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silver-grasp · 5 months

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Narrative Power in Arda

An embarrassing number of months ago, I alluded to narrative as an in-universe force within the Silmarillion in my tags on a post I have since lost, which I feel merits further elaboration. The short version is that crafting a story carries meaningful weight and power in Arda, which is not much of a reach considering that 1) telling a story in a certain way has power even in the real world, and 2) music is already well-established as an important medium and means of magic in Middle Earth. I think it is relevant to consider this aspect when discussing the nature and weight of words in the Silmarillion, whether it be curses, dooms, oaths, or anything else.

To begin with, it is difficult to tease apart what I will call in-universe narrative from narrative in the sense that a guy called Tolkien wrote this whole story down, on purpose, with various story arcs that come to various narratively satisfying conclusions. The best illustrative example of in-universe narrative, thus, is Finrod’s duel in song against Sauron, because Tolkien could have had the song battle work however he wanted, but he chose to make it about storytelling. We joke about Finrod and Sauron’s rap battle, but their contest really is a battle of narratives – particularly cultural narratives. To quote:

Then sudden Felagund there swaying Sang in answer a song of staying, Resisting, battling against power, Of secrets kept, strength like a tower, And trust unbroken, freedom, escape; […] And all the magic and might be brought Of Elvenesse into his words. […] The sighing of the sea beyond, Beyond the western world on sand, On sand of pearls in Elvenland.

This is arguably the story of the Noldor, as told by Finrod – all the beauty and power of Aman, but brought by the Noldor to Middle Earth in their flight to escape the control of the Valar and avenge their king against Morgoth’s evil. This is his choice of story to wield against Sauron, and it makes sense. It invokes the Noldor’s heroism against Morgoth in maintaining the long siege, as well as their rejection of all the higher powers and his own faithfulness to his oath to Barahir that led him to this point. It’s a good story, but Sauron shatters it with a single invocation, because this narrative Finrod spins of the Flight of the Noldor cannot accommodate the atrocity that was the Kinslaying at Alqualonde.

The outcome of the song battle is not decided based on raw power, or skill in crafting magic or spells, or even singing ability. It is won on the merits of narrative: Finrod’s story doesn’t work; he cannot narratively reconcile the reality of the Kinslaying with “trust unbroken, freedom, escape,” and thus Sauron has the victory (1). Thus, we can conclude that “does the story work” is a legitimate part of how magic functions in Middle Earth.

This should not come as a surprise; Middle Earth (and the world itself) were created/predicted by the Music of the Ainur, which is itself a narrative work of music. It, arguably, puts the story in history (2). The narrative of the Ainulindale, moreover, is disrupted by Morgoth in much the same way Sauron disrupts Finrod’s narrative in their contest. But whereas Finrod’s story collapses under the contradictions introduced by Sauron, Eru incorporates Morgoth’s discord into the Music to create a new, greater theme than the one before. This is not an accident, and it shows that Eru, as God and Creator (read: Author), understands narrative better than Morgoth does: any good story has conflict of one sort or another. That’s what makes them stories, rather than a pleasant but boring account of a series of pleasant but boring events.

This is to say, Tolkien makes the necessity of having a plot arc into part of his theological worldbuilding. There is, frankly, a lot you could say about that, but I am not going to, because it is somewhat off-topic from the point I’m trying to make and also I really don’t know where to begin.

Additionally, while Finrod’s own narrative fails, the overall narrative of Middle Earth picks up where he left off and turns his defeat into a fourth-act crisis point, the abyss which makes way for Luthien’s subsequent victory over both Sauron and Morgoth and triumphant retrieval of the Silmaril. Finrod may not have known how to turn Sauron’s narrative disruption to his own ends, but Eru does.

Returning to the Doom of the Noldor, while Manwe is said to be the closest of the Valar to Eru in thought, I would argue that Namo, as the Vala of fate, is the closest of the God-as-Author aspect of Eru. His domain, fate, is closely linked with the Music. I said earlier that Middle Earth was created/predicted by the Music, and that blurriness between creation and prophecy is important for understanding the nature of Fate in Tolkien’s work - there is a careful tightrope walked between free will and determinism (3). I argue that the Music additionally suggests that fate in Arda is really Narrative at work.

So where does that leave, for instance, the Doom of the Noldor? Is it curse or prophecy? Punishment meted out by the gods or natural consequences of an unprecedented violent attack? Framing it in these binaries is reductive no matter which side you come down on. The Doom is neither a curse nor a prophecy: it is a narrative.

The soon-to-be Exiles, led by Feanor, kick off their narrative in maybe the worst way possible (murder). This is, objectively, a very bad inciting incident – stories that start with murder don’t tend to turn out well for the people doing the murdering. Within the Music, and the fabric of Arda’s fate, the Noldor have narrowed their narrative options significantly. “Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be,” for have they not already slain their own kin? But it is very difficult to argue for the Doom as purely prophetic. The text itself indicates in multiple places the judgment or wrath of the Valar as something laid upon the house of Feanor and all who follow them, not simply natural consequences. There is a tangible weight to the Doom, and a sense after the War of Wrath that it is something that can be lifted.

Mandos says, you have chosen your story to be a tragedy by opening with a tragedy. But when this is spoken by Narrative himself, it takes on a weight greater than that of a mere prediction. The Doom defines the genre of the story that is to follow: Tears unnumbered ye shall shed. And they did.

The story, of course, is never truly over. But I’ll leave eucatastrophe for another day.

Footnotes: (1) As a side note, I am forever thinking about arrogantemu’s fic “Beyond the Western World,” in which Finrod says “I’d staked everything on an innocence I didn’t have.” Credit where credit is due for influencing my thinking on this subject.

(2) Tolkien as a linguist would undoubtedly be aware that the words come from the same root, and that other modern languages have not in fact separated the meanings of “work of fiction” and “account of real events” into separate words.

(3) To write a proper meta on this subject I would have to dig much deeper into other sources, but from my understanding fate in Tolkien’s works works very similarly to the Anglo-Saxon concept of wyrd – there’s a very interesting line in Beowulf, I believe, about how “for undaunted courage, fate spares the man it has not already marked” (paraphrased). I highly recommend reading more about it for a better understanding of fate in Middle Earth.

#the silmarilion #the doom of the noldor #meta #dear god this has been. a long time in the writing #in my defense I had to move across the country shortly after starting this #and my copy of the silm was in a box. which made research difficult. and then I forgot about it

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imfromthemiddlekingdom · 7 months

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Maybe it’s because I’m a fundamentally spiteful and resentful person but whenever I read Beren and Lúthien I cannot help but despise how selfish and self fulfilling they are without any benefit to the people around them.

Lúthien is, according to Thingol’s claim of being King to all of Beleriand, Princess to the entire continent. Surely, no matter how politically disinterested she is in Menegroth’s court and how contently she is to dance her days away under her mothers protection, her father claiming the entirety of the land under his dominion means she surely has some responsibility to the people living in it? She is THE princess, her mother is a goddess and her father, for better or worse, is a king. She should have some sort of responsibility to her people, even if we discount the Noldor in Beleriand there are still many Sindar outside the girdle that she should, in practice, hold responsibility over as their princess.

We know she is powerful, perhaps the most powerful non Maia entity in the whole of middle earth during the first age, yet she has never shown any interest (not necessarily a fault if she does not design to enter the war at all and only stay in her bubble, it’s not a flaw not to fight if you chose to stay out of it entirely but it is more so when you do have the power to do something but only use said power to benefit yourself) in defending, or even aiding in the free people of Beleriand. I don’t think I would have as much of a problem as I do with her IF she didn’t choose to use her ridiculous plot armor to only further her own interest whilst having the narrative paint her as a hero and a saint. If the narrative allowed her to be shallow and vain and all in all uninterested in anything but herself it would be different and I would like her so much more for it. But Tolkien wrote her as a heroine, wrote her as a selfless being who is perfect and flawless who has a hound of Valinor by her side to aid her in her “righteous” quest of true love.

It’s jarring to me to read about how “selfless” and “brave and self sacrificial” she is when she challenges Sauron and sung Melkor to sleep when it benefits no one but herself. It’s frustrating how people paint her as someone who is entirely in the right for her actions when in the larger legendarium it is very obviously out of place for such a victory to be had. Sure, you may say that the Doom lay over the Noldor, kinslayers and not, but even the Men who came later who have no Doom beyond Erus gift have it as easy and as fantastical as them.

Lúthien is a Demi-goddess. Not only that she is also a leader of her people no matter if she likes it or not. She has a responsibility to those living under her fathers protection (the griddle) and less so to those outside living on his claimed lands. She has the power to back up her authority if need be as shown during the entirety of her story yet she chooses not to use any of it if it is not to benefit herself. She has the power to sing the greatest of the Ainur to sleep, to sing Melkor the mighty to sleep, to send Sauron his lieutenant fleeing, yet she uses none of it to help others who her father has claimed under his protection.

“Oh but the Noldors goals were selfish in origin too! They only crossed the ice/sailed to defeat Morgoth and reclaim the Silmarils!” Yes that’s true but their actions in holding back Morgoths forces were also beneficial to all people living in Beleriand. The siege allowed for centuries of tentative peace and allowed mortals with shorter lives to live in relative normality under the shadows of Angband. What did Thingol do in the meantime? Turn away refugees during the aftermath of the Bragollach? Be so isolationist that his own people chose to go with Turgon to Gondolin instead of seeking shelter with his Maia Wife’s protection? What did Lúthien do whilst the Noldor were bleeding and dying for the forces of Morgoth to be kept at bay? Dancing in her glade and doing fuck all with her extremely over powered abilities that could have been the thing needed to turn the tide of war if we discounted the doom?

If the narrative allowed her to be what she is, self serving, selfish and in the end extremely in love, I would not be so much of a hater for anything related to her. But instead because she is a self insert of Tolkiens wife she is idolized and put on a pedestal. That I could not stomach.

“Oh but Fei! Without her stealing a twice stolen jewel the Union would’ve never been planned and because of her bravery in storming Angband Maedhros was given hope that he was slowly losing!” Yes. Exactly. But look where that went. Menegroth didn’t join because of C&C’s actions and Nargothrond barely sent any troops due to it. And boy do I have things to say about people not setting aside their differences to fight against a common foe but I won’t bore you with my own ramblings about how egotistical fantasy elves are and how they can’t be arsed to set aside their own hurts for the good of all for a campaign today.

Beren isn’t any better ngl. As someone who’s people have been targeted and murdered en mass, displaced and had their homes stolen from them, I should be able to relate to Beren. But I never could. I never saw him as anything but a person who ran from his own responsibilities to his tribe when he saw a pretty lady and then sacrificed his best ally to get what he wanted without thinking of how it would’ve affected anyone else other than him. He knowingly accepted a doomed quest, a quest that should’ve otherwise killed him if not for plot armor and in turn killed all his allies that his ancestors cultivated and adored. His own feelings took precedence over an entire kingdom. No matter how eager Finrod was to assist him, he still weighed his own happiness against an entire kingdom of people and found it more important and that I could not stand.

Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe it’s because of my culture that such selfishness and self righteousness never sat right with me. Coupled on with how the narrative justifies twice stolen artifacts as the thief’s since they “won” it and since it was hallowed it never belonged to Feanors sons anyways because I guess a higher being thought their judgment had any right to be extended to the people they abandoned, never sat right in my mind. I really don’t care how fans justify the works of someone’s hands being no longer theirs because of holy judgement. A council of higher power who never did anything to help the ones their kindred wronged beyond a cursory “they’ve changed and repented and therefore we would do no more than to warn him of his own folly” has no right in dictating how said beings own works should be inherited or how said beings magnum opus should or should not be held by worthy hands. If they had no hand in creating it they have no right to dictate who is worthy and who is not. Lúthien and Beren stealing a stolen work does not give them rights to it. No matter how much people would like to argue that “oh the Silmarils would’ve rejected the sons of Feanor anyways so why not let prettiest elf maiden ever to have it instead of those dastardly kinslayers!!!” It does not belong to the person who stole it no matter how justified it may have been in their minds. Morgoth probably thought his theft of the Silmarils was justified too, and pretty sure if you asked him he would’ve had a very convincing argument on how since the light of the two trees was created by his kin and Feanor only found a vessel to hold it, it technically is still the light of the two trees and therefore it belongs to the Valar instead of the first born of Eru.

“Oh but Fei! She kept it as a compensation for C&C keeping her without her consent and Celegorm trying to force her to marry him!” You do realize for compensation to be valid for a crime committed against another the perpetrators must be aware that said compensation is taking place right? If let’s say, Celegorm somehow managed to be less oath bound along with the other SoF and decided that yes, his actions towards her was monstrous and out of line and decided that the Silmaril was his way of apologizing it would be a different story. It cannot be a compensation without both parties being aware of it! Why do you think my county and Japan still haven’t made up and have rocky international relationships despite how many times they’ve individually apologized? Nothing in the text suggest that Lúthien claimed the Silmaril as her compensation against Celegorm and Curufin. Nothing in the text suggest that the SoF ever decided that, yes, they should do something to smooth over hurts caused by themselves with the Silmaril. So all arguments of “it belongs to them because of xyz and is compensation” is void and non cannon.

Why can’t people let Lúthien be selfish and self serving? Why can’t they look at this elf maiden who is quite grown may I remind you, and think ah yes, she puts her love above everything else and that is a flaw but she is still a good person. Without putting her on a pedestal of sainthood?

But then again I am a hard core Feanorian supporter and I really don’t like the Ainur and anything that has anything to do with them so I am biased.

#the silmarillion #lay of leithian #luthien #Beren #Lúthien and Beren #sons of feanor #the silmarilion #the Silmarils #Morgoth #Sauron #curufin #I’m just extremely salty about this fairytale love story in the middle of a tragedy #Celegorm

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rings-of-power-realm · 26 days

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Here

#morfyyd clark #the silmarilion #luthien #ugh she sounds so beautiful reading this

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 9 months

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“A Better Future” Part 2

Part 1

Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader (Elf/Noldor |Third Person POV)

Themes: Angst. Read at your own discretion.

Warnings: Brief mentions of war and injuries | Hair loss as a form of punishment

Wordcount : 2.8k words

Summary: Thranduil brings y/n to Greenwood the Great and Amon Lanc. His father calls for an inquiry.

A/n: I thought of adding the hair loss event written in this post.

Y/n’s plea was partly inspired by Catherine of Aragorn’s speech at the Legatine Court of Blackfriars.

Thranduil’s POV

The days had been hot, the days had been windy, and the days finally grew cold even as they traveled. One season waned while the other waxed, brilliant and glorious as ever. The leaves of Greenwood the Great were turning vivid shades of orange and gold and crimson by the time Thranduil and his retinue rode down familiar paths to Amon Lanc. The crown prince closed his eyes and took a deep breath of sweet-smelling autumn air. The delicate scents of wild geraniums and asters mingled with the duskier scents of fallen leaves and wet bark and fresh moss. The birds sang softly. An owl hooted in the distance. A gentle gust of wind tossed his hair. He sighed in contentment. It was wonderful to be home again.

That sweet feeling slowly disappeared when he looked over his shoulder and his gaze rested on y/n. She kept to herself and rode a little away from the others. Thranduil’s mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. Y/n’s very presence in Amon Lanc would unleash a storm upon his head, and his lord father would be the one to do it.

My father is a forgiving man, Thranduil thought, but I cannot see him forgiving this.

Thranduil did not need to be told the reason. He was there during the second kinslaying. He bore arms and helped his father carve a way out for survivors. His scars lay hidden beneath his robes. The memories from that dark time still haunted his dreams.

And he did not understand why he put himself through such trouble. Oh, the gold itself was never an issue. The final sum was but a drop in the ocean that was now the royal treasury. Thranduil did not understand why he stopped when he heard the gossip and why he rode on to the auction house. He certainly did not understand what compelled him to save her. She was one of the exiles. Her father served under Celegorm. There were dark tales surrounding his deeds, including the part he supposedly played in the seizure of Dior’s children. Thranduil shivered.

Wolves, all of them. And now I bring one of their pups to my Lord Father’s doors.

He looked over his shoulder at y/n again. The masters of the auction house answered his questions as best they could. Y/n had played no part in the slaughter, so they said, and had been forced to wander the land for longer than she could remember. She had no armor and wielded no arms. What little coin she had went to keeping her clothed and fed. She placed herself at the mercy of a man who turned out to be a slaver in the end. Kept perfectly still while that wretched Lady Githa grabbed her and looked her over like she was nothing more than a horse for sale. After having been given food and drink and new garments, she stood to the side, silent and meek, while Thranduil spoke with the masters of the auction house and the final flourish was given to the matter of coin. During their journey, y/n did not speak to any of them the entire time. When they set up camp, she was quiet. When they broke bread, she was quiet. When they sang and laughed and exchanged stories, she was quiet. Oh, she helped, of course, always appearing by Thranduil’s shoulder before he even realized he needed some task carried out. Y/n was quick and did her duties well, but without uttering a sound. She did not even dare look any of them in the eye. If she was grateful to them for what they did, she did not show it.

Thranduil felt his hands turn to fists. Wretched thing, he thought bitterly. Unable to muster a single word of gratitude.

He could not linger on such misgivings. The gates to his father’s halls soon loomed ahead of them. The first autumn rain started to fall, drenching the dark earth and feeding the rivers and streams. The air grew crisp and cool. Thranduil reveled in this as well and threw off his hood so he could feel the fat drops of water plop over his skin. He heard a familiar bellow. His lord father had ridden out to greet them. Oropher sat atop his milky white courser, clad in velvet robes of gold and silver. Thranduil sighed. His father was in a high mood this day, and he was sure to dampen it with his news. He sat up straight and girded himself before racing ahead to meet his king and sire.

Oropher heard his son out on the ride back to his halls. And Oropher bit his tongue until he and his son were safely ensconced within the walls of his council room. And when the doors closed on them Oropher did not hold back, not by any measure. The king was exceedingly wroth, purpling and raging for hours on end. Thranduil acted without his father’s leave and freed the child of a kinslayer. He had promised gold from the royal coffers for this very purpose. Brought her with him to Greenwood, and possibly endangered them all.

"And now we may have to feed and house the lady," Oropher declared after having taken a while to finally compose himself. Attendants walked in carrying trays filled with refreshments. The king waited until they had taken their leave before speaking again. "Since you made yourself responsible for her and she truly has nowhere else to go," he turned to face his son. "Tell me, my son. What even compelled you to save her?"

What indeed. Throughout their journey, Thranduil had reflected on his actions and failed to devise an answer that could satisfy anyone, least of all himself. "I do not know, my lord," he confessed. "All I do know is that I could not simply ride away and abandon her to her fate. You know of Lady Githa, and what her pleasure house is like."

"To be sure," Oropher wrinkled his face in distaste. "That woman is one of the most evil creatures to have ever been birthed by one of the Edain."

He rejoined his son at the council table and took his customary place at the head of it. Oropher steepled his fingers beneath his chin and soon lost himself in deep thought. Thranduil did not utter a word while his father sat as if he had been hewed out of stone. Oropher was reflecting on the choices he had had to make; his son was certain of it.

"I may consider letting her stay," Oropher finally said, "but we need to learn how much she knew of her father’s actions. Send word to my courtiers and have them all meet me in the throne room. I believe an inquiry is in order."

An hour later, Thranduil took his place by his father’s right hand. He watched while members of the court and other elves poured into the cavernous throne room. Guards stood to attention, spears and shields in hand, and clad in gleaming armor chased in green and gold. The lamps burned as brightly as they always did. Y/n was escorted by a small complement of armed warriors. She was made to drop to her knees while the others watched. Y/n bowed her head, silent and respectful. Thranduil heard hushed, excited tones. There had never been an inquiry before. No one had done anything to even justify the need for one.

Many of the elves studied y/n with barely disguised curiosity. Save for the survivors of Doriath, very few had encountered the exiles. Now they were seeing one for the first time in the flesh. The court scribes took their appointed places, parchment and quills and new ink already placed upon their little tables. They would write down every word spoken at the inquiry and preserve the records for the use of others. Once Oropher had been satisfied with the number of witnesses, he called the inquiry to order.

The king leaned forward and began with the usual questions: questions about y/n’s life, her home, and her family. Y/n answered as best as she could. She spoke of their home, about her father, about her mother. Oropher questioned y/n about the sons of Fëanor, and if her father or mother had ever hosted them in their home. Y/n withered under the king’s sharp gaze, but there was nothing she could do but answer.

"Lord Celegorm would sometimes dine with father," y/n replied after a great deal of hesitancy. "Other times, Lord Curufin would join him."

"I see." Oropher frowned. "And were you a party to these gatherings?"

"No… your grace," y/n answered in fits and starts, as if her tongue had tied itself up in knots. "My father… he said he thought I was too young to be privy to such discussions."

"But did you meet either of these lords?"

"Yes. My father… he introduced me to them. And to others in their retinue."

Oropher was curious, as was Thranduil. "Pray tell me why?"

Y/n faltered. A guard thumped the butt of his spear into the ground, forcing her to answer. "My… my father had hopes of my marrying one of Lord Fëanor’s unwed sons… or… or the grandson."

"Your father entertained the notion of you marrying one of them?" Oropher shot back bluntly. "And you would have agreed had any of them asked for your hand?"

Y/n swallowed, and said, "Yes, your grace. Many an… unwed maiden in our clans would have… c-considered it an honor. They were of Lord Fëanor’s b-blood after all."

Thranduil sputtered and would have retorted had his father not given him a look of warning. He composed himself and heard the king say, "An honor? Were you ignorant of the things they did before the second kinslaying?"

"Everyone knew… your grace," y/n replied, her eyes wide with fear. "M-mothers would tell their children tales of Alqualondë and the great crossing. They… they all believed in Lord Fëanor’s cause."

"Do you believe in Lord Fëanor’s cause to retrieve the hallowed jewels no matter what the cost?" Oropher asked in harsh tones. "And do not lie to me. Life in Amon Lanc will go very badly for you if you do."

Y/n did not answer, not for a long while, not until Oropher harrumphed with impatience. "I… I did… at the beginning," she confessed. "The… the silmarils were Lord Fëanor’s by right… after all."

The uproar that followed from the survivors was deafening. Some demanded that y/n be sent away from Amon Lanc. Others demanded that she be thrown into a cell for the remainder of her days. More warriors thumped the butts of their spears against the polished stone floor to bring about some order to the proceedings. The sounds they made were drowned out by the cries of angry elves. Oropher’s face darkened even as he remained silent. Thranduil prickled with anger and decided to put an end to the clamor.

"Enough!" he bellowed. The others turned to face him and his father, having quietened themselves little by little. The scribes all turned as one to face the prince, waiting to hear what he had to say.

"I was right," the prince went on. There were soft scratching noises from quills scrawling over thick parchment. "Your lot is nothing but a pack of wolves, forever on the prowl for your next prey. I would even go as far to wager you may be no better than your father and the masters he served."

Y/n flinched back as if she had been slapped. "But… but you saved me from her," she sniffed.

"Yes," Thranduil replied, unmoved by the sorrow in her eyes. Still, he felt strange when she spoke to him directly. It was the first time she had done so since he purchased her freedom. "I confess, however, that I do not know the reason why."

"Tis is a question for another time," Oropher interceded. "Let us carry on with the proceedings for now. Lady y/n, do you have anything to add? Anything you wish to say in your defense?"

Y/n looked around her and shivered. "I do not know… your grace." She wrung her hands and picked at the beds of her nails before turning her gaze to the floor. "I… I only knew what my father and mother told me. As for what… my father did in Doriath… I did not know what he was going to do until after the act. Mother and I only learned of it after he was slain. I… do not ask for much… save for some compassion… for I was born somewhere other than this kingdom, and have neither coin nor friend to my name. I... all I ask is for a safe place to stay… and I will be… well pleased and content with whatever kindness that…that is given to me. But if you do not wish for me to stay here you… you need only say the word, your grace. I will depart… and manage. Somehow."

Oropher sat there with his sharp gray eyes pining her to where she stood. He grew silent again, this time debating his verdict. Later, it was said that the silence that followed was so heavy that it weighed down on everyone present.

"Will you swear to never take up arms against us?" The king spoke slowly.

"Yes," she whispered.

Oropher nodded. "And will you be content with whatever task that is given to you while you remain with us?"

Y/n hesitated, but gave her answer to the king. "Yes. I… I will be content. And g-grateful."

"Grateful?" Thranduil snorted bitterly. "Like the gratitude you showed us after we saved you from that vile place?"

Y/n was startled. She opened her mouth to form a reply, and struggled to find the right words. Thranduil glanced at his father. The king had grown weary. It showed in the shadows beneath his eyes. Oropher sighed softly and signaled for the guards to help her to her feet.

"I have come to a decision, but it is not a decision I make lightly," the king began. "Y/n, you may stay here with us, and you will make yourself useful in the kitchens and serve us."

The relief on her face was palpable.

"But," Oropher raised a hand and continued, clearly not finished with his verdict. "I need to make an example of you, should other followers of the sons of Fëanor turn up at our door. They need to see that our mercy does not come freely. Therefore, I have decided your hair must be shorn. Just above the neck should do."

Y/n lowered her head and trembled. "I accept."

It did not take long to find two ellith willing to carry out the king’s verdict. All those who had gathered in the throne room looked in silence while they came forth, each holding a golden pair of scissors in their hands. One stood by y/n’s right, and the other stood to her left. They turned to face the king. When Oropher gestured, they went straight to work.

Pins were removed. Braids slowly loosened. All anyone heard after that was the crisp, snip snip snip of two pairs of scissors clicking. The elves watched, utterly enthralled by the scene unfolding before their eyes. Lustrous long hair was seen as the ideal when it came to elven beauty, and to have even a little cut as a form of punishment was both debasing and humiliating. And elven hair took so long to grow out. Y/n’s hair would take years to grow back to its former glory, and if it saddened her, she did not show it, not at that moment. Y/n simply stood like a stone statue while thick locks of her hair slowly drifted to the floor and gathered in small clumps.

Snip snip snip. More hair had to be cut. The ellith worked effortlessly until y/n’s hair was just beneath her chin and a small pile had formed around her feet. Y/n did not speak, and she did not raise her voice to curse them. She simply bowed her head and endured the entire time. When they were finally finished, when they put away their scissors and stepped away, she lifted her head. Her lips had been quivering, and her eyes had been filled with unshed tears. Thranduil shifted uncomfortably in his seat after having experienced a sudden pang of conscience. He had called her a wolf, but was she truly one? Or was she simply guilty of being born into the wrong family?

"Find yourself a room in the servants’ quarters," Oropher ordered. "Appropriate clothing will be provided to you, as well as food. You will start your duties on the morrow."

The guards took her to hand and escorted her through the crowd and down a narrow passageway leading to the kitchens and the servants’ rooms. A maid rushed into the hall and swept away the shorn locks of hair. The throne room was beginning to empty. The elves talked about the inquiry and what transpired before they departed for their dwellings. The scribes sanded their parchment before rolling each and every one of them carefully. Once the great hall had been cleared of all the other elves, Oropher leaned over to whisper in his son’s ear.

"Keep a close eye on her," he commanded. "We cannot take any chances."

Thranduil nodded in agreement.

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