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legitimatesatanspawn · 7 months

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Could you please tell me where Morgoth is during The Lord Of The Rings? (Is he alive?)

I'm gonna answer this one first because it's the easiest:

Morgoth is alive and not on the world although his evil power still is infused in the world and his malicious lies still plague countless minds.

The First Age ended when he was tossed into space and cast out, far from the world he coveted and the Flame of Creation he sought. Beyond Time as well. He's unable to return as long as the Valar and the Sun and Moon and the Evening Star continue to sail around the world. What Morgoth is up to we don't know - or at least it is not written by any being living in the world. The Valar believe existence beyond Ea - the universe beyond the world Arda - is empty and lifeless but it is suggested that the original Song of Creation echoed out and created more than just the world. And Eru- who is God - saw that it was good even as twisted as the Song was by Morgoth - then Melkor - in his attempts to change the Song into something he thought was better.

(There's always That One Person in band practice who thinks they're funny, I swear.)

The world being made with song but still needing to be shaped by hand is an incredibly fascinating image. Because the Song wasn't just Making the world but the instructions of the world itself. In a way it was a prophecy that every angel that existed then took part in shaping.

The changes, the imperfections, the clashes... it made the Song better even if it wasn't perfect anymore. But because he kept trying to claim the world and make it his, Morgoth was The Enemy and all his works were cruelty and corruptions of good things.

There's a prophecy of what is functionally Ragnarok where the Final Battle will be fought, the ships of the Sun and Moon crash to the planet, and the Silmarils will break open and whatever Feanor made of them will become known. (Personally it always sounded like they're talking about nuclear detonation as part of the Doomsday Apocalypse.)

But part of that prophecy is that Morgoth will return.

Sauron's dead. Saruman is either sort-of dead or cursed to wander the world as a spirit forever. The orcs all retreated into dark unseen places, likely deep within the mountains - which funny enough is also where the Dwarves are implied to be hiding out at. If there's any Elves still alive in the world they don't make themselves known and same with the Hobbits but they are implied to be still around… just hard to see. Maybe Hobbits have become folklore takes of Brownies or Leprechauns or other fae things, much in the same way that the meta lore suggest that stories of Elves gradually became tales of the Fairies Courts.

Our world, by the lore of the Red Book of Westmarch from which the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings were "translated" from, is the modern version of Middle Earth. We live in what is likely still the Fourth Age. Sauron's defeat heralded the end of the Third Age two/three years later. The World began an untold length of time before the First Age, which lasted about 590 years (by their calendar). The Second lasted 3441 years, and the Third ended after 3021 when Bilbo and Frodo sailed to Valinor.

Whether they survived the sailing (remember: Bilbo was Old AF when they set sail with the Elves and Gandalf) and lived there in some place on Aman or on the small island of Tol Eressea isn't clear. While people who were neither Ainur (Valar/Maiar) or Elves were no longer allowed there after Numenor's Biggest Screwup, exceptions can be made and Bilbo had no idea he bore the One Ring and it was through him and Frodo (and Sam but he stayed in the Shire) who were able to keep the Ring from Sauron's hands.

But some day in our future, Morgoth will return. In what form we don't know nor when or how. He will be fought and finally be completely defeated, although there's some variations where it is said that if humans choose to side with him then all will be lost. But if defeated then the lost lands will rise back above the sea (Beleriand but maybe also Numenor). Humans and the angelic beings alike (the Maiar and the Valar as a whole) will sing a new Song of Creation before God Himself and remake the world anew.

If it's not super obvious, the series is a blending of various myths and cultural ideas as well as Catholic teachings. So there's a lot of heavy handed stuff regarding God and morality. And a lot of questions raised and worried over by not only the fans but Tolkien himself.

#the silmarillion #the lord of the rings #morgoth #melkor #valar #maiar #lore dump #meta lore #jrr tolkien #frodo baggins #bilbo baggins

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galadhremmin · 2 years

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Do you think the elves ate eachother on the Helcaraxë, Franklin expedition style?

Well good morning to you too! I love asks like these. 😁

My answer is simply; if you want them to! And I do, because I'm fascinated by real polar expeditions, and also think they were very badly prepared for the Helcaraxë. They spent all their lives in Valinor, where there is no true winter at all; freezing is itself one of Melkor's influences on the world (which just shows how much Arda is Morgoth's Ring! And how sheltered they have been from the world).

The only people to have some experience with colder temperatures were likely the Fëanorians, given that Formenos is north near the halls of Mandos, and Fëanor was prone to wandering. Still that is nothing compared to the Helcaraxë, and they did not pack up with the intention of that journey. They thought they would sail on the Telerin ships.

So...there are notes on Elvish bodies in LaCE that indicate the older the elf the greater the dominance over the body by the spirit. But I think most of the Noldor willing to cross were likely to be fairly young. Still probably a lot of adults, so presumably with the ability to do things like walk on snow, go without food for a long time, and withstand a great deal more cold than any of us. Still, the Helcaraxë is a very harsh environment even for them, the arctic but cursed, so things even out.

Also, I'm fairly sure the Fëanorians stole their horses (in my personal interpretation of events). And some other goods. In WoJ the wording is specifically that Maedhros returns Fingolfin's goods to them, whereas in published Silm it's that he gave horses in atonement. I think I prefer the stolen horses, for the simple reason that Fëanor was trying to force Fingolfin to back off. Maedhros returning them is still atonement, after all.

Burning the ships was a political move; it prevented his rival king from following and contesting his leadership + prevented followers from giving themselves over to doubt about trying to go back if things got frightening, or going over to Fingolfin's side. He was not trying to force Fingolfin to cross the Ice. The Ice was supposed to be uncrossable. He was trying to force him to tuck his tail between his legs and crawl back to the Valar. That Fingolfin and his people crossed was quite the surprise! They did the supposedly impossible.

Anyway, if I wanted to force my rival to crawl back I'd steal his extra blankets and food to encourage a swift journey back to temperate Tirion. It just makes sense.

Which is to say.

Fingolfin's host entered the Helcaraxë entirely unprepared. A lot of people died. We don't even know if anything remotely edible lived there; that is, except for their fallen comrades.

There is a note on Elvish bodies just sort of swiftly disappearing after death, which just means they'd have to be very quick about it! Unless the unnatural cold of the Helcaraxë prevents that somehow, which I prefer tbh. There is drama in not even being able to let the body cool, though...

Something I'm fascinated by is how Elves might see a sort of horror version of their tendency to want to arrest change/time, to 'embalm' as Tolkien put it in his letters in the freezing temperatures of the Helcaraxë. If you've ever seen human remains found in the arctic you know what I mean; I find them very touching myself. Their faces are preserved, their clothes...it's as if there is suddenly very little distance between you and someone on the other side of the gulf of time. Maybe they even found it inspiring in a way, saw a perverted version of something that they could accomplish in the changing world of Middle Earth in it...elvish cryogenics of very early Eregion, before they really learned to arrest change without freezing or arresting life? Many ideas...

Anyway you should watch The Terror if you're into arctic cannibalism haha. It was a good series!

#cannibalism tw #helcaraxë #fingolfin #the depository of plotbunnies

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arofili · 3 years

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the line of elros ♚ royalty of númenor ♚ headcanon disclaimer ♚ inspiration

Tar-Palantír was the twenty-fourth and penultimate King of Númenor. Though his father Ar-Gimilzôr despised the elves and the Valar, his mother Inzilbêth taught him the ways of the Faithful in secret. Gimilzôr thus would rather have had his second son Gimilkhâd inherit, but he could not change the laws of the kingdom to exclude Inziladûn, nor convince him to cede the crown to his brother. When Tar-Palantír took the scepter, he returned as best he could to the ways of the Valar, taking his name in Quenya and nurturing the White Tree, for he foresaw that its death would spell the end of the line of kings. Yet the King’s Men were still a powerful force in Númenor, led by Gimilkhâd himself, and this attempt to repent from wickedness was met with great backlash from his people and little sympathy from the Valar. Filled with sorrow, Tar-Palantír began to spend more time in the tower of Tar-Minastir, gazing West in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of Tol Eressëa or an elven ship. Late in his life, Palantír fell in love with a maiden of his court named Nimirrôth. Though her parents were not of the Faithful, neither were they of the King’s Men, and they loved the old stories of the elves, naming her in their memory. Nimirrôth was flattered by the attention of the king’s heir, but her love was focused ever on his brother Gimilkhâd. Yet Gimilkhâd had already wed the leader of the King’s Women, Zôrzimril, and was indifferent to her. Nimirrôth thus agreed to be Tar-Palantír’s queen, taking the name Tári-Eldafallië which her husband gave her. Though she still loved Gimilkhâd, she bore Palantír a daughter, Míriel, a year before Gimilkhâd and Zôrzimril had a son, Pharazôn. After her husband was crowned King, Nimirrôth broke down and confessed her feelings to Gimilkhâd, and though he did not love her he saw an opportunity here to manipulate the Queen of Númenor into his favor. They began an affair, and Nimirrôth, who had before cared little for politics, soon became a secret supporter of the King’s Men. Gimilkhâd died before his plans could come to fruition, but Nimirrôth, Zôrzimril, and Pharazôn would work together in his name to bring down the Faithful once and for all. Pharazôn had gone to Middle-earth as a conqueror and warrior against Sauron, but returned Elenna to take up his father’s mantle as the leader of the King’s Men. When Tar-Palantír died, Míriel should have inherited the scepter and become the fourth Ruling Queen of Númenor, but she found herself betrayed by her mother and forced into marriage with her cousin, who took the throne as Ar-Pharazôn and renamed her Ar-Zimraphêl, using the prefix Ar rather than Arî to emphasize his right to rule as the husband of the last king’s heir. Ar-Pharazôn soon returned to Middle-earth with a great force to humble Sauron and claim the kingship of all Men. When Sauron perceived that he could not defeat the Númenóreans in battle, he feigned humility and allowed Pharazôn to take him as a servant to Númenor where he quickly became chief advisor to the king, known as Zigûr to the people. He corrupted Pharazôn’s heart even further by encouraging him to worship Melkor, Lord of Darkness. When Isildur of Andúnië stole a fruit from the White Tree, Pharazôn was angered and at the advice of Zigûr he tore the tree down and burned it in a great temple he had constructed to Melkor. He sacrificed many of the Faithful upon the flames in the hope that Melkor would grant him and his supporters immortality, and this practice spread to Middle-earth. Yet age still crept upon Pharazôn, younger than it had any of his predecessors, and he became ever more desperate to escape death. Zigûr steered the king toward building a great armament to attack Aman itself, preaching that only after conquering Valinor and defeating the Valar could he achieve his goal. At last Ar-Pharazôn set sail, but upon setting foot in the city of Tirion the Valar called upon Eru Ilúvatar for aid. Seeing the wickedness and pride of the Númenóreans, Eru broke the world and made it round, preventing Men from ever again reaching Valinor. In the destruction, Pharazôn’s fleet was destroyed and buried in the underground Caves of the Forgotten, where he and his soldiers await the Dagor Dagorath where they will face Morgoth in order to repent for their sins. At this time, Númenor was drowned beneath the sea with all its people save those Faithful who had escaped in nine ships led by Elendil of Andúnië and his sons. Zigûr was consumed by the storm and perished laughing, and though he would return to menace Middle-earth once more, he was diminished ever after and could no longer take a fair form. As the waves rose, Tar-Míriel ascended the peak of the Meneltarma, the highest point on Elenna, and was thus the last Númenórean to take breath upon its soil before she, too, was drowned in the bosom of the vengeful sea.

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abeautifuldayfortea · 3 years

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Visions of Aman

Summary: The death of Aragorn, the final parting of friends, the reunion of Legolas and Gimli and the passing of the Sindar colony of Ithilien into the west. Written from Legolas’ perspective.

A/N: I chose this particular period in time because I wanted to explore more in depth the reasons why Legolas decided to leave Middle Earth as soon as he learns of Aragorn’s death as it is only fleetingly mentioned in the appendices. This took way too long and I am still far from satisfied with it. I spent two nights trying to decide what the tombs and the burial arrangements would be like (whether the bodies would be set in enclosed tombs or not (and then gave up after going nowhere)). Still, I hope you will enjoy reading it :), I am also very thankful to those readers who were kind enough to leave likes or comments or reblogs on my last fic and to those who didn’t as well, you all make my day, I love reading your comments and reblog tags!

Words: 1379

‘Look!’ he cried. ‘Gulls! They are flying far inland. A wonder they are to me and a trouble to my heart. Never in all my life had I met them, until we came to Pelargir, and there I heard them crying in the air as we rode to the battle of the ships. Then I stood still, forgetting war in Middle-earth; for their wailing voices spoke to me of the Sea. The Sea! Alas! I have not yet beheld it. But deep in the hearts of all my kindred lies the sea-longing, which it is perilous to stir. Alas! for the gulls. No peace shall I have again under beech or under elm.’

‘Say not so!’ said Gimli. ‘There are countless things still to see in Middle-earth, and great works to do. But if all the fair folk take to the Havens, it will be a duller world for those who are doomed to stay.’

‘Dull and dreary indeed!’ said Merry: ‘You must not go to the Havens, Legolas. There will always be some folk, big or little, and even a few wise dwarves like Gimli, who need you. At least I hope so. Though I feel somehow that the worst of this war is still to come. How I wish it was all over, and well over!’

~ Chapter 9 Book 5, Lord of the Rings

There were now no folk, big or little that needed him now. The vision had come to him unbidden as he lay dreaming, wide eyed, gazing up into the many stars of Varda and walked among the strange paths in a place between the gaps of the waking world known only to elves.

Painted within his mind, he saw unbeknownst to him the Hallows of Minas Tirith and within its watchful darkness, three figures arranged abreast upon a great slab of marble each in a peaceful slumber, hands folded atop their chests and garbed in pale raiment. Upon the left he discerned the form of Merry and upon the right lay Pippin, their hair white and their faces lined with the wrinkles of laughter lines and between them, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. At his feet lay folded the standard of Elendil, its seven stars set with gems catching the thin light that filtered in through the barred panels of the mausoleum and flickering with a pale faintness like the slow extinguishing of lamps in the pale dawn.

Legolas reached out with his mind, but he could not find the fëa of the three that lay before him and as his fingers reached out to wake them, he felt no warmth, no gentle stirring of the breath. There was no doubt now, the king had passed out of the world, shepherded to the Halls of Mandos and beyond into an afterlife where he would never follow.

He felt the consuming emptiness of sorrow stir within him like the stoking of an icy fire, leaving him cold and shaking again at the loss of not one but three of his dearest friends. As he turned over onto his side, emerging from his rest he dreamt no more of the fair mallorn trees of Lothlórien in golden autumn nor of the last strongholds of Fangorn in eternal spring or the brilliant halls of Thranduil in their glory before they were diminished. A shadow had fallen on his heart and from afar, the white city itself was shrouded in a suffocating grey mist.

And looking to the west towards the White City of Gondor from his bower in Ithilien he began to sing, weaving the tapestry of stories and the great deeds of his friends in a song that leapt, soaring like the great Eagles in its most glorious retellings and fell tinkling into the deep wells of lamentation. The last of his kin who heard his song quietly removed themselves from their dwellings and were themselves so moved and enamoured that they were said to be brought perforce to mourn for them, although they did not know them. To the ears of Men also the lament came, Aragorn’s people who understood not the winding language of the Sindar but upon listening grovelled and wept, for it awakened the truth within them and none were surprised when they received the black news of his passing the following day.

At the last note, Legolas faltered and verily, he knew the time had come for him to heed at last the haunting cry of the gulls and cross the great western sea.

For three years, he gathered his kindred and together they crafted a mighty ship by the shores of Ithilien, crested by a swan’s head set with silver at the bow. The men of Ithilien looked ever on in awe for they had never seen any ship fairer and the make of it, from its rope and canvas – light and iridescent - to the delicately carved oars in the shape of freshly fallen leaves, were of elvish design and its graceful curves and finish were beyond the work of any man.

As the time grew near to its completion, Legolas sought Gimli at the Glittering Caves, and bade him come with him over the sea and into the west for he could not bear for his closest friend and final living reminder of his time on Middle Earth to be left behind. Just as the Caves themselves had been slowly carved by the dwarrow to reveal its hidden beauty, time had tempered Gimli and although the furnace within his eyes still burned with the ferocity of determination, he looked to be in the winter of his days. His hair was more white than brown and was no longer as spry as he had been in his youthful days sprinting across the fields of Rohan. It was not so difficult to glean a smile from him now for though he had once been grim, the days of the War had been left behind and his people flourished in the new colony under his guidance. All was well and the world seemed all the brighter with Legolas by his side. That night a great feast was set and Legolas was given a place beside Gimli at the high table and much honoured by his hosts.

He laughed and joked that Legolas had found himself more drawn to the underground than any elf there had been before him, his merriment bounding off the stars of the Earth embedded in the vaulted ceiling glimmering and iridescent. Looking high above his head to admire the work of Gimli he was reminded of the seven stars of Elendil, flickering at the feet of Aragorn and he shivered, his quip evaporating on his tongue. The cavern seemed all at once too large and despite the blazing torches, he felt cold and small.

“Gimli, my course is set for the shores of Aman. I walked in my dreams with the music of the waters cradling me, I felt the gentle rocking of a ship beneath my feet and a chorus of voices in the sea winds calling me. Will you sail with me? For there is more that I wish for you and I to see together, fairer than all the gems and treasures of the earth and deeper than the wisdom and thriving loveliness of any wood, so it is told. In such waking sleep the Lady of the Galadhrim came to me and she obtained grace for you to be received in the Blessed Realm even before I knew my own thought.”

Gimli was silent. His dark eyes hardened and he thought long for it was a hard choice to make. He loved the plunging valleys and cutting peaks of Aulë and in his dreams he gazed into the calm waters of the Mirrormere and wandered far underground discovering new places and minerals beyond comprehension, each more delightful than the last as he delved deeper into the very bones of the earth. No greed hid within his heart for he wished only to see the beautiful and learn from the fair. Yet he knew he was ever waning and growing closer to death as the timeless years marched on and if he did not go now, then he would be withdrawn without a choice to Aman by Aulë himself. Either way, his time was drawing thin and he wanted more than ever his friend by his side to ease his passing.

And he agreed, if only to gaze upon the exquisiteness of Galadriel again, to see Valinor in all its glory and to find anew things that lay beyond his wildest imaginings in that far island. His mind was set. Legolas was himself content and relieved for the dwarrow were a stubborn people and he knew that Gimli beheld things in a much different light than he did.

Together, they crossed the rolling plains to Ithilien borne by swift feet of horses to see the grand ship finished and sea ready. And together again, they would sail down the River Anduin on the pale dawn on the third year of the passing of Aragorn, leaving behind them the land of their forefathers, Middle Earth that they were born and raised in.

It is said by the men who watched on that day that not one of the travellers heading toward the distant shores of Aman ever looked back, only onwards to where their final journey would take them...

And some who looked closely would have seen that among the host of elves on the ship stood an elderly dwarf beside his friend at the bow.

#argorn #elessar #legolas #lotr elves #gimli son of gloin #gimli #lotr #lotr fanfic #ithilien #valinor #aman #galadriel #lotr dwarves #dwarves #mirkwood elves #gondor #glittering caves #gigolas

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elennalore · 3 years

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Fëanor and the Forging of Sampo

I may have written a crack Silmarillion crossover with Kalevala. You can also read it on ao3. Featuring Fëanor, Ilmarinen and Mairon as Louhi. Sampo is a magical object, a cornucopia of sorts, that appears in Finnish-Karelian Mythology and in Kalevala.

On his travels around the world, Fëanor meets a strange smith.

He is one of the best, but he doesn’t know of Aulë. Instead, he claims to have forged the Ilmen itself; that’s why he’s called Ilmarinen. He says he can forge anything. For Fëanor, it sounds too much like an invite for a competition. If Ilmarinen can forge anything, Fëanor boldly announces that he will be better than that: he can forge everything.

And so they start. At Ilmarinen’s forge, during the daytime, Ilmarinen works. He bashes the iron and sings all day. His songs are different from what the Valar are singing, but Fëanor recognizes the power in them nevertheless. During the night-time, Ilmarinen rests and sleeps under the starlit sky. Then Fëanor gets the forge for himself.

He sees the power in Ilmarinen’s work; but there are so many ways he can make it better – yes, perfect even. He puts something extra here and there; little chains and wheels and oiled parts that move like magic when the lever is pulled. Too soon it’s dawn again, and Ilmarinen wants his forge back for himself. Fëanor doesn’t tell him about the alterations. Let the smith find out about them himself.

Finally, Ilmarinen declares his work finished. It’s a huge machine, mighty and awe-inspiring. Fëanor is not envious; it’s as much as his work as Ilmarinen’s. Still, it amuses him to play oblivious.

“What is it?” he asks the smith, his head tilted to one side as he admires the beauty of the object.

“It’s a machine that makes gold. The one who owns it will be the richest person in the world. I name it Sampo.” Ilmarinen gives Fëanor a sharp look. “Where’s your work? I don’t see it. It can hardly be better than this one.”

“Oh,” Fëanor says in an innocent voice. “You’re looking at it. Your Sampo, as you call it, is not just for making gold. Try pulling that lever over there.”

Ilmarinen seems to notice just now that his iron machine has many levers and wheels he hasn’t put there. “What are these all for?” But he’s an inventor like Fëanor, and inventors are always curious, so he pulls the lever. Instantly, salt runs out from the machine.

“That’s wonderful!” Ilmarinen admits. “Did you put salt inside?”

“I didn’t have to. I just put there an idea of salt. It comes true when you pull the lever.”

Ilmarinen’s eyes are widened. “That’s... really clever. “What other ideas have you put there?”

“Well, anything I could imagine of. Grain, food, horses, fabric, jewels... Whatever an elf could need. I hope I have remembered to think of everything.”

Ilmarinen is speechless. “It’s a machine of plenty! Even better than my original idea. My tribe will love this. How can I thank you enough... Fëanor, was it?”

Fëanor starts to tell Ilmarinen that as he did most of the work himself, the machine should be taken back to Valinor, where his tribe, the Noldor, lives. It will be a long journey, for he isn’t keen to walk the icy path again; once was definitely enough. But he has hardly opened his mouth to ask if Ilmarinen knows anyone who owns a ship when they are attacked by hideous beings of shadow and flame.

“Oh no!” Ilmarinen shouts, taking cover behind one of the big stones in front of his forge. “It’s the evil witch Louhi and their fiery beasts!”

Fëanor has never heard about Louhi, but as the wondrous being steps ahead, he knows that he’s looking at a Maia of Melkor. Even though the Valar have chained Melkor in Mandos, some of his servants are still said to live in Middle-earth. This beautiful creature must be one of them.

“Hello darlings,” the evil Maia says, grinning like only the very evil beings can. Fëanor sees their mouth is full of needle-sharp teeth. “I’m the admirable Louhi, ruler of this land. Why, didn’t Ilmarinen tell you that everything he makes in his pitiful forge will belong to me? And this Sampo, well, it’s just what I have been looking for to feed my slaves and troops in my northern fortress. What a co-incidence!”

The witch and their fiery warriors start to carry Sampo away. Ilmarinen and Fëanor look at each other. They are only two smiths; what can they do against a flock of supernatural beings? Soon, Louhi and their troops have vanished.

“What if we attacked their fortress in the north and tried to get it back?” Ilmarinen suggests, but he doesn’t manage to rouse Fëanor to action. “The fortress of iron, full of fiery beings? I’m not interested. I’m not suicidal, I want to have a family one day. Let them keep it; I’ll invent something else.”

He leaves Ilmarinen with his tribe; they are already discussing about a quest to get Sampo back. Thankfully, one of them lends Fëanor a proper ship to sail back west. The eternal night has started to feel dull. He wants to see the light of the Two Trees once more. It’s too bad that he can’t carry their light with him as he travels around the world.

Perhaps he can make a vessel that carries their light?

#my writings #feanor #silmarillion #kalevala #crossover #silm crack #this was a silly idea that needed to be written #silm fic #finnish mythology #mixed with #tolkien's legendarium #ficlet

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fuckingfinwions · 4 years

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Scene: Alqualonde. The ship is docked, and most of the people are off it. There is a large happy crowd at the edge of the dock centered around Galadriel. Maglor and Elrond are walking briskly away trying not to attract attention.

A messenger stopped them, wearing a Finwean sun that marked her of the palace staff. She spoke in Quenya, “Excuse me lords, are you Prince Canafinwe and Lord Elrond?”

Maglor stood stock still.

“I am Lord Elrond, yes.”

“I am here to invite you both to the royal palace in Tirion. There’s a carriage ready, and a cart will be sent back to the ship to collect the rest of your things.”

“Hardly worth it for me,” Maglor said. “I have little, and I doubt I’ll need any of it much longer.”

“As you say, your highness. King Nelyafinwe made it clear to the palace staff that we are not to dispose of anything without your order, but that you likely have been living in circumstances below your station. There is a room set aside for you with a basic wardrobe including jewelry, and of course any member of the royal orchestra would be honored to lend you an instrument.”

Elrond said, “King Nelyafinwe? I had thought Maedhros was dead, and King Finarfin ruled Tirion, has the convention for titles changed?”

“Oh, not at all your lordship. King Nelyafinwe, known in Beleriand as Lord Maedhros, indeed died at the end of the first age, but he returned to life several centuries ago. Arafinwe returned the crown to the eldest line of the house of Finwe, as is proper.“

Maglor forced out a whisper, “And my younger brothers? Have they also been permitted to return?”

“Yes your highness, they have. All five of the other high princes dwell in the palace, as do most of the house of Finwe. I must sadly inform you that your father King Feanor is not yet returned to life, nor is your grandfather King Finwe.”

Elrond said,“The return of the House of Finwe, and the house of Feanor in particular, allays more worries than you can believe. I had been prepared to travel with Maglor through all of Valinor in disguise until we plead our case to Manwe himself, but I am glad not to need to.”

“Oh, certainly not your lordship! Manwe is quite content to leave elves to manage our own affairs these days, especially when we have such a skilled leader as King Nelyafinwe.”

“As grateful as I am for the offer of a carriage, would it still be available tomorrow? It has been long years since I was last in a elven city on the sea, and I find it nostalgic.”

“The carriage will be available whenever you wish it. But If I may be so bold as to offer advice, I would recommend that Prince Macalaure at least travel today. The city of Alqualonde will be far more welcoming to Lord Elrond on his own.”

“Even after so long? Have none in Tirion been willing to bend their heads and apologize, or none in Alqualonde willing to hear it? ”

“Restitution was made back in the First Age, and King Olwe accepted it. He objected though to King Nelyafinwe resuming the kingship, seeing an insult to his son-in-law and grandchildren. He also objects to a lot of customs that differ from Alqualonde, and the King sees no reason to force the Noldor to give up our traditions. Some Noldor visit Alqualonde, and a few Teleri visit Tirion, but official diplomatic visits are far between. The final son of Feanor preferring to stay in another city rather than return to his home will be an incident of some sort, though perhaps not a violent one.”

Maglor was on the edge of tears, whether of joy or fear even he could hardly say. But he would not show weakness in front of this stranger, not while he didn’t know if it was true and he hardly recalled how a prince should behave if it was.

“Is there an inn with private rooms in this part of the city?” Elrond asked. “This has been a very tiring day, and I would like a quiet place to collect my thoughts for an hour or two.”

“Of course, right this way.”

They reached the inn, and Elrond payed for a room. The messenger made to leave, but Elrond stopped her.

“Is there a noticeboard or town crier for reconnecting with those who sailed earlier? I stayed long in Middle Earth, and there are those I would dearly like to see again.”

“Each city has records of it’s citizens for taxes and other official purposes. All will confirm if someone resides in the city or not, and in TIrion they will also pass on a message. If whoever your lordship wishes to find is not a citizen of Tirion though, there’s no way to know if they’re in Tol Eressea, Alqualonde, Valmar or New Doriath without traveling there. If they were noble or famous I might know; its a messengers job to find people.”

Elrond swallowed. “My wife, Celebrian, sailed five hundred years ago, to seek what healing could be found in Valinor. Is she...”

“The Lady Celebrian recovered from her wounds and lives in Tirion. I don’t believe she resides in the palace itself, but I can certainly show you her house when we reach the city.”

“Thank you.” Elrond was relieved, though also a little surprised. Celebrian had always considered herself Sindarin, and found even Imladris to be annoyingly urban at at times. But he had never actually been to Tirion; perhaps it was a mix of all the elven kindreds with parks as common as forges.

The messenger left Elrond then, promising to be back in two hours once he had a chance to rest and make a decision.

Maglor was incredibly tense in the room. “Do you think it’s real?”

“If a lie, it was be a risky one. There are many who would react poorly to learning that Maedhros is once more alive and in command.”

“She did ask first, who we were. A Feanorian is likely to approve of other Feanorians wandering loose.”

“Perhaps, though there are rumors that have all seven of you slitting each other’s throats. Someone would have to talk with a soldier of yours at the very least to find out otherwise. And she called you a prince, even before she was certain.”

“Yes. Prince Canafinwe, the most formal address possible. I haven’t been him since before my father died.”

“Being accustomed to Sindarin names can’t be that rare; I expect they’ll call you whichever name you wish. I certainly don’t want to go by Elerondo.”

“Maybe. If they’re telling the truth, I suppose I can just order all the staff to call me Lord Maglor instead. And if they’re lying, I’m sure they’ll switch to a ruder address soon enough.”

“I really doubt that they’re lying.”

“Maybe, but still I am nervous. I know you have already done much for me in Imladris and on the journey, but would you do me one favor more? Would you come with me to Tirion and stand with me before the king? I know that you have things to do first, reuniting with your wife for one. I could wait in this inn while you do so, and not leave the room to avoid being recognized.”

“That is hardly necessary. The messenger informed me that Celebrian is in Tirion, and after five hundred years we can both endure another hour easily enough. I will speak to the king, and Maedhros will make me feel like a very skilled child, and you will see your brothers again.”

“He doesn’t mean to condescend, it’s just habit from being the eldest sibling.”

“I know, I’m just out of habit to speaking with people older than me this past Age.”

#passed to darkness and ruin #the messenger is giving technically accurate explanations but is a very biased narrator #bias being: King Maedhros and the Feanorians are 100% awesome; if they weren't we'd all be terrible people for going along with it #and since I'm not a terrible person that must mean all the kinslayings were some non-Noldo's fault and everyone's who got hurt deserved it #spoiler alert: Celebrian is unharmed as Maedhros considers her Maglor's daughter-in-law #so it's up to Maglor and Elrond if they want to harm her #this logic will extend to Elrond's kids but not to Galadriel or Earendil #not archived yet

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

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Oooh... if these are still a thing, 20, 31, 60?

Here you are! A couple of notes: First this is set in an AU where Maglor managed to convince Maedhros to surrender to the Valar, and they’re now sailing as prisoners to Valinor. Secondly, this Earendil is a lot angrier than the Earendil I usually write, but he’s also closer to the mess and farther from a solution to the Earendil I usually write, so I thought that seemed appropriate.

“You’re making the guards uneasy,” Earendil said, even as the door swung shut behind him.

Maglor looked up from his place on the edge of the room’s one bed, but he didn’t answer. Earendil hadn’t expected him to. The mightiest singer of the Noldor might still be able to hum through his gag, with enough power to make elves drowsy and enough volume to trouble the guards, but even he couldn’t talk through it.

Maedhros didn’t even look up. He was asleep even though it was the middle of the day, though admittedly, they probably didn’t know that, locked in the lowest part of the ship as they were with only the lanterns for light. And with Maedhros’s one whole arm chained to the bed, resting was probably the easiest thing to do.

He started shifting, though, the moment that Maglor stopped humming. Maglor immediately started up again, and it occurred to Earendil that despite the guards’ fears, it probably wasn’t them the song had been aimed at.

It was a reasonable thought.

Standing in front of the two men that had sacked his city, nearly killed his wife, and stolen his children, he didn’t particularly want to be reasonable.

“Stop it,” he ordered. Maglor glanced between him and his brother before the notes slowly, reluctantly, trailed away. Maedhros immediately began to twist in the bed once again, but that wasn’t Earendil’s problem. He had come to talk, and for this one kinslayer was as good as the other. He untied the thick strips of cloth from Maglor’s gag, as his kinslaying cousin could not with his chained hands.

Maglor exhaled a bit in relief and said, “He won’t rest long without the music. Not unless you’re willing to sacrifice a truly unfortunate amount of wine, and even that won’t work as well.”

“He’s rested long enough,” Earendil said. If the kinslayer was troubled by dark dreams, than he wasn’t inclined to stop it. Maybe there was some fragment of a conscience left in there after all.

Maglor’s eyes flicked to his brother - no, to his brother’s wrist, he realized. The one that still had a hand attached. “He needs to rest,” Maglor said quietly, and -

Oh.

The chained wrist was a mess of blood from where the chain had cut into it, dangerously deep. The chain itself couldn’t be that tight, though, surely, but if . . . And as Maedhros’s thrashings became more violent and more blood welled up, he saw he was right. Only when Maedhros struggled did it cut so deeply.

“If he was awake, he wouldn’t irritate it.”

Maglor’s eyes were dark. “If he was awake,” he said, “it would be much, much worse.”

Earendil wanted to shake him. Wanted to beat him black and blue with his bare hands and demand answers. Wanted the hot anger that was still waiting, fresh and dangerous in his mind.

He did not want to feel sorry for either of the gaunt, scarred elves on the thin bed, but he couldn’t quite help it.

“Why don’t you sing me a story then?” he suggested. “That way we can both get what we want.”

Maglor seemed a bit relieved. “I’m always willing to sing for an audience,” he agreed. “What song would you like? I doubt you want the one I was attempting for him.”

It was an irrelevant point, but Earendil asked anyway. “What song was that? I didn’t recognize it at all.”

A ghost of a smile flickered over the kinslayer’s face. “You wouldn’t. It’s fairly new as these things go. Only a few decades old. ‘The Return of the Mariner,’ I think I called it. Maedhros always hated it, but it has an inordinate amount of verses, and it’s a lullaby, so it served well enough.” Maedhros’s thrashings grew almost violent, and Maglor quickly took up a few of those verses. Maedhros stilled almost immediately.

Earendil grabbed his arm. “Enough,” he said, and not just because he was beginning to feel drowsy himself.

Maglor stopped.

“I was in that song. And Elwing.” He hadn’t realized it at first, the bold adventures in it so unlike the hard press through the storms he knew his real journey to have been, but they’d been in it.

“Of course. They wanted to know where their parents were. And I - “ Maglor shrugged, shoulders tight, mouth turned unhappily. “I truly thought you would come at first, that Elwing would find you and lead you back, but after years of nothing, I thought you both most likely dead. Wrecked on your way home, perhaps, or wrecked on your way to Valinor, what difference did it make? But I could hardly tell them that. Your continuing adventures served well enough, first on the seas, and then, after the star showed up, in the skies. I still thought you were dead,” he added after a moment. “But it was easier to tell them that you were getting a little bit closer every day. I sang them a new verse each night until - “ He looked away.

“Until?” Earendil prompted.

“Elros was very angry when he reached a certain age,” Maglor said quietly. “He said everyone knew you’d gotten safely to Valinor and left the rest of us to face Morgoth, and it was no use spinning fairytales otherwise.”

News about his sons was what he had come from, but it still didn’t soften the blow. “And Elrond?”

Maglor’s mouth twisted even more unhappily. “Elrond eventually convinced him you had died. I don’t know - I didn’t know what to tell them.”

“We thought they were dead,” Earendil said numbly. “If we’d known - If we’d had any idea - “

“If any of us had known even a little more, a great many things might have been different,” Maglor said tiredly. “I once made a very similar mistake,” and this time he looked at where his brother’s other hand should have been. The abbreviated arm was already starting to twist once more. “They’re older now. They’ll understand, once they make the voyage. You can explain.”

“Elros has chosen Men,” Earendil said, and he still couldn’t quite accept it. That his son, still living though he was, was still forever out of his reach. “He will not sail.”

Maglor flinched as if he had been struck.

“Tell me of them, kinslayer. Tell me of all the moments I should have had.”

“Alright,” Maglor said one he had recovered his voice. “Alright. This song, at least, will not send you to sleep.”

It was not a heroic song, nor, spun as it was on the moment, probably one of the singer’s best.

Earendil clung to every golden note.

When it was done, and the singer slumped exhausted and grieved, Earendil stood and considered the cloth gag in his hand.

Then he wrapped it as carefully as he could around Maedhros’s wrist to stem the bleeding and pad the chain.

He looked at Maglor. “The guards asked me to remind you that singing is forbidden,” he told him. “Though with the door as thick as it is and with how much the next shift likes to talk, I don’t know they’d know know if you were doing it.”

He turned away before he had to look too long at the gratitude in the kinslayer’s eyes.

Someday, maybe he could forgive him for the sake of the mercy he had shown.

Not yet.

But he heard the fruits of his own mercy as the sound of Maedhros’s thrashings once again eased to the sound of the bard’s tired voice, quiet as the drizzling of the very softest spring rains. It was the same golden tune he was committing to memory, desperately impressing every word of two dark haired twins.

It stopped for a moment when he opened the door, and no sound could be heard over the new guards’ chattering when he closed it.

Just the mariner’s own voice, quietly humming the tune.

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daywillcomeagain · 5 years

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@lesbiansforboromir this is YOUR FAULT for ENABLING MY NUMENOR OBSESSION. i constantly want an excuse to talk about numenorean politics and you have given me one.

however this post will probably be shorter and way simpler/less fact-checked than i would like it to be, on account of it’s 1am and i really should probably be sleeping. …….admittedly it will still probably going to be longer and more complicated than most of my dash would prefer. sorry.

so like–at first i see the two political/cultural groups as being “interventionist” and “isolationist”, without much real nuance as to what those things mean, and so you get a lot of good and bad policies within both groups. this comes about because (a) the people who live in the forest would like you to stop cutting down all their trees to make ships tyvm (b) the people who live on the coast or in towers in the cities and stare at the sea quite literally nonstop would like to actually go on the sea tyvm (sea-longing!). the interventionist policies are “we should defeat sauron and also do some colonialism”; the isolationist policies are “take care of our people first and stay in our lane (who cares about sauron as long as he’s not hurting /us/).” because these are also geographical differences, you get the beginnings of cultural distinctions start to develop: the main isolationist issue is preserving nature, so it’s pretty natural that they’re the ones who like hanging out with Elves and speaking Sindarin and worshipping the Valar; meanwhile, the expansionists are, well, expanding, into Middle-Earth, and so they speak Taliska or Adûnaic (which is what Taliska–itself a Khudzul/Avarin creole–ends up becoming on Numenor, before it eventually develops into Westron, the common-tongue of the Third Age) for trade purposes, though they almost certainly spoke Sindarin as well; which was their first/primary language is deeply unclear and probably varied from region to region. Of course, at this point the cultural groups are loose correlations at best; I’m willing to defend the isolationist/expansionist political divide, but my opinion on the cultural groups is entirely speculation, based on Aldarion and Erendis (and how it fits neatly into what happens after).

then, in year 1500 S.A. or so, we get Tar-Minastir (expansionist) who is followed by three more expansionists; in fact, at this point, expansionism has pretty solidly ‘won’ over isolationism. (there’s probably some population pressure on numenor at this point as well, and expansionism allows for more resources, both through legitimate means such as trade and less legitimate means such as enslaving the natives.) however, the two cultural groups still exist, and also humans are incapable of living together for extended periods of time without political debate. so it becomes about something else, something that is more controversial and which can be decided by public opinion as much as it is by the desires of the King to set sail: opinion towards the elves.

See, Tar-Minastir’s expansionism was based on sea-longing, but in truth he longed for the West, not for the East: he would “spend great part of his days gazing westward” (longing to go to Valinor); he “loved the Eldar but envied them”. Tar-Atanamir “spoke openly against the ban of the Valar, and their hearts were turned against the Valar and the Eldar”. It makes sense, then, that under Tar-Ancalimon (2000-ish), the cultural groups split more fully, between the Faithful (who approve of the Valar and Eldar, think that death is a gift to be chosen, speak Sindarin, etc.) and the King’s Men (who speak Adûnaic, choose to live out their lives until death instead of laying down their lives, and disapprove or are neutral towards the Valar and Eldar). Generally, the King’s Men are jealous of the Elves, who are immortal and able to go to Valinor, whereas the Faithful accept the teachings that death is a gift and that Valinor is bad for mortals.

From here, some facts get murky; there are a couple ways to resolve them but honestly they’re not super important. The important thing is that there is a long stretch of royalty supporting the King’s Men, to the point of banning the speaking of Sindarin and enforcing Adûnaic, forced relocation of the Faithful, destruction of temples to the Valar, and other standard religious persecution things. (Also, colonialism is still happening! But, in Middle-Earth as on regular Earth, it was sometimes used by religious minorities to escape that kind of persecution in their homelands–c.f. the founding of America. This is why Pelargir was so major even prior to the fall of Numenor.)

Then Ar-Adûnakhor happens, Sauron arrives and manipulates the fuck out of him, and the King’s Men generally jump off the slippery slope and start sacrificing people to Morgoth. And killing the White Tree (but it’s okay because Isildur stole some seeds to become the White Tree of Gondor!). And finally, 3000ish years after the founding of Numenor, a King goes “you know what, fuck it, fuck all of you, fuck the Valar, I’m going to Valinor and you can’t stop me”. The Faithful respond to this by getting the fuck out to Middle-Earth, which is where you get the massive influx of refugees to Pelargir that eventually becomes Gondor! The King’s Men respond to this by being drowned under a bunch of water, because Tolkien loved his Atlantis mythos.

anyway, like. numenor having radically different opinions is–it’s true but it’s an understatement to me. by the end of the second age, numenor had two entirely different groups of people speaking different and mutually unintelligible languages and living in different places and believing in different religions and sometimes oppressing each other: anywhere else in the world, we’d call that two different ethnic groups! but of course, since they’re all descendants of the men chosen to live on this island as reward for fighting with the good guys in the war of wrath, they don’t really have the option of… having any space, whatsoever, especially given population growth from 3,000 years. and, given that the King’s Men were (a) likely more numerous, at least among royalty (b) led to the Fall in the first place, it’s really fascinating to me that they don’t appear to take up ~any space in the minds of Men in the Third Age.

#but for all this Death did not depart #is my numenor tag #shut up þornwë

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Did The Lord of the Rings Series Just Reveal Valinor?

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The seemingly impenetrable veil of secrecy that has long covered Amazon’s The Lord of the Rings television series has been slightly lifted. Firstly, the series now has a firm release date to hype; one that, unfortunately for impatient fans, won’t arrive until Sept. 2, 2022 (yes, you read that correctly, 2022). However, sweet succor for that bittersweet revelation also arrived, since Amazon also released the very first official image from the series, giving everyone a long-desired visual hint as to what a purported overall budget of around $1 billion buys you. Sticker shock aside, the image is nevertheless impressive, and, while released without context, has been deduced as an awe-inspiring landscape look at the realm of Valinor!

While a proper title for the series remains withheld, Amazon’s debut image from The Lord of the Rings is a sight to behold as it immediately brings your focus to a mysterious foreground figure in a white cloak before your gaze is set loose onto the sublime imagery of a sprawling castle flanked by a majestic forest separated by a stream. While one might be inclined to think that we’re simply seeing an area of Middle Earth that’s new to fans of Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit movie trilogies, the light source in the far background that one might have initially mistaken for the sun is, in fact, the piercing illumination of two giant trees, the Two Trees of Valinor. Thusly, it appears that the frequently-referenced but never-seen locale of Valinor, a.k.a. the Undying Lands (the place where Frodo, Gandalf and Bilbo sailed off into the sunset for retirement,) has finally manifested in live-action form.

Contextually, in J.R.R. Tolkien’s literary lore, the island of Valinor (Tolkien’s version of Avalon), is the where the Valar (the archangels of the mythos,) settled down after the music of deity Eru Ilúvatar broke an incalculable period of silence and shapelessness in existence to construct the universe. Tellingly, the mere presence of the trees—created by the Valar to light to planet of Arda—dates the era of the image, which can be deduced as taking place during the planet’s primordial period, since said trees would not be long for the burgeoning world. This could also mean that the mysterious cloaked figure is one of the Valar, perhaps Manwë, the oldest and most powerful of the Ainur (holy spirit beings).

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Named Laurelin (a Gold Tree towards the South) and Telperion (a Silver Tree towards the North), the Two Trees of Valinor were the first sources of light in the universe. Their majesty would conjure jealousy in the bad seed Valar known as Melkor (later better known as Morgoth), who sought to destroy them by recruiting the help of the giant spider creature called Ungoliant, progenitor of Middle Earth’s monster spiders such as Shelob, who notably dwelt in Cirith Ungol. Thusly, the creature invaded the sacred island and consumed the duo of mystical trees, poising their remains; an act of ontological vandalism that left their last flowers—which shone gold and silver—to be used as the sun and the moon, respectively. Additionally, the last vestiges of the two trees’ light were captured into the three jewels known as the Simarils, which would eventually become the titular MacGuffin for most of the First-Age-era stories told in Tolkien’s posthumous tome, The Silmarillion.

With all that said, you might be asking yourself how this backstory connects—at least, in an immediately pertinent manner—to the plot of Amazon’s The Lord of the Rings series, which has been confirmed to take place in Middle Earth’s Second Age, several thousands of years after the destruction of the Two Trees of Valinor. The likely answer is that the teaser image is likely from a prologue, a practice famously exercised in powerfully pithy manner in Jackson’s Rings Trilogy, and to a certain extent, in The Hobbit as well. This one, however, would set into context the show’s primary plot centered on the Fall of Númenor, a star-shaped island kingdom that once prominently set as the maritime centerpiece of Middle Earth.

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Inhabited by a race of Men blessed with long life, Númenor’s story is one highlighted by majestic glory at its height and hubris-bred destruction at its nadir. This came about due to the unbridled ambitions of King Ar-Pharazôn, who—due to the insidious influence of a captured Sauron—became resentful of Valinor’s ban of mortals, and sought to seize immortality itself with an attempt to invade Valinor with a fleet of ships. The effort, of course, failed spectacularly after a divine cataclysmic, planetary-scale retribution so powerful that it hid Valinor from the reach of the physical realm, and turned the world from flat to round, leaving Númenor sunk beneath the sea.

Of course, with very few narrative bones thrown our way, the story behind this Lord of the Rings teaser image will remain categorized as speculation. Nevertheless, despite the far-off release date, production on the series has moved past its primary obstacle after COVID cost it most of 2020. Indeed, cameras have been rolling for nearly a year now, having commenced since this past September. Notwithstanding occasional hiccups such as the exit of key consultants and this past March’s “studio decision” to nix series regular Tom Budge, things seem to be moving along smoothly in what has clearly been a trial by fire for showrunners J.D. Payne and Patrick McKay.

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The Lord of the Rings (title to be revealed) will eventually arrive on Amazon Prime Video on Friday, Sept. 2, 2022.

The post Did The Lord of the Rings Series Just Reveal Valinor? appeared first on Den of Geek.

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chiliadicorum · 6 years

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Two Dead Husks and a Random Mithrandir

A/N: This is my gift for @datcilly for the @tolkiensecretsanta2017! A fic between two friends is what I came up with. Gandalf and Elrond were requested, with some fluff and fun. This kind of turned out with a little less fluff and fun than originally planned, so I hope you don’t mind that too much! But I loved writing this and hope it’ll make you happy if just a little bit! Merry Christmas! :D

(If reading on my blog is difficult, let me know and I’ll give you a link to a better page)

He had been sitting on that stretch of hilltop for at least an hour. Prone as he was to losing himself in his musings, he was not so lacking as others as to lose sense of the passage of time. And even if so, his grey palfrey happily obliged to remind him of the nearing midnight hour, growing more annoying with each persistent nudge to his shoulder with her muzzle. She did it again and Elrond leaned away, glaring up at her.

“I know! I know we must go. Stop reminding me.” He eased his voice to gentleness, too fond of the horse to be too flustered, though he still refused to pet her. Maybe she just wanted an apple. Maybe it was a sign that the living beings in Valinor were softer than those in Middle-earth, because he could swear that their horses and other such endearing creatures were more demanding of treats than in life before. Or maybe he was just being bitter.

“Elrond, Elrond, where has your warmth gone?” The familiar voice came from behind, warm itself and carrying great fondness.

Elrond frowned as he twisted around. “Mithrandir?” he said with a little surprise and in no little confusion. He had not seen him since their disembarking on the bays of Tol Eressëa all those years ago, when the joys of reunion for himself and all those who sailed with him had grown rapturous and the Maia had gone his own way. Elrond stared at the whitened hair and full beard, at his stooping frame and the wise, olden features of his face. His frown deepened. “Why do you yet clad yourself in that form? Say not you cannot leave it.”

He added the last more in jest and Mithrandir chuckled, shifting his robes before lowering himself to hunker down next to him in the ankle-deep snow. “Hardly. But in my true form, even as I appear to you mirroanwi, you would not be speaking with one whom you know, would you?”

Elrond gave a small smile. “Think you I am so shallow?”

Mithrandir’s own smile deepened, reaching up to his bright eyes. “Ah, I have missed you, my friend. And no. But I know from my Ages of dwelling with you Elves before my coming to Middle-earth that it takes some time to adjust, even though it has been years. For all your life, my People were but names recorded in your lore and seeing us in person is quite different, even one whom you saw in likeness of a Man.”

“It has been years.” Elrond glanced suspiciously behind him at his mount, who was now leaving him be and just swishing her tail. “Years since last we spoke, long enough I no longer count the years.”

“Years you deserved to rest in with your Celebrían,” he said warmly. “But come, you did not answer. What do you here all alone? Are you not supposed to be in Lórien?”

“Yes.” Tension he had not even been aware had left at the Maia’s arrival returned swiftly and it was an effort to not let it rise to the surface.

Mithrandir regarded him calmly, his eyes shining in that all too perceptive way Elrond was never sure if he liked or not. “Hm. Yet you are not.”

Elrond glanced at him and resisted a sigh, looking back out to the sight of legend before him. “I had a disagreement with Lord Irmo’s Master Healers.” He could not resist the sarcastic lilt in his voice. Yes, petty, but he was alone, unhappy, sitting in wet snow in the dead of night, so he did not care.

“Oh? Care to share? You know I will listen.”

Elrond lifted an eyebrow at the tone, the small smile reappearing. “You sound as if you already know.”

“Perhaps I do, but I can see it festering in you. You know talking relieves much restlessness, if you want to.”

“No.”

Mithrandir let out that subtle, rumbling chuckle deep in his chest, one so familiar that it sent Elrond off kilter for a moment. “Oh Elrond, so long has it been since I heard you so aggravated.” He looked both amused and endeared at the same time. “I will speak of it no more tonight, save only to lecture you to be of greater cheer. The Merendë Andohrívëo is in three days and your current mood is hardly one of celebration.”

He sighed truly this time, in chagrin and a little tired. “I know. I am returning to Tol Eressëa to spend it with Celebrían. Gil-galad wrote he is planning a few hearty festivities of his own, so I look forward to it.” He squinted off into the distance, contemplative. “I am surprised Lord Irmo allowed me to leave. I was hardly polite and I do not believe he approved of my departure, at least in the way I did it. I know not if I am angrier with him or his healers.”

Mithrandir squeezed his shoulder. “I would say his healers for I know Lord Irmo better than you, but let it go for now, my friend. Take joy in the festival and try to spend it in peace.”

Elrond nodded. “Hence my return to Tol Eressëa.”

“And quite the detour you are taking to see yourself there, if I may say, riding this far northward.” Mithrandir turned to him fully, his expression turning serious, maybe even a little concerned. “Why did you come here? This is hardly a place of celebration, or a place to inspire such.”

Elrond looked back out to Ezellohar, at the two dead husks of gigantic proportions standing coupled together on their mound mantled in white. Even from this distance Elrond could easily discern which one was Telperion, for its shade of color was a little subtler, a little more grey even in death than that of Laurelin’s. No one was here, the vast expanse of snow undisturbed save where he had guided his horse. The snow was falling slow and steady and he knew there was a solid layer of it on his hair by now. His exterior was as cold as the snow he sat unmoving in, his clothing soaked through and his rear growing numb, though whether from the position or the chill he could not tell. The Two Trees alive and dead were visions he could only ever conjure in his imagination. While that was still true for the former, the rottenness and gnarled scarring in their lifeless husks went beyond anything he had envisioned and were hardly a sight to induce any good feeling. Mithrandir was right. This was no pleasant place, even in the peaceful snowfall of winter.

“Elrond?”

He gave a small shake of his head and his voice was soft. “Think not it is something profound, Mithrandir. This is not my first visit to Ezellohar, though it is in winter. I was merely curious, trying to guess at the sight of the Two Trees in all their glory during this particular season. How their Light might shine in the snow, in the snowfall….It is a wondrous sight to imagine.”

Mithrandir regarded him for a long moment, pursing his lips. “Winter did not exist in their lifetime, Elrond,” he pointed out. “You are a master of lore as few others. I should not have to tell you this.”

Elrond smiled fully at his laconic tone, his heart lightening. “I know that,” he drawled. “Elladan and Elrohir asked it when they were only three.”

“Did they?”

“Yes.” The smile remained, turning into one of soft affection. “When they learned that Glorfindel had lived in the Light of the Two Trees, they pestered him for details, as far demanding what it looked like during the winter months. In which Glorfindel then explained that there was no winter, which my boys could not understand, which then led Glorfindel into having to explain just why there was no winter.” He harrumphed. “Fathom clarifying that to two children of only three years. He did his best. I cringed. Erestor laughed. It was a good day.” Warmth spread through him at the memory. “I just recalled it all of the sudden today.”

Mithrandir’s voice was tender. “You miss your sons.”

Elrond looked away, hands briefly clenching where they were wrapped around his knees. “Of course I do.” He was quiet for several moments and the lance of pain was sharp in his chest. “It feels so long now that I cannot speak. Nor does Celebrían, but I know her heart, the turning of her thoughts. There are times I am furious I did not remain, regardless of how worn I was. Furious with myself I did not drag my children onto that ship with me. All of them.” His chest tightened and it was all he could do to keep it all at bay, just all shoved down and away. “Arwen decided to stay. My boys know nothing but Middle-earth and their love for those lands is great. A love I know, for I would have stayed a while longer if I had not been so weary.” He closed his eyes tight, the swelling in his chest moving up to his throat and he forced in a deep, shaking breath. “It has been so many years.”

“Many ships have yet to come. I am sure Glorfindel will convince them to board one if they are uncertain. Do not despair yet, my friend. Though you picked a fine place to dwell in despair if such was your goal. You always were good at that.”

Elrond found himself grinning in spite of himself and he looked at the other in mild appreciation. He shook his head, trying his best to shake off the melancholy. “You Maiar do not help. I have seen it enough, one of you approaching an Elf or another to tell them of family who is sailing. Whenever I see one I find myself expecting, hoping the message is for my wife and me, only to discover that it is not.” He paused, turning a curious glance on Mithrandir. “Is it always like that? You coming to us Elves?”

He nodded, beard bristling. “When someone is sailing, the Valar will send one of us to bring the good tidings to the Elf’s friends or family, simply to ensure that they may be greeted by someone known to them when they come ashore. To be escorted, if you will, into this new land and people.”

Elrond was nodding, turning his gaze back out to the Two Trees. “A courtesy any host would bestow upon newcomers.”

“Precisely. That it causes such joyous reunions is but a coincidence, you understand.”

He snorted in good humor. “Coincidence, sure.” Mithrandir’s soft laughter warmed him and the corners of his mouth quirked upward. “Is it also a coincidence you bring such tidings to them on days of festivity more often than not, such as the one in three days and others throughout the year?”

“No. Can you name better days for such announcements?” He grinned cheekily, which quickly relaxed into one more sincere. “It gladdens us when we may deliver true means of celebration. We brought word to your sweet lady of your own voyage across the sea during the Merendë Yavanniëo and she mayhap remembers it every year after on the day.”

Elrond looked over in mild surprise, eyes softening as he thought. “She did not say.”

“No matter.” Mithrandir suddenly stood, evidently not bothering to shake off the snow from his attire, instead holding an aged hand out to him. “Rise, Elrond, and return you home. Sitting here alone with only morose thoughts for company and after what happened in Lórien does you no good. The Merendë Andohrívëo is in three days. Go and make merry with those friends and family you do have with you at the moment. If you continue your journey now, you will just make it.”

Elrond grasped the hand and rose, brushing himself down from the clinging snow, though there was none to sweep off his rear seeing as all of it had melted into his leggings. He raised his eyebrows at Mithrandir, a glimmer of amusement brightening his eyes. “Is that why you are here, to shoo me off?” The palfrey clopped forward at a gesture and he made quick work of clearing the dusting of snow from her back. He mounted, adjusting the saddlebags back into balance.

“Well, you were not listening to your friend.” He gestured towards the palfrey and she jerked her head up with a snort, as if in agreement. “I could only encourage her so much before she began to grow annoyed with me.”

Elrond made a face, though he patted at her neck fondly. “She is annoyed easily.”

Mithrandir reached out to fondle her snout as he looked up, his grey gaze solemn. “If you find it within you to hear me, put your quarrel in Lórien behind you for the nonce. Let it not soil what joy you may find this week, dear one.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Elrond grinned. “Celebrían would not let me remain so sour as it is.” He bowed his head. “Farewell, Mithrandir. I hope to see you again. Soon and more frequently, mind you,” he added pointedly.

He chuckled. “And happily so, Child.” He jerked his head eastward past the Trees. “Off you go.”

And he did. With a fond smile and a wave, Elrond clicked his tongue and the horse responded, going slowly at first to descend the slope of the hill.

Mithrandir stood there, snow dancing around him as he watched him go, riding on and on until he was barely visible in the haze of white. He nodded to himself, humming under his breath. And then his form shifted, growing brighter, taller, both younger and older, beautiful of cosmic proportions and eyes of such radiance they eclipsed that of the stars.

He hummed again in consideration. “And perhaps a fellow Maia with news will be visiting you in three days,” he said quietly. A smile creased his ethereal face even as he faded from sight, the scent of apples and mint lingering on the air.

Merendë Andohrívëo: Winter Solstice celebration, lit. “Festival of the Gates of Winter”

Merendë Yavanniëo: “Festival of Yavanna”, taking place in Autumn or in our September

Mirroanwi: incarnates, those “put into flesh” [Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth MR.350]

#gandalf #elrond #lord of the rings #tolkien #tolkiensecretsanta2017 #datcilly #fanfiction #gwedhiel #merry christmas!

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tathrin · 1 year

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Looks like google docs is doing some shipping of its own:

#yes gdocs that's obviously the word i meant to use there thank you #it definitely wasn't supposed to just say ''the'' you're right i meant ''his'' elf #thank you for correcting me #gimleaf #gigolas #lotr #shipping #legolas #gimli #this ship sails itself all the way to valinor

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elvellonath · 7 years

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In Defense of Earendil - Meta

Okay, so I’ve written this rant in response to some things I’ve seen concerning Earendil, and considering I play an Earendil I can’t exactly leave it unspoken. It’s long as fuck, so please know that before you click the read more, but as a long story short I will say this:

Earendil is a complex character who should not be so simply looked at. He’s not a villain, and the fact that everyone seems to have little compassion or consideration for him as a character should be thought over twice. Now to each his own, but do not expect me to sway on this without a well thought out explanation from any haters. Don’t bother if you haven’t looked at Earendil from his point of view.

Before we begin, I would like to say a few words concerning Earendil. I know the fandom is split between two factions: Those who believe that the Feanorians were wrong to adopt Elrond & Elros, and those who believe that Earendil was a shit father to begin with and have no respect for him whatsoever. Both of these, I might add, are completely and totally biased, and are far too one dimensional for me to give any credence to. While I will not disagree that Earendil could have done better, I would like to point out a few things in both arguments that are amiss.

Namely:

Think out side the box

Now, let's start with facts and counterpoint that second statement of Earendil being a shit father.

Earendil's Heritage.

This is a factor that gets so often overlooked when those who have this argument look at Earendil. For starters, he is of the house of Finwe. The house of Finwe was --clearly-- a house of those who were incredibly familycentric. More specifically, the house of Fingolfin is from where he hails, and just by the interactions of all the rest of the family with each other it's clear that no matter what family always came first. Always. That being said, Earendil was raised by Idril, daughter of Turgon, and frankly I doubt Idril would have raised her son to be the prick so many seem to think. Here's further proof of the family itself: Fingon.

Fingon, who when everyone was angry with the Feanorians and wanted nothing to do with them went into enemy territory to save his cousin. Fingon, who was so greatly loved, who had his own faults, but it's clear he was admired etc. You see where I'm going with this? Shall I list all of Earendil's family who by proxy would have affected him with the stories of them, who show the very grain of how Finweians think of family? No? I'll go on then.

Secondly, the house of the Edain-- fucks sake, just look at every single person from these houses from Turin to Haleth --there is a line of loyalty and family honor which is so deeply ingrained in these houses there's no way that Tuor didn't put that same family value in his son in any way, shape, or form.

Proof of this in Earendil himself? Mom and dad sail off, and Earendil builds a ship to find them because it's his parents, and for whatever reason he's trying to get them back. Now this has a drawback: frankly he married a woman who was nowhere near his equal in family ties, probably because her own family was slaughtered when she was a small child. Now Earendil had his faults, I'll give anyone that, spending so much time away from growing children is something that can harm them. HOWEVER, let us consider things from his point of view.

He marries Elwing, he has a wife, his parents sail to the west and NO FURTHER WORD IS HEARD FROM THEM. His family and therefore his upbringing would demand that he has answers, that he makes sure everything is alright, etc, etc. Now, he has kids, kids who he worries about and doesn't abandon, he leaves them with his wife. I repeat: he didn't abandon them. It would be against his very grain. His very upbringing. He left his children with someone he loved and trusted, with someone who he believed would do what was best, and I'm sure he visited in between months at sea.

My own father was in the navy when I was very young, and he was gone for almost a year at a time, I won't lie and say it didn't affect me --it did-- but that didn't mean he was a bad father. There's plenty of people who can say the same I'm sure, who were raised with men who weren't around much. Men who didn't have a choice. But that doesn't mean the father's don't love them, and in turn just because Earendil would sail away and come back, and sail away doesn't mean he didn't love Elrond and Elros. Furthermore, he left Elwing with them, which for all intents and purposes is something that every single military man does with his family. And yet no one blames them.

Here's another aspect that should go into his character and should be understood. Think for a few seconds one specific character that is mentioned by name that Earendil looked up to and loved.

Ecthelion.

Now we don't know much about Ecthelion, but in general it's clear what sort of elf he was. He was the type of elf that was looked up to greatly, the type of elf who was willing to lay down his life for the lives of everyone around him. The type of elf who stood in front of a balrog and died so that others could live.

But moving on.

The Opinion of Others on Earendil

Now this is something which should be noted for all those who condemn him: when Tolkien created Earendil as the first part of his legendarium. Earendil's mythology was his first written part, and thereby sets the tone for the entire mythology. Entire. Mythology.

Earendil is clearly in high regard in Middle Earth, from Galadriel to the Valar themselves. The Phial of Galadriel is made from the light of the Silmaril which Earendil carried through the sky, he was known as Gil-Estel ...the star of hope. Now tell me this: if Earendil was the ass that he is seen as, just why would anyone give him such high honors? Furthermore, why would Tolkien who clearly knows what a son of a bitch is like (i.e., look at Eol please), make Earendil such a centerpiece of his writing if he was as horrible as people seem to think him?

'The light of Earendil, our most beloved star'

Either Galadriel is supporting a man who was atrocious to his own kids, calls him 'our most beloved star' in complete lies, or he wasn't atrocious to his own kids. Just Saying.

Earendils fate

This is something that boggles my mind so seriously. If Earendil gains anything, it is my compassion. Now to do this, I'm going to need you to open your mind just a fraction and look at things from Earendils perspective. Now, some might say this is conjecture, but I'm looking at the personality of Earendil as given in canon, plus some logic.

Earendil's parents leave, they sail west, and no word of them ever returns. So, he sets out to find them, which is completely reasonable given the ban on the Noldori to return to Aman. He builds a ship, and he sails off, scouring the sea as best as he can in hopes that either he'll find his parents, or if he doesn't at least he'll find some word of what might have happened to them. He leaves his wife and children for months at a time, though comes back because he loves and misses them (because he would, people), though he's driven to have this one last loose thread closed.

He sails off one time, and he is completely cut off from the mainland, and the next thing he knows a swan lands on his ship, and the next morning this swan turns into his wife. Naturally he asks what happened, and naturally she answers him with her side of the tale of what happened in Sirion. Given his drive over his parents disappearance, I doubt he'd take a "oh I left when the feanorians (who were provoked by Elwing, don't forget) were going to kill me"

"What happened to our sons?" he probably asks, as would be normal. And here is where it's questionable just what the answer was, but based on his reaction I think we can probably guess that somehow he got an idea that their sons were no longer alive for him to rescue. Why do I say this? because he immediately sets sail for Valinor, not caring for the ban, and intending to plead to the Valar to intervene because this is getting out of hand.

Is this the reaction of a father who doesn't give a shit about his kids and abandoned them? No. this is the reaction of a father who is so grieved by what he probably believes is the death of his kids, that it gives him a mission, it gives him a purpose beyond his parents, and whether or not he'll succeed he's gonna die trying. He sails west, and he begs the Valar to intervene, and they do.

Things happen, yadda yadda, war of wrath etc. The Valar then give Earendil a choice: immortality or mortality. Earendil wanted mortality, which would mean he'd be sent back to middle earth. Elwing wished for immortality, and due to his love of her he chose immortality himself.

And here is where I wonder how the fuck nobody has any compassion for him.

What happened to Earendil? Was his ending a happily ever after? Hell. No. Earendil was given a fate that in many ways sucks. Think about it. His immortal life is spent alone, sailing the sky with the silmaril which he's given custody over, he gets to look down on everything that happens, and who knows how he responded when when he first found out his kids were alive. He gives hope to others, but has anyone ever considered what it must be like for him? He sails the skies, a hero to so many-- but to quote The Song of Achilles 'give me one hero who was happy'.

Then consider thousands of years pass, his one son is forever parted from him because he chose mortality, his other son eventually sails to Valinor, imagine all that time that they had lost that now must be caught up on. Like he should incite your compassion, people, not your contempt.

The Feanorians

Something that frustrates me is the idea that to support Earendil must mean that one cannot like Maedhros and Maglor for what they did. This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I adore what the Feanorians did for Elrond and Elros, the adopting of the twins when I read it actually helped me to fall in love with them so much. It was beautiful how admidst this blood and terror there was a moment that they took, and they did some good. The fact that Elrond is the way he is in later installments because of them is beautiful.

In addition, the Feanorians had the same family oriented thinking that Earendil might have had people. Just something of note.

But to villainize either the Feanorians OR Earendil as if to say one had to be wrong because the other was right is absolutely absurd. Tolkien didn't do it, so why does anyone else? There's a complex situation here, people, there's a situation that should be thought of from all sides. Earendil is no villain. The Feanorians are not villains. They all played their parts, and when their part was over it was passed to someone else.

Conclusion:

Do not look at Earendil so simple minded, or we will have issues. He is as complex of a character as any other character in Silmarillion, and should be treated with the same respect anyone might give Sauron, or Finwe, or Feanor, or Fingolfin etc. etc. etc.

Therefore, think. Just think. Take yourself out of your shoes and put yourself in his for a moment. If you can't do that, then I'm sorry, I don't know what else to say to you. Hate is an immature response, and born from not taking in enough facts. That’s all I have to say on it.

#earendil #this is long as fuck #but it had to be said #(( ♫ — The Eels Don't Get Her :: Metas ))#this being said I have this to say #do not take him one dimensionally if you write with me #because I will not tolerate any hate toward him #to me it's a show that there is an immaturity if you can't' think from both sides #and I take characters being looked at complexly very very seriously

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the-neverending-errand · 5 years

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Siren Songs - Fic

“'Twas in the Land of Willows that I heard th' unfathomed breath

“Of the Horns of Ylmir calling—and shall hear them till my death.”

~ From the Horns of Ylmir, The Shaping of Middle-Earth, Tolkien

((Note: Please check the content warnings carefully. This has not been proof read for more than spellings, and, though canonical to the Earendil of this blog, some of it is misrepresentative due to it also being me ditching a really bad mental health day onto a character. A couple of further notes are at the bottom. Quote at the top is taken from a version of the song Tuor sung in the land of willows, that awoke sea-longing in both himself and Earendil. Ylmir is Gnomish name for Ulmo.

((This is very long and rambley and I’m not exactly fond of it but eh.))

His father sings of the Horns of Ulmo, when Earendil is but seven years of age. It is at a memorial feast for all the dead of Gondolin - and all those who have died since, and the people had been begging for that specific song. Though they cannot stay forever, this place is under Ulmo's protection; they can rest and heal and grieve for the time they have, until again they must press on to the sea. He does not understand why father insists on going to the sea, not until that moment.

Earendil does not hear the Horns of Ulmo.

What he hears is an ancient, formless voice. And what he feels is something almost grabbing his soul, tugging at it. Embedding itself there, slowly draining pieces of himself away.

He gasps and his father turns to him, 'no' on his lips and horror in his eyes.

None of the elve can hear it, not yet.

But Earendil does not notice, for all he can hear is the rushing of waves and the voice like a whisper against his ear.

He does not realise father has taken him away from the feast for hours. Not until he manages to fight past the all-consuming of the ocean. The voice is still there, whispering come come come to me come but he can ignore it for now. Almost, anyway. He is cradelled on his father's lap - father who is sobbing and begging for mercy - and mother is running her fingers through his hair, and father's too, and a healer is fussing about them.

"Why are you crying, father? What is wrong?"

His voice is small, and father only holds him closer, rocks them both, and sobs all the harder.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Shhh, shh, I love you, you are safe, all will be well, shhh."

Come, little peredhel, come unto the seas. Come little peredhel, come and join with me.

Earendil burrows his face into father's chest, reaching for mother with one hand. She takes it, kissing it and holding it close to her heart.

He does not understand exactly what is wrong, not yet, only that something has immutably and irreparably changed.

By the time they reach Sirion, Earendil knows why father must go out onto the sea. Why he cannot be with them. He can ignore the calling for his lessons, and he plays with Princess Elwing. But whenever he stops, his eyes turn towards the ocean, and its siren call. Mother sighs and rocks him.

The next year he has to wade into the shallows to silence it. Princess Elwing is starting to do better in her classes than he, for he can rarely concentrate enough to pay attention. Mother is unhappy, but for a while it is enough.

After he turns ten, but before he turns eleven, father starts taking him out on his shorter journeys, teaching him to sail the boat. Its a trade, at least; he learns to fish with both lines and nets, and this is the most he has seen of his father in years. He declares that, someday, he will sail all the way to the west, and force the Valar to save his people. All of them. The Princess is proud of his attempts, and he is proud of how adept she is at the studies of state. Mother tells him that, at his birth, she foresaw that he will succeed.

He turns fifteen, and by now he knows what happens if he does not go to sea; the world turns grey, until he is driven from it by the fact only love of the sea remains. The sea is a jealous lover, and is stealing away every other bit of joy and love he has. He hates the sea for it, but he still loves it. And there are only three loves left to him - his parents, the sea, and Princess Elwing. Mother tries to hide it from him, but she cries each time he leaves.

He is twenty two. His wedding is planned, and for a time the sirens are at bay. His joy at his marriage, about bonding with Elwing, is so great it drowns it out. But not all is well; his parents have promised to stay to see him wed, but father is old. Not only is he old, but the call of the sea has consumed him. He can barely sit up for all the energy it has stolen, let alone stay. He goes to sea and is well on the waters, but he comes back and it is only worse; the joy never returns. He knows that, soon, he will lose his father to the ocean. Father leaves on his wedding night, even as he consecrates his marriage. Mother leaves too.

When he is twenty nine, his sons are born. They are beautiful and everything to him, and he loves them with all he is. Everything pales next to them. Everything but the sea.

He tries. He does everything he can to silence the longing . After two years Elwing begs him to try again; he is so consumed by the song that everyone worries, that he not even barely functions as a person. Still, he does not wish to leave his family for as long as he can get away with; he manages to make a deal with the siren-song - he will not go to the ocean yet, but he will build a ship worthy of her, and capable of taking him all of the way west. Cirdan hesitates, but agrees to help. Earendil will travel west, with three mortals he also grows to love on more ways than one, and he will plead to the Valar for both of his races.

He fully expects to die either on or at the conclusion of his quest.

And, honestly, he's fine with that.

Maybe, if he's dead, the sirens will finally shut up.

He goes further and further and further, giving the ocean more and more of himself in the hopes of a few more moments, a little more time, another laugh or story or smile with his sons.

It is never enough.

He tries to wait until he cannot physically stay longer, until the longing has drained so much of him away that he is little more than flesh stretched over bone, unable to perceive anything but the call. Then he drags himself to the sea once more, and sets off. Elwing frowns a little harder each time she stands on the shore and watches him leave, holds him a little tighter each time he comes back.

He pushes himself to breaking point every time. At least for a while; eventually, the twins grow old enough to realise when he is ill. They know of illness, though thankfully only of the mortal types. And they cry and sob and try to make him better each and every time he fails to find the energy to drag himself from his bed.

He cannot bring himself to hurt them more than he already has, cannot decide if being gone or being only physically present is worse for them. Which upsets them more.

When Elwing tells him they are most upset when he is ill, he cannot bring himself to stay.

He starts staying less and less, leaving once he finds himself to smile. It's a struggle, but it drags out the inevitable.

The ocean is happy to see him more often, after all. But it would rather he came further away. He hesitates and struggles and tries to force it silent; he knows he must go to Valinor, he knows it has been spoken of as his fate to cross the ocean.

Eventually, though, it is not enough. He thought - honestly believed - that it would be enough. He went as far as he dared, gave so much of himself to the sea. But he returns home, and the life doesn't come back. Elwing and the boys are there to greet him. She kisses him, and they pull him and hug him and demand his attention.

He falls to his knees and takes them in his Elros and his Elrond arms. They radiate concern, but it barely reaches him. He clings to them, sobbing. Why is he not happy to see them? Why is his love drowned out by the sea? Why can he not love them as they deserve?

He had lost the love of everything but his wife and his children and the sea.

Now he has lost his family, too.

He wants to love them, he wants to be thrilled to see them - and he does love them, he loves them more than life itself. More than anything else in Ea or beyond. He knows this, it is an absolute truth.

So why can he not feel anything?

So many have tried to cross the sea, dying in the storms and horror. The sea took his love for the world and for the green places. The sea took his parents, on what should have been the happiest of days. And now the sea has taken his love for his wife and his sons; there is nothing left any more, nothing but the irresistible call of the sea.

At least, he supposes, if the sea kills him he will not have to deal with its siren-song any more. Will not have to deal with how only by being upon it he can feel.

The next time he leaves, he knows he will not be able to return.

He is sailing and on the ocean, and still Earendil cannot rest. Here the siren call does not trouble him, but worry for his people does. All his is and was and will ever be is consumed by the fear for his children and his wife and his people. He knows his dreams are no mere dreams, and that the winds have so suddenly shifted to lead them back towards Sirion can only be Ulmo's own warning. They sail and sail and sail, praying they will make it in time.

He sits at the helm of the boat, wrapped in a blanket and tired eyes. The moon is shining brightly, and Erellont keeps them on course even as the others sleep. They keep telling Earendil to rest. He has forgotten how.

Instead he stays awake, praying to any and all the Valar that his family are safe. Tells them he will offer anything he has - his life, his death, his body, his mind and soul... anything - if only they will keep his wife and children safe.

When he sees the light coming from the East, he knows his prayers are meaningless. And that he is too late. He curses the sea and its siren song, that pulled him so far. That stopped him from being any help at all.

He would recognise his wife anywhere, in any form, but the silmaril still around her neck gives her away. He doesn't know what has happened, or why she is alone, but for the first time in days he moves from his vigil at the prow, even if only to reach out to her.

Earendil expects his wife to land on his arm. He does not expect her to fall from the sky.

Not quite quick enough to catch his fallen wife, now a bird and shivering even in her unconscious state, Earendil instead gathers her carefully into his arms. As he tucks her beneath his shirt, carefully over his heart, she is cold as ice itself. But he can feel her breathe against his chest; there is some form of hope still. He cradles her form, squinting out over the ocean to see if any other birds are with her. He thinks he sees two smaller gulls for a moment, but it is merely a trick of the moon's light.

When the winds fall silent, he knows then it is hopeless.

Ulmo has retracted the haste; there is no longer any reason for him to return to Sirion.

His sons, his beautiful, precious sons, are dead.

He tells Erellont to set the anchor and that they will work out a plan in the morning. Without waiting for a reply, he finally heads below deck. Discarding his shirt, he burrows under the blanket, and wraps Elwing tightly in his arms.

He has no idea if she will be able to return to her own form, knows not what horrors she has seen or what will happen now. Indeed, there are an awful, awful lot of things he does not know. Just that Sirion is gone, and so are his children - his half-elven children, who have no fate beyond their deaths. Who are not just dead but are as though they never existed.

He knows that, unless he can make it over the mountains of Aman, that his cries might be heard by the Valar, and unless those cries are convincing enough, that every last elf, man and dwarf in Middle Earth will die in grief and torment, under Morgoth's thumb. That there is no hope left within Middle Earth, that nobody can save themselves. So he will go, he will give everything he has, for the hope that as few people as possible have to know this pain. He will plead on behalf of all his peoples; he will tear the Doom of Mandos, he will break the Ban of the Valar, and force them to listen.

He will save his people, and he will die for that crime.

He cannot think of anything he wants more.

Somehow, he makes it to Valinor. He leaves Elwing on the shore; she must not suffer more than need be. The sirens are quiet now, for the first time in years. He would weep for joy, but that he still grieves his children. Not just their lives, but the time with them that was lost to the sea. There is little left of Earendil now; he does not believe the world can be saved, that any hope is still within it. But he continues on, driven by the knowledge that this is the only chance anyone has.

Driven by the change to spare even just one person this pain.

He makes it, he makes his case, they agree. There is no elation in the victory, nor in the offer of the choice to chose his fate. The emotions when he learns his sons escaped the bloodshed, that they are alive, are too raw for him to process; he cannot understand what he has been told - his children are dead, but they are not dead, and the fact they are not seems to shake the very core components of his reality. With the determination to save the world gone, there is nothing.

Somehow he makes it back to Elwing, and he can barely perceive her as a person; he found her on the beach, and upon seeing the waves again the whisper of the sirens comes back. He wants to die. He wants to die right now and be gone from this reality. He thinks he would still want to be mortal regardless of what happened, and is not sure he could ever be happy living forever, but also knows he is in no state to make such a choice. So he hands it over to Elwing.

And she decides they will be elves.

So elves they will be.

They go to tell the Valar, and expect either to be killed and sent to Mandos for their crimes, to be reborn later washed clean and anew (that would be fine, Earendil things, just so long as Mandos washes the sea-longing from him as well). Instead, the Valar tell him he must take the silmaril to the sky, as a beacon of hope to a world sorely lacking in it. That this is the service they ask of him in return for the lives of his wife and children. And that he will just have to work everything through.

Earendil cannot bring himself to feel anything. Elwing beside him yells at the Valar, screams it is not fair to use his desperation for their own ends. The King of the Noldor is more reserved, but plees for his nephew - for them to at least give him time to rest before he is sent beyond - nonetheless.

Nobody stops him from stepping out of the Máhanaxar. The woman who calls herself his great-grandmother opens her arms to him. He leans against her, and she embraces him. He is too drained to care, too exhausted to weep, too hopeless to try and silence the siren song resurging in his mind . She braids her fingers into his hair and rocks him as his parents did so very long ago, and it is as little comfort now as it was then.

He just wants everything to stop.

((Notes: I feel I should point out that, though they phrase it as such, the Valar are not being entirely malicious here; they are well aware of the fact that Earendil can never feel whole unless he is travelling, even if it is a task - there is no peace for him in Aman. At least, not without fundamentally altering who he is. Also they are aware that he wanted to chose mortality, and would have done even if he wasn't wanting to die at the time, but (slightly willfully) misinterpret a wish to no longer exist with Ea as a wish to know what is beyond the borders of reality - so sending him to patrol the borders of the skies is a compromise that gives him that. They are, however, entirely manipulating him into agreeing to this.

((Also, mortals are not supposed to experience sea-longing. It is bad enough for elves to be drained of all joy for Middle Earth and ability to be at peace there, but for a mortal and a half-mortal child? Who are not equipped to deal with it? Things are much, much worse.))

#fanfic #sea-longing #tw: depression #tw: suicidal thinking #tw: derealization #tw: dissociation #tw: psychosis #((ish))#((Earendil first arriving in Valinor is not a well adjusted being))#((Or at any point between Gondolin and then either))

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plsinteract · 7 years

Text

New muse appears!

Name: Tyelcirya Foinacelumë (agile + ship) (hidden + stream\flood)

(Noldor naming conventions assumed because of lack of alternatives) (So it went essë (father-name) then amilessë (mother-name) – at this point she does not have an kilmessë (selfname) or epesseё (aftername))

Age: 1173 aprox. Solar years 75 - Valian + 455 solar years

(born 4925 YoT, we’ll assume that right now is 455 YoS)

Species: Elven

(Quendi >Teleri>Falmari. Additional category: Calaquendi)

Physical characteristics:

She’s an elf, with the entire package. First of all, her height is higher than of the average human, being about 180 cm (6 feet?) tall. Second of all, ears. Pointy, kind of leaf-like ears. Third of all, the fluidity of movements, half natural, half acquired over the course of the long life. It takes agility to move on the ship’s deck swiftly, even if the waters are the friendly waters of Valinorian shores. Her hands are partially covered in calluses from handling ropes, which reduces their sensitivity to pain, but also texture. Light gray, some say silver, hair which is the distinguishing feature of that particular elven people, is slightly lighter at the ends – it grows grey but loses over time. The eyes are also incredibly light grey, which can sometimes cause problems on overly sunny days. Glows with the Light of the Trees – bad for stealth, good for making an impression. Although the glow is quite easily covered. Usually wears cheap travel clothing.

Alignment: Neutral Good

Personality:

Cautious, extremely cautious. Prefers not to get into trouble if she can help it, but will not not get into trouble if someone else is in trouble, which basically means that she’s not that good at not adding more problems in her life. When she feels particularly gloomy, she tries to cheer herself up thinking that without troubles, life would be quite boring. Has quite a rigid set of morals, which she will not break. Breaking them is outside her thinking process – every possible “break” just creates alterations in the already existing system. Tyel has also tried to use humour, but found that in most cases it was awkward. And weird. So she uses it only rarely. Therefore, this elf really appreciates a creature that possesses the capability to humour.

Pronouns: She/her

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Demisexual Biromantic

Skills:

Hears and sees better than most humans, and is also faster, but is completely average amongst elves. Possesses anti-orc qualities which will be passed on to things she makes. Resistant to magic corruption. Has some ability of Osanwe, but it is extremely limited. Proficient with ships. Can survive in the wilderness, unless she’s actively attacked by a stronger enemy. Limited healing abilities, but knows medicine.

World of origin: Arda (Tolkien's Legendarium)

Back story:

Born and raised in the years before the Sun and the Moon (but not long before their creation), Tyelcirya lived a happy life in Valinor. While the bliss of the careless existence in the Blessed Lands was soon going to end and the signs of it were already showing in many places if one cared to look closely, the biggest one being Melkor, not yet Morgoth, associating closely with the Noldor. Tyelcirya was born in the Year 4925 of the Trees, and therefore came of age in 4975. At that time Melkor started spreading ideas of weapons among the Noldor, but the Falmari did not know of that. While others were expecting a war, the elves that lived by the sea enjoyed their lives. Tyel learned how to sail, how to look after a ship and other naval disciplines. It sounds like a lot of work, but she did have 50 Valian years to learn, good teachers and a passion for the trade.

However, 20 Valian years after the unrest began, in the year 4995, the world was changed. Melkor, now Morgoth, and Ungoliant destroy the Two Trees and their light is now gone until the end of days. Finwe is dead, the Feanorians make their Oath to retrieve the Silmarils and the Teleri have just refused to give the ships to Noldor…

*** -Tyelcirya, please hurry! We need … we need to run, to get away, before it’s too late! – a friend, an elf girl named Rovalgwaew who would not turn 50 for another dosen years, tugged at the silvery fabric of the Tyel’s sleeve, who was lying on the ground staring into the starry sky.

- No! – She sighed. It took all of her willpower to be less frustrated than she is right now. After all, Rovalgwaew was still a child, and the Noldor, who’ve sent a messenger to negotiate the trade, or whatever it will be, for the swanships, will not dare to attack Teleri this close to Valar. Even if they supposedly do not look at them anymore as their allies, these rebels have to acknowledge Valars’ strength. Surely Noldor did not grow that vain so that they think that they can challenge the will of the Valar? The thought itself was vaguely unsettling, because one of them, Feanaro, certainly did. However, Feanaro is but one, although persuasive, elf. There is no way he could be able to persuade other elves to attack them. That would be… too far? Yes, probably.

Although after thinking about all of that this way, perhaps a little safety won’t hurt.

-All right, Rovalgwaew, come with me. – Tyel sat up and looked toward the Haven. ***

Thick white smoke rose from the houses and some of the ships. Not all of the fires were intentional – after all the Noldor had planned to use the ships themselves afterwards and did not hate the Teleri for refusing to give them freely. Screams of the wounded, dying and scared filled the air in a monstrous cacophony that sounded rather muffled through the wood of the ship. Tyelcirya pressed herself against the wall of the ship, trying to not breathe and not exist. She clearly didn’t think this through. The idea of hiding in a ship to… to… why was she here again? Goddamnit. Oh well. It dosen’t matter anymore. The only thing she can do now, is to survive, somehow.

And survive she did, lurking in the dark depths of the ship for a Valian year, stealing food and living in darkness. While it probably would have been safe to come out of hiding at that point, Tyel did not know that, and even if she did, she would not believe that information. After all, Noldor were the ones to begin the First Kinslaying. But eventually, the ships have arrived to the new (old ?) continent of Middle Earth. The ships are anchored, and all of the Noldor leave. Tyelcirya waits for a bit, and then sneaks away into the woods while no-one was looking. And she picked a good time – while still being able to see the ships, from the woods she saw the skies, reddened by flames rising from the ships.

She wandered around the outskirts of Bereliand, living with various elvish communities scattered across the land, each one vastly different from the one she came from. But in the end, she settled at Cape Balar, which was a small cape southwest of Arvernien, in South-Western Bereliand with the elves that could have been Teleri – but had decided to stay in Middle-Earth after Osse persuaded them not to go – the Falathrim, the elves of Falas, the Western region of Middle-Earth that was bordering the Ocean. While it was not home, it was probably the closest it was going to get to home. Of course, she was not freeloading while there. Because she was more agile, faster and stronger (and shinier) than other elves as well as knowing how to wield a blade quite well due to training and exposure to the light of Valinor, she often did the job of a courier, which took her all over Bereliand. Nothing much happened in the years while she lived there – it was the Long Peace after all.

At the start of the first Thread, it is the spring of the 455 Year of the Sun, First Age.

#muse appears!#she needs a tag #stowawayElf #SE #nice a homestuck reference

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tathrin · 10 months

Text

An Elvish Lure

Somebody said “using yourself as bait” and my brain spat this disconnected snippet out, so: enjoy a scene in which the Three Hunters try an alternate plan by which to catch-up with the orcs and free Merry and Pippin.

"No," Gimli said.

"Gimli—"

"No," he said again, shaking his head hard enough to make the braids of his beard slap against his shoulders. "No, absolutely not."

"Gimli," Aragorn tried again, "this plan is our best chance to—"

"I said no!" Gimli roared. "I will not have it! Aragorn, I will not!"

It was not Aragorn who answered him. "Gimli, be calm."

Gimli squeezed his eyes shut at that voice, as though he could shut-out the words as easily as he did the sight of the narrow, beardless lips from which they had issues; that golden head; those mithril-bright eyes. Fingers as long and spindly as bare twigs closed on his shoulder, their grip tight enough that he could feel it even through his shirt of mail.

"This is our best chance to save Merry and Pippin," Legolas said. "Perhaps our only chance. Gimli, I am not afraid—"

"Can I not be afraid for you, then?" Gimli asked wildly, grabbing those long fingers and holding them tight. He looked up at Legolas, then very quickly closed his eyes again. He pressed the archer's captured hand to his cheek and held it there, as though he might hold the elf back from this reckless plan as easily. "Orcs hate elves so much, Legolas…"

"That is why it has a chance of working," Legolas said. He sounded so unbearably calm, his woodland accent giving his speech the lilting cant of birdsong. He had sounded so strange to Gimli's ears, once. When had that fair voice stopped sounding strange?

"And if it does?" Gimli retorted. His grip on Legolas's hand tightened. "When it does? What then, Legolas?"

Legolas's narrow shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Then we will fight them."

"Then you will fight them, all alone, until we can come to your aid," Gimli corrected him. "Legolas…" His voice failed him and he had to clear his throat twice before he could force the words out. "Legolas, what if we come too late?"

"It is a risk I am prepared to face," Legolas said simply. "And at any rate, Gimli, I do not believe you will. I have more faith in you and Aragorn both than to let myself fear that I will have to face all the orcs alone. And besides!" he continued with a sudden, fey laugh. "Should it not be the orcs who should fear to face my blade and bow? I slew many of their fellows at Amon Hen, and I will slay many more in these sweet green fields if they will but do me the favor of coming within range of my arrows!"

Gimli looked up at the laughing elf in sad, silent horror.

"We will not have to hide ourselves so far away from Legolas that he will be alone for long," Aragorn said, stepping forward to lay his hand on Gimli's other shoulder, the one that did not burn yet with the memory of Legolas's touch upon his mail. "Orcs are keen of smell, but their eyes are not so sharp in daylight, and their ears will have a hard time hearing anything over the thunder of their own feet upon these plains. Besides, Gimli, we have the cloaks given us by the Lady of Lórien; was it not said that they would help to hide us from unfriendly eyes?"

"It was," Gimli agreed heavily. "But these orcs are fast. And what if they have archers among them?"

"What of it?" Legolas shrugged again, scoffing. "I do not fear crude orcish arrows."

"A crude arrow can kill as readily as a finely-wrought one," Gimli reminded him.

Legolas tossed his head, his golden braids rippling in the dawn. "Only if they strike their target."

Gimli gaped at him in exasperation. "Legolas—"

"No, Gimli, I do not ask you to like this plan, but please. Are we not friends now?" Legolas dropped abruptly to his knees in the soft grass, a position which put his eyes nearly on the same level as the dwarf's. It was Legolas who looked up at him now, his pale eyes glittering as sharply as a sword. "Then please, my friend, cast aside your doubts. Trust me to do this."

"I do trust you, Legolas," Gimli responded automatically. "I do not doubt you. But—"

"Then it is settled." Legolas made to stand, to turn away, but Gimli caught him by the arm and held him still.

"But," Gimli said, his voice a stony growl, "I do not like the idea of you making yourself bait for orcs."

Legolas swiveled on his heels, elvish grace keeping him upright despite the sharp tug of a strong dwarven arm yanking him off balance, and stared up at Gimli. The smile he gave the dwarf was small and fleeting, and there was a heavy sadness in the curve of it that reminded Gimli, suddenly and painfully, of the grey woods of Lothlórien.

"I do not say that I like it either, Gimli," Legolas said softly. "But we cannot outrun the orcs. If they cannot be made to pause their march, they will vanish into Isengard with Merry and Pippin and all chance of saving our friends will be lost." He pressed his free hand to Gimli's cheek and gently stroked the downy hairs there. "I would risk a thousand such dangers for the chance to stop that foul fate from befalling those dear young Hobbits—and I know you would, too, Gimli."

Gimli swallowed, but the aching lump in his throat did not dissipate. "Legolas…"

"The fact that the orcs left the field of battle while the three of us yet lived worries my heart greatly," Aragorn said. His voice, too, was quiet, but a dark tension thrummed through his words like the warning rumble of stone on the brink of a cave-in. "That they put their need to carry away their captives over their desire for slaughter and torment…that worries me, Gimli. Worries me greatly."

Aragorn did not have the keen eyes of the elves, but his sharp grey gaze rose over the plains nonetheless and he stared off into the distance as though staring at the shadows of that terrible band of orcs nonetheless. "I do not know if even this will cause them to turn aside from their path…but if anything will entice them to delay their task, it will be the chance to make sport of a lone and injured elf."

"And so I shall play the bait," Legolas said, before he sprang to his feet, the movement too fast this time for Gimli to stop. He looked down and offered Gimli a fleeting, knifblade smile and declared, "And we Three Hunters will see if we can draw the hunt to us!"

Gimli should have cheered; the words were spoken in the sort of tone that rallied hearts and lifted spirits blazing into battle. But all Gimli could see in his mind was the terrible sight of Legolas left standing all alone, waiting for the orcs to come and find him while his friends hid and watched from safety.

"Legolas…"

"Peace." Elvish fingers pressed against Gimli's lips, stopping his words but not his fears. "Give me this chance, Gimli, and I will turn your doubts aside."

"I do not doubt you—" Gimli started to say again, his voice thick and strangled with the heavy feelings of his heart, but Legolas was already springing away, up the short and stony hillock. Gimli watched him go, his steps as light and swift as the flutter of butterfly wings.

"I do not doubt you, Legolas," he said, the words spoken now in a whisper so low that even elvish ears might struggle to hear them now. "But I fear for you."

Aragorn's hand closed on his shoulder again, warm and steady and lacking the silver-fire touch of Legolas's smooth brown skin. "Come," he said softly. "Let us get under cover, Gimli."

Gimli allowed himself to be drawn away, but his feet scuffed heavily on the uneven grass as he turned to stare behind him at the silhouette of Legolas standing tall and thin against the dawn, pale cloak and golden hair streaming out behind him. He made a fine target for arches up there, Gimli thought sourly; a fine target indeed.

Legolas drew his white knife, and Gimli turned away. He knew that the scent of elvish blood would be needed to draw the orcs' attention; knew further that only with the wind blowing strong and swift towards their quarry did this mad plan have any chance of success, and so he cursed the breeze. Had it only died or shifted, Aragorn and Legolas would have been forced to give up this chance; would have had no choice but to simply run instead, run until they dropped perhaps and even yet fail—but run together, rather than risking Legolas's life alone.

Gimli could not bear to watch Legolas take his blade to his own arm, spill his own blood, to lend verisimilitude to his role as bait; yet he fancied he could hear the sharp glide of knife over skin nonetheless, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight and let Aragorn lead him, stumbling, to the hollow in which they would hide together while Legolas stood out there, tempting danger, alone.

They huddled in their grey cloaks, hands on weapons and breath in their throats, and waited.

And then—and then Legolas screamed.

Gimli started upright, his own breath drawing in for an answering cry of rage and vengeance, but Aragorn grabbed his arms and held him fast. "No, Gimli!" he hissed, hauling the dwarf down bodily back into the small depression in the earth. "No, he is not hurt. This is the lure, Gimli! This is the plan. Be still!"

Gimli let himself be drawn back despite the thundering of his heart against his ribs. He pressed one bare palm against the earth, trying to draw strength from the touch of stone against his skin; trying to find the endurance for which the dwarves were so renowned. But he could not stop trembling; could not stop hearing the echoes of that terrible shrill scream inside his ears.

"I have never heard such a cry, Aragorn," he whispered.

Aragorn's grip on his arm tightened. "I have," he said. His voice was low, almost haunted in the shadows of their hiding-hole. "I am sure Legolas has as well, for his people have long fought the Shadow in Mirkwood—and," Aragorn added, swallowing hard as though against some terrible memory, "he could not have sounded so convincing, if he did not know the sound of an elf in torment."

Gimli's gut twisted and he bit his lip hard enough that he tasted a coppery spill of blood across his tongue. "I would that he did not know it," Gimli said hoarsely. He glared up at Aragorn and added in a sharp voice, "I would even more that he should never experience it himself."

"We are not far," Aragorn insisted. "If the orcs take the bait, we will know it; we are near enough to help. He will not stand alone."

"Not for long," Gimli muttered, "but perhaps for long enough." He held his axe very tightly and wished for a whole host of doughty dwarven warriors at his side—or better, at Legolas's side.

Another cry rose, more warbling than the first piercing shriek; more plaintive, like the screamer was weakening.

Gimli's grip on the haft of his axe tightened until his hand ached. "Aragorn…"

"He is not hurt, Gimli."

"Not yet."

Aragorn had no answer for that.

They sat in silence, straining their ears for the pounding thunder of orcish feet upon the earth; waiting to discover if the enemy would take the bait.

Waiting to learn if the three of them would live through it, if they did.

{read more gimleaf stories here}

#gimli #legolas #aragorn #three hunters #lotr #lotr fanfiction #gigolas #gimleaf #well unrealized gimleaf at the moment i suppose #could certainly be read platonically #but that's one of the joys of their relationship anyway: no matter the particular flavor the love never falters #they're every bit as devoted and delighted by one another whether there's a whiff of romance there or not #and i love that about them because there aren't many relationships you can say absolutely do not CHANGE based on whether it's romantic or no #even the ones that start as friendships and stay as friendships still tend to change somewhat if there's romance (or if there isn't)#but not legolas and gimli #you don't even need to decide which it is when you start writing a story with them because you're writing the same story either way #''you comfort me'' indeed #this ship sails itself all the way to valinor #my writing #my stuff

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