet. Turgon still grew them, and he gathered a small bunch before at last descending. The crowds were gone, and the room empty. Aredhel lay upon silken cushions, clad in her favorite gown of white shot with silver brought across the Helcaraxë from Valinor, with a silver girdle and a circlet of diamond and pearl resting upon her dark hair. Her favorite bow and quiver had been laid at her side. Were it not for her unnatural stillness, and the grey pallor of her skin, she might have been asleep. The only sound was the whisper of Turgon’s own robes as he crossed the floor to stand at her side. Her hands rested one over the other on her stomach, and were cool when he laid his own over them. Carefully, he tucked the flowers into her fingers. “Farewell, Irissë,” he whispered into the stillness. “Forgive me, baby sister.”

#nolofinweanweek #nolofinweanweek2023 #silmarillion #turgon #aredhel #look i wrote a thing

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ardafanonarch · 3 months

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Were Eöl's Swords Black?

I was surprised to find in putting together my answer on Weapons of the First Age that there is, to the best of my knowledge, no confirmation that Anglachel and Anguirel were originally black. The black colouring of Anglachel-Gurthang seems to have been the result of a change that came over it after Beleg’s death. Here is the description of Anglachel at the Pools of Ivrin, after Beleg’s death:

And Gwindor gave the sword Anglachel into his hands, and Túrin knew that it was heavy and strong and had great power; but its blade was black and dull and its edges blunt. The Children of Húrin, Chapter 9: Death of Beleg

The phrasing suggests that the blackness of the blade is a new feature.

This sent me down a rabbit hole of researching meteoritic iron blades, to see if they were historically black — and I found that, no: while they have a unique metallic quality to them (and look very badass), weapons forged from meteoritic iron are typically silver. So where does the idea that Anglachel and Anguirel were black come from?

Well, for one, Gurthang was black and it’s easy enough to miss that line about its change and the fact that it’s never described as such before Beleg’s death. There’s also the fact that Eöl was noted for the invention of a black metal, galvorn.

… he devised a metal as hard as the steel of the Dwarves, but so malleable that he could make it thin and supple; and yet it remained resistant to all blades and darts. He named it galvorn, for it was black and shining like jet The Silmarillion, ‘Of Maeglin’

On closer reading, galvorn — a malleable metal with no mention of meteoritic iron composition — seems to be a separate creation from the swords Anglachel and Anguirel. Taken together with the fact of Gurthang’s blackness, it’s understandable that readers (myself included) would assume that Eöl’s swords were always black. And perhaps Tolkien, at least at some point, conceived on them as such. But I was fascinated to discover that this is not (as I said, as far as I could find delving down a late-night rabbit hole) strictly canon.

#weapons #anglachel #anguirel #gurthang #galvorn #eol #the children of hurin

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i-did-not-mean-to · 5 months

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Thanksgiving

Thank you, anon, for this prompt. I would never have thought of that one myself.

To all my friends who celebrate: Happy Thanksgiving. I certainly am very grateful for y'all!

Characters: Fingolfin and a slew of others...(and Finrod)

Words: 1 850

Warnings: resentment, regrets, reproaches, a lukewarm bird, and a lot of love (it's not that serious, don't get mad!)

Fingolfin stared at the ominously glistening carving knife in open dismay.

“You can’t tear the bird apart with your bare hands,” Anairë cautioned under her breath. “Please, do not make a scene about blades. Not today. Not with all of them here.”

He nodded ponderously and turned to the assembly, entirely made up of his blessedly numerous descendants.

“Good evening, I welcome you warmly at this unprecedented feast of profound gratitude for the invaluable blessings we have received. Let's rejoice rather than elegize morosely. Anyway, my name is…”

“Eru bless, he’s forgotten his own name,” Aredhel stage-whispered, which earned her a punitive glare from Turgon and a hard jab in the ribs from Fingon.

“Ñolofinwë,” Fingolfin finished his sentence slowly. “Fingolfin? Golfin?”

He sighed deeply. “Call me whatever you want—some of you I have had the honour of meeting, and others I am looking forward to getting to know.”

“The food is getting cold!” Argon complained—he had died young and had not sired any children, so his stomach’s yearnings were of more importance to him than the painfully awkward introductions at their first annual family reunion.

He was not even sure that one could call this a “reunion” when they had never been gathered in this constellation before.

“I agree,” Aredhel piped up, much to the chagrin of her surly, overly quiet son who just gave her a pleading look. Maeglin suffered still under the repercussions of his betrayal, and he felt supremely uncomfortable, sitting motionlessly at the same table as his uncle and cousin.

“’Rissë,” Anairë intervened sharply. “I, for one, am delighted and grateful to see so many generations congregated here.”

“Turno is the best,” Fingon jeered, but his voice was warm and infused with benevolent humour. “He has single-handedly secured a legacy for our family. You’ve won that one, I think--isn't that another thing to be thankful for?”

“You forget my wife,” Elrond reminded him suavely but fell silent instantly as the memory of his brother and daughter welled up like acid in his weary heart. “She begs you to forgive her absence, but her mother…”

“Is absolutely right to wish for her only daughter to be by her side,” Anairë mediated once more with impeccable grace. “As the mother of a wayward daughter myself, I understand that only too well.” “As far as I can see, I sit here with my son as well. Why don’t you hound Fingon, your golden child, or Argon, your precious baby, about their abject failure to produce valiant heirs to join our merry round of traitors and murderers?”

“’Rissë!” Fingolfin thundered with much less parental indulgence than his wife had shown. “Can we please just share a meal and exchange some pleasant stories? I would very much like to hear about the lives of my descendants.”

“You could have been there,” Fingon muttered, “but you had to go and get yourself killed.”

“Says the one who went to the exact same place to save his ginger menace of a…friend?” Turgon commented dryly.

“He could well have been there; he would not have found you anywhere though, would he?” Fingon shot back, fire flaring in his eyes.

“And that’s why I didn’t want any weapons,” Fingolfin sighed, clutching the carving knife to his chest and casting dark looks at his progeny.

“Children,” Anairë cried. “Children! What shall the young ones think of us if we squabble and argue like fishmongers?”

“I’m used to it,” Elenwë declared calmly.

“So am I,” Idril laughed. “Sorry, I have known my very own father for too long not to be used to his sharp tongue,” she added when the others stared at her in shock.

“Grandfather has ever been kind,” Eärendil—who had been dispensed of his duties for the evening—remarked generously, patting his son’s hand. “Worry not, dear, it’s normal.”

Elrond merely shrugged. “I have spent large parts of my life with Lady Galadriel, Gil-Galad, and Celebrimbor, besides the Dwarves, the Hobbits, the meddling wizards, and the many Men who have come and gone. Thus far, I’ve heard nothing that could even scratch the surface of my equanimity!”

Fingolfin rubbed a weary hand over his eyes—when Anairë had announced, an unimaginably long time ago, that she was carrying Fingon, he could never have imagined what profound joy and heartbreaking misery was to follow.

Looking over now at the beautiful, sensible creature he had desperately loved and despicably deserted, he felt his throat tighten with overwhelming emotion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Anairë laughed. “I can safely claim that this wilful, wicked streak is entirely passed down from your side.”

“Mother has disavowed us, and there is no food,” Argon exclaimed dramatically.

“How do you know?” Maeglin asked in a cautious tone; he was ever eager to see others shift blame because it made him feel less wretched about his own shortcomings.

“I’ve spent a long time in close conference with both Nerdanel and Eärwen,” Anairë explained as she plucked the lethal knife from her husband’s hand and started cutting the festive offering of meat and fruit into thick slices. “We have come to the conclusion that the alarmingly wild and reckless streak in all of our beloved children must surely come from the same source.”

“Again, my mother-in-law and wife are nothing if not measured and wise in their words, actions, and decisions,” Elrond opined calmly.

“So you say,” Aredhel mocked. “I could tell you stories about your cherished mother-in-law that would make your blood curdle.”

“Ha!” Fingolfin cried. “Surely, ‘Rissë’s savagery cannot be laid at my poor father’s feet!” He sought his wife’s sparkling gaze once more.

With a chortle, Anairë strode over and pressed a tender kiss onto his high, chiselled cheek. “They are very much yours,” she hummed. “Taking off in a huff on a petulant, vexed whim, riding into lethal danger with a song and a prayer and doing exactly what they were told not to do seem to be constants in your family. Did not two of three of your father’s sons die in ludicrously brazen and irrational feats of unparalleled heroism?”

Fingolfin grimaced. Anairë, smiling still, meanwhile made the platters of steaming food go around the table—much to the delight of Argon and Aredhel—so their spell-bound guests could at least feast while witnessing the epic showdown between long-estranged spouses.

“Resentful words from you, wife,” Fingolfin muttered dejectedly.

“Oh, but love,” Anairë chuckled soothingly. “They are also faithful, hopeful, and laughably stubborn thanks to your blood. I shall grant you this: I have doubted your sanity but never your love. So, I always knew that this alone would be enough to make sure that you’d be returned to me in time. Nothing can detain your line where it no longer wants to abide, and nobody will ever be able to keep you from pursuing what you earnestly desire.”

“They have your patience,” Fingolfin replied, mollified and touched by her understated confession of enduring love and imperishable admiration. “No doubt, the ability to remain—hidden and watchful—despite their yearnings and duties comes from you. Though I am less rash than my half-brother, I admit that I have never managed to emulate your graceful talent of lying in wait, ready to pounce at the first good opportunity.”

As one, they turned back to gaze lovingly upon the faces of those who had sprung from the source of their long-forgotten, innocent hopefulness.

Discreet munching was halted as the heavy, noble regard of their patriarch fell upon each one, and more than one positively squirmed under the benevolent scrutiny of one so old and allegedly wise.

“I’ve died too early,” Argon then said flippantly. “Maybe Turno wants to tell us about his hidden city?”

“I do not,” Turgon barked around a scalding hot potato—a staple in every household since the arrival of the Hobbits—and glared at his youngest brother. “I built a city, people came, people left, people died. Then Gondolin and my humble self fell. Let’s skip that part.”

Catching Aredhel’s grateful look, he nodded imperceptibly and even tried to smile at Maeglin; what was meant as a gesture of goodwill and forgiveness was marred by the potato grotesquely distending his cheek still, though, and—as was his wont—Turgon simply shrugged it off.

“How about you, my darling?” Elenwë said, addressing Idril. “How have you fared?”

With a small sigh of fatigue—for she had told the story many times before—Idril launched into a tastefully abbreviated recounting of her life after the fall of Gondolin.

When her narration came to an end, Eärendil, eager to speak to others again, took the tale up where his mother had left off.

Soon, all eyes turned on Elrond who had lived a long time and had been a key player in a conflict all of them had missed on account of being detained in Mandos or mending in the gardens of Lórien at that time.

“Well…” Elrond mumbled, unsure where to start and how to explain the circumstances of his youth without reopening old wounds and reawakening grievances and family feuds. “After—”

He fell silent. His father sat right beside him, and he did not seek to make him or his mother feel strange or guilty about the unfortunate incident with the Silmaril at the Havens of Sirion.

Was it even recommendable to bring up the unfortunate stone? How about the ring of Sauron? Did they call him Sauron, or would they know him under another of his many aliases?

He groaned quietly.

“Káno and Russo took you, yes?” Fingon said encouragingly, his eyes feverishly bright, and his lips pale with tension as if he was forcefully holding back a flood of questions.

Elrond exhaled audibly and steepled his fingers against his chin in a bid for more time to find an appropriate answer that would not kick off another slew of recriminations and fighting words.

“AH! We have arrived just in time to listen to our dear cousins being disparaged!” A bright, chiming voice resounded from the doorway, and Finrod strolled in, accompanied by his sister and his niece. “I have taken the liberty of escorting darling Artanis,” he explained.

“You’ve come for the gossip,” Turgon commented dryly, but his eyes lit up at the sight of his old, much-beloved friend. “Have a seat; you are indeed right, and we are about to hear about the parental talents of our Fëanorian kin.”

“Does that make me the worst of all?” Elrond asked dolefully. “Am I the compounded result of all the noxious strains of which Lady Anairë has just spoken?”

“Of course not, my dear,” Galadriel declared decisively. “Whatever good was in any of us, I am certain that you young ones must have harnessed it.”

Her warm, proud gaze shifted to her daughter who merely rolled her eyes at her and went to kiss her husband tenderly.

“Go ahead,” she whispered under her breath. “Tell them about the many people you’ve known and loved. Who knows? You might plant the seeds of forgiveness and renewal on this very night.”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

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