#very Doom Of The Noldor of them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lamemaster · 1 year

Text

The Curse of Heart (Thranduil x Feanorian reader)

Part one | Part three |

Pairing: Thranduil x Feanorian reader

Summary: And her fate remains unknown. Some rumors speak of the doom of Noldor that dragged the queen to the eternal void. They speak so in secret for the king of Woodland Realm forbids the name of his queen.

Thranduil stood outside the room. He did not go in. He hadn't done that in the past year. It had been an entire year since he had last seen you. Over that year his steps had led him to the closed-shut door but his will failed when it came to the very simple act of pushing open the door between you both.

And it was for the best for the door to remain closed. It was a mistake...his marriage to you. How could he accept a kinslayer? It would not have happened if he knew of your father. It would not have happened had he not trusted you blindly.

He could remember the agonized cries of the elves in Dior's court. His father had been there. He was a mere child but he could still remember the pain and the heartbreak of losing his entire life to the bloodthirsty Noldor.

The halls of his childhood remain a bloodied memory. His friends were lost to the wrath of ellon who saw little beyond their own greed. It had taken them so long to recover from an act so vile. His father had to wander unfamiliar woods looking for a place for his people.

They found a home in Woodland Realm. Their home that protected their people. Between the barrier of mountains and forests, they built a home. And Thranduil will not endanger it.

He will not risk losing his home again. Not the oath-bound, not to you. It was only fair that he came to find the truth. Justice had to be served. It was all he could offer his people.

Yet, a traitorous part of his mind could not help but wonder about the fairness of his justice. You did not wrong him or his subjects. You were not the one who wielded swords in the halls of Dior. You did not know of it. 'Your child..." They would whisper as night fell and the kingdom of Woodland Realm rested under the moon.

On such quiet nights, Thranduil allowed himself to think of his child whom he distanced himself from. What would they look like? How much did your bump grow? Did you still experience the morning sickness you did in the earlier days?

He knew all his answers rested a corridor apart in your room. A room that you had once shared with him. Would you welcome him after all that had happened or did you resent him as he did to you?

The thought of finding similar hate and bitterness in your eyes scared him.

He had for long ignored the pilling letters that you sent him. Every day a letter would arrive from the room you never stepped out of. And every day he would discard your letter into a pile he never touched.

Maybe that was the reason that he did not step in even when he heard your pained cries from the other side of the door. It had been hours since the pains of your labor had started and hours after the healer and nursemaids had gathered in your room.

Thranduil lingered outside the door. He had been pacing the last few hours since he had found out about your contractions. His hands twitched as another scream filled the hallway. He wanted to go in and question the healer who seemed to do little good for the past half a day.

If he had been a better ellon, he would have rushed in and held your hand as you experienced the most painful moments of your life. He would have wanted to be there as his child entered the world.

But he could not. He was a prince before he became your husband and your child's father. So, Thranduil held on to his duty and you did to yours.

In the moment of weakness and increasing helplessness he dared to open the bond that lay close for more than a year. The string of your marriage stretched taut with tension.

Pain, anticipation, and fear rushed in as he allowed the bond to settle. The chaos of labor lay heavy on your mind as Thranduil felt the unrelenting contractions that now hit you with intervals shorter than ever.

"Aaaaaghhhh," your shout filtered past the closed door and Thranduil felt it before he heard the cries of his son. In a snap, he closed off the bond he had renewed after so long. It had to wait.

Next to him, his father, King Oropher beamed at him as the cries of the newborn filled the corridor. The doors that had been closed shut flew open and the healer walked out with a small bundle in his arms.

"Congratulations Your Majesty! Woodland Realm welcomes a prince." The healer bowed as Thranduil carefully held his son. "Legolas," he named him in the very first seconds of holding him.

His son, who had his eyes, his hair, his nose. Legolas the prince of Greenland the Great.

He had been too lost looking at his son to notice the doors that were immediately shut after the healer first walked out. Maybe if he had not snapped off the bond in his internal panic he would have noticed the silence inside the room or he would have heard the hysterical whispers on the other end.

That night when the grand feast mellowed and stars shined bright Thranduil sat in his room with his son in his arms. Legolas slept peacefully. Thranduil sat by his bed watching his son the entire night. No thought, no vicious voice interrupted him as he beheld his son, whom he had been separated from for longer than a year.

And when the sun rose, and light flooded his room Thranduil jolted awake from his position by the bed. Next to him, Legolas whimpered in his sleep.

Thranduil gently patted Legolas who continued to cry in small hiccups. Picking him up Thranduil rocked the newborn, trying to calm the cries that grew louder.

A sense of unease settled over the Crown Prince of Mirkwood as he rushed through the halls of his palace. He made his way through the paths he couldn't erase from his mind even if he tried.

In his arms, Legolas continued crying, now inconsolable. Thranduil ripped open the bond he had shut down yesterday. A void greeted him. Nothing of your conscience connected to his.

Did you close off your end? It was too quiet. You hadn't done that for the past years. So, why now? Thranduil's heart beat faster than ever as he sped at the sight of your door.

The usually closed doors were wide open and Thranduil halted in his path. Sunlight streamed through the doors and soft linen curtains flew as the cool wind of emerging fall rushed through your doors.

Guard rushed out on hearing his footsteps. There were too many of them. A nurse he remembered from yesterday followed the guards. The chilly breeze from your room left goosebumps on his neck.

'Close the windows,' he wanted to order them. You should not be cold...it was dangerous after labor that long. His mother told him that long ago. He had heard it fro-

"Lady y/n passed away." The words settle in his being like a rock on the seabed. He stands there unmoving. It does not make sense. He finds himself unable to interpret the words that the nurse continues to speak.

How could you die? He had felt you yesterday. You were there. You birthed Legolas and he had felt your bond. No no no no no no...Thranduil searches for you in his bond. Any sign of you. He lunges towards the door and somehow in the process hands Legolas to the nurse.

Your room and his remains untouched. He sees his closet unmoved. He sees his books, his rings, his desk all intact as years had not passed since his last time being here.

You are there on the bed. So still yet, so calm. Thranduil calls your name that feels foreign after such a long time. The name he had allowed to utter in his mind. He speaks it out loud and you do not respond.

Lightly clutched in your ink-stained hands he finds a letter. Crumpled with ink smudged he looks at it as he sits next to you. He does notice the cooling temperature and the stiffness of your limbs as he reads-

'Thranduil,

Please allow me to see Legolas. Allow me once. Please allow me this once. I beg you. Please.'

An unfinished letter full of pleading. Written in the freezing dark night in a lone room.

An image of you hunched over in your bed floods Thranduil's mind. Barely holding on to the quill as you write on a paper that you scurry from a nearby book. Desperation fills your eyes as you write. A knowing look of the future awaited.

None speaks of the Queen of Greenwood the Great. Her name remains unsaid after the birth of the prince of the Woodland Realm.

However, some tales whispered under the umbrella of stars talk of her.

Descendant of great elves who resided beyond the seas. They speak that she excelled in the art of hunting. They speak of her marriage to King Thranduil, and of her skills in archery. But the most they ever speak of is her death.

It is said that the queen died alone in her room. She died like her great-grandmother had once. Yet, there are some who speak of her anguish as she longed for son before death. Alone in a cold room the queen died.

And her fate remains unknown. Some rumors speak of the doom of Noldor that dragged the queen to the eternal void. They speak so in secret for the king of Woodland Realm forbids the name of his queen.

#thranduil x reader #thranduil x wife #thranduil #the hobbit #angst #tolkien elves #hobbit x reader #middle earth #feanorian reader

572 notes · View notes

carlandrea · 8 months

Text

The Passing of a Mother Beyond the World is a surviving play by an exilic noldorin playwright about three mortal siblings dealing with the tragic and inevitable deaths of both of their parents in old age. The play is a fascinating cultural artifact, both for its reflection of the cultural anxieties of the noldor in exile, and for its very clear lack of interest in how mortals act or think. The siblings range widely in age—the eldest has an adult son of her own, while her youngest brother is a child, apparently conceived when his parents were octegenarians. All of their ages are left vague. Their mother is on her deathbed, and all three expect that their father will not survive the night in his grief.

The family is compellingly written in their grief. The play covers only the day and the night before the death of their mother, as they cry, fight, and attempt to comfort each other. There is nothing glaringly inaccurate about the portrayal of bereavement—only a lingering sense of strangeness in the shock and desperation of it. Surely, a mortal audience might think, they were expecting this? Did they not discuss, for example, who would take care of the youngest child (the subject of a fight in the second act)? They seem surprised and devastated, like a family reeling from a sudden illness or a violent death, rather than the peaceful passing of their elderly parents.

In the final scene, the adult grandchild of the dead couple seems to realize that his mother will also die, and they share the final scene in the play. She comforts him, and the play ends with mother and son sitting together in silence—mirroring the first scene, a peaceful morning in the now dead parents bedroom.

This play seems to be a reflection of the cultural anxieties of the exilic noldor—of a newly doomed culture discovering tragedy and death. The unexpectedness of it, the violence of their grief, even the father dying with his wife, all reflect a distinctly elven and exilic view of death and mourning. The playwright projects these fears outwards, making them more palatable by writing about the mortal children of a dying mortal couple—a safer choice for an elven audience.

#silm #tolkien #elves

371 notes · View notes

warrioreowynofrohan · 2 years

Text

One of the most striking and consistent features of Tolkien’s works is that the people who think they’re the hero of the story never are.

In The Hobbit, Thorin & Company (less Bilbo, who feels lost and out of place continually) think they’re the heroes of a story where they kill Smaug and regain their kingdom and treasure - and then Smaug is killed by Bard, a character who isn’t even introduced until the moment of Smaug’s attack. And Thorin decides that the person responsible for the death of Smaug, without whom Thorin would have no treasure and also be dead, is his enemy. Self-appointed heroes tend not to like it when someone else displaces them from their role in the story.

In The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion, the pattern recurs again and again and again, both with some very sympathetic characters and some outright villainous ones. We see it in characters who are jealous for prominence and position, but also in some who mean well and have concluded that all the burden of saving/protecting the world lies upon them. The common thread is the conviction that the world will only be saved if people do what the self-appointed hero wants, how they want it, when they want it, and - in the most severe cases - only if they specifically follow and offer their support to the hero in doing it. If someone isn’t backing up the hero, they are assumed to be not contributing.

Boromir: “those who shelter behind us give us praise…much praise but little help.” ‘Doom’ he interprets as “the doom of Minas Tirith.” And, later, when the Ring has gained more hold on him: “How I would drive the hosts of Mordor, and all men would flock to my banner!”

And Denethor: “Yet the Lord of Gondor is not to be made the tool of other men’s purposes, however worthy. And to him there is no purpose higher in the world as it now stands than the good of Gondor.” Later falling to, “I will not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart!”

Neither of them are fundamentally ill-meaning; both of them fall prey to the idea that they are the world’s only hope of standing against Sauron, and break under that burden.

Less well-meaning, but nonetheless only gradually corrupted until near the end, is Saruman: “hindered rather than helped by pur weak or idle friends”. Again, he percieves himself as the only chance of defeating - or controlling/manipulating - Sauron.

And more cases in The Silmarillion, of characters who have determined that they are the hero and following their lead is the contribution that counts. Fëanor and his following, and indeed the Noldor in general, going to Middle-earth to overthrow Morgoth, and deciding that anyone who does not back them is idle or cowardly or traitorous. Túrin, who again and again insists that if you are not doing things the way Túrin wants, you are not doing anything. Watch in particular for the repeated theme that dissent=cowardice.

Fëanor: “Say farewell to ease! Say farewell to the weak!…Let the cowards keep this city!” And “If Fëanor cannot overthrow Morgoth, at least he delays not to assail him, and sits not idle in grief.” And “fainthearted loiterers.” And “needless baggage on the road.” It is worth recalling that the Valar are not as idle as Fëanor thinks, and their largest contribution prior to the War of Wrath - the creation of the Sun - is a major blow to Morgoth, and orcs dread and shun the Sun through the whole First Age and after.

Túrin: When Beleg questions the effectiveness of his strategy: “I will be the captain of my own host, and if I fall, then I fall. Here I stand in the path of Morgoth, and while I so stand he cannot use the southward road. For that in Nargothrond there should be some thanks; and even help with needful things.” This does not acknowledge that the ability of Morgoth’s armies to come south in force is itself a consequence of Beleg leaving Doriath to aid Túrin; prior to that, Doriath had held Dimbar and kept the orcs back.[1] So Túrin is claiming prime credit for solving a problem that he has, in effect, caused. Then in Nargothrond, to Gwindor: “And do those that you speak of love such skulkers in the woods?” And to Gelmir and Arminas: “runagate…get you back to the safe shores of the sea.” (It is worth noting that here, as well as when Fëanor calls the Noldor who do not want to return to Middle-earth cowards, the narrative observes outright that such accusations are false.) And then to Aerin, who has a bravery he could never imagine and cannot comprehend: “A faint heart is yours, Aerin Indor’s daughter…you were made for a kinder world.”

I recognize that Túrin is a complex character, as are most of the others I have mentioned. My point here is that there is a consistent thread running through Tolkien’s works, that however well-meaning these attitudes may be, they are ultimately destructive.

The great victories come from characters with wholly other attitudes. The ones who don’t think that they are the one hero who can or has to fix everything; who look at insurmountable perils and say this is too big for me, but I will do what I can. And those who recognize that they play one part among many, and not the most important one. That is Frodo and Sam; that is Merry and Pippin. That is Legolas and Gimli, who, standing in Helm’s Deep awaiting battle, recognize that their own peoples far away the same dangers, and they are not the only ones fighting. This is Aragorn, who uses the hero-delusion as a façade to trick Sauron, walking into a trap on the slim hope that it may aid Frodo. This is Beren and Lúthien, who say this is beyond me and I don’t know what I’m doing, but for the sake of the one I love I must try, and succeed because of that. This is Tuor, who gets destiny thrust upon him despite - perhaps because of - the fact that he is not looking for it. This is Elrond, who plays a supporting role in every conflict he is placed in, who aids and shelters and advises and heals and does not rule.

It is entirely fitting that the man who wrote “the medievals were only too right in taking nolo episcopari as the best reason a man could give to others for making him a bishop” wrote stories enshrining the idea that nolo heros was the best qualification for being a hero. And likewise perfectly fitting that the temptation offered by the Ring - to people of essential decency - is not deliberate, selfish despotism, but the exact conviction or attitude or temptation described above: you’re the hero, you’re the one who can fix everything. “For the way of the Ring to my heart is pity, pity for weakness and the desire of strength to do good.” “In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen” - and Sam echoing in plainer language Galadriel’s temptation - “You’d put things to rights…You’d make some folk pay for their dirty work” - and Galadriel recognizing the deception of the temptation - “That is how it would begin. But it would not stop with that, alas!” Boromir’s vision of armies flocking to his banner, and Sam’s of “Samwise the strong, Hero of the Age.” And, at the end, it fits with with Tolkien’s description of Sauron - the temptation that the Ring is offering to these good characters is the very temptation that Sauron himself initially fell to, the desire to fix everything, make everything work properly.

Tolkien’s conception of the real hero, rather than the self-appointed one, echoes at last the Ainulindalë and the Valar: the idea that creation and shaping and changing the world are fundamentally a collaborative effort, born of and enriched by the visions and contributions of many people, not by some static programme.

[1] The Narn mentions that while Beleg searches for Túrin the first time Dimbar is overrun by orcs, who are then able to reach to the east of Brethil, which they had not before. When Beleg returns to Dimbar the orcs are driven back; but when he joins Túrin at Amon Rudh, Dimbar is taken and the orcs come south again.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #the lord of the rings #the hobbit #thorin #boromir #denethor #feanor #túrin #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #beren #lúthien #elrond #galadriel #gandalf #sauron

1K notes · View notes

actual-bill-potts · 9 months

Text

Finarfin shifted anxiously, smoothing down the front of his robes. He adjusted his sash. His braid had fallen over one shoulder and he hastily flicked it back, shifting from foot to foot.

Findaráto would emerge, any moment now, his firstborn son firstborn again. Where was he? His eyes strained for any hint of gold against the great dark gates of Mandos.

He and Eärwen had planned carefully every detail of this reunion. Well they had remembered the confusion that had attended the first Returnings of slain Teleri: how a joyous crowd had waited singing outside the gates, and how the newly-emerged Falathrim had flinched and drawn back from the noise, wept at the onslaught of body pressing near to new-formed body. They had learned quickly to avoid large crowds, and keep the number of greeters to a quiet two or three.

Then there had been the confusion of the first euphoric rush upon the lifting of the Doom. The Great War over, loved ones coming home, and no decree from Finarfin could keep the Noldor who had waited for so long from gathering - until again Elf upon Elf flinched back from loud noises, from unexpected movements, from touch and from crowds. Then they had listened, and now only one or two at a time came to greet their child or parent, spouse or sibling.

When they had received the news, Finarfin and Eärwen had wrangled without rancor over every detail of this reunion. Should both go, or just one? Finarfin had wanted the former, afraid of giving his son offense; but Eärwen grimly recalled how many of those held by Gorthaur the Cruel flinched at first at familiar faces.

"You should go," she had said wearily, "for you departed from him in grief only, and I in deadly anger. I do not want to see my son afraid of me."

"Surely -" Finarfin had begun to protest. Then he stopped. He too had heard the stories from the prisoners they had rescued from Angband: prisoner upon prisoner, from tunnels that seemed to go on forever. He remembered how so many had fallen into despair at the sight of so many Elves, tall and shining: how many former thralls had cried out and begged for mercy at the touch of a friendly hand.

"Very well," he said; and then, tentatively: "are you still angry with him?"

Eärwen smiled at him, tired but there in all her silver glory. "I cannot be. This is a new Age, and one of my children is coming home. I have been angry for so long. I am weary of it."

Then there was the question of clothing. Should Finarfin wear his crown? Should he wear the style that had been the fashion in Findaráto’s youth, and which was now hopelessly out of date? Should they have new clothes made for Findaráto, or bring the old? Would he want to choose them himself? Would he be hungry?

The Returned, they had discovered, often came back full of the sensations they remembered most strongly, until their body reasserted its mastery over memory. Some wept unceasing and could not be comforted for days; some were overmastered by fear and flinched at every touch or motion; and some were simply - hungry, or in pain. And Findaráto, Finarfin and Eärwen remembered from the Lay of Leithian - how they had wept hearing it for the first time! - had been both before he died.

So Finarfin stood now, bareheaded and dressed in the softest robes he could find (he did not want to abrade Findaráto’s new-made skin, in case his son wanted an embrace), carrying a pack with food and water, miruvor and new clothing (soft as water within a tidepool), shoes if Findaráto wanted them, and the desperate hope he and Eärwen had felt when gathering the supplies, that their son would not feel the lack of anything.

There was a whisper, carried on a chill breeze. Finarfin shivered, then stilled as he heard the words: Thy son approaches. In mercy he is released. Live well and walk justly.

So many times he had heard those words spoken to others, presiding over reunions; and each time he had pushed down the desperate longing for his own children, brushed aside his grief-filled wondering: would his own sons come forth again? Would his daughter come home?

Then his mind was wiped clean of all as the shadows about the gate briefly grew lighter, and he caught the glint of gold hair to match his own for the first time in nearly eight hundred years.

All their careful preparations flew out of his head, the pack dropped from his hand with a clatter, and he stood rooted to the spot as first an elegant hand, then knee and foot, and finally Findaráto’s yellow-crowned head melted fully from the shadows and came together to form -

His son. His son! His first child, his beloved son who now stood blinking in the light of Anar, chest rising and falling, eyes falling upon Finarfin -

Finarfin held his breath as Findaráto’s brown eyes met his own. He kept every muscle perfectly still, for he knew if he did not exert the utmost control he would break and sprint for his son, and never let him go again - or else sink to the ground weeping. Findaráto, he thought, Findaráto Ingoldo, my firstborn, we love you, we have missed you so much; and from far away he could feel Eärwen’s spirit crying out the same.

Findaráto took a hesitant step forward, into the light, wavering as he found his balance. Then another. His eyes were very wide.

“Atya?” he said, in the Quenya of his childhood. “Thou art here?”

Finarfin felt his eyes fill, then overflow. Do not alarm him, he scolded himself, but he could not stop. Tears were running down into his cheeks, falling unheeded to the dirt.

“I am here, Findaranya,” he choked out. “Hinya - tyenya -”

Findaráto took another slow step forward. He was only an arm’s length away. This close, Finarfin could see the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. They had always sprung into full force whenever they visited Tirion and the light of Laurelin fell upon his son’s upturned face. Of course Findaráto would have had freckles in Beleriand, where Anar reigned, Finarfin thought, feeling oddly bereft. He reached out a trembling hand, slowly, ready to drop it back to his side in an instant at the slightest flinch.

Findaráto was still; then suddenly he fell to his knees in the dirt. The molten light of Anar lowering in the sky crowned him in fire.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I left thee. Thou wert grieving and alone, and I left thee.”

For an instant only Finarfin was stricken silent; then he knelt beside his son. “No,” he said. “Hinya, there is no - no debt between us, no grudge neither I nor thy mother bear thee, nothing - nothing thou needst apologize for, tyenya, hinya, Findaranya. Thou art -” he was weeping too hard to speak for an instant. He had to cover his face in his hands briefly; then he continued, through the tears. “Thou art here. Here, and alive.”

Findaráto turned to look at him. He was still so quiet within himself. Finarfin did not dare reach out and touch him, lest he dissolve into the lowering rays of fire and leave them again childless and bereft.

“I have missed thee, Atar,” he said, staring again at the road.

“And I have missed thee. Every day of thine absence.”

Findaráto looked up. “I have been - there is so much grief,” he said. “So much lost.”

“I know,” said Finarfin.

“But thou art here,” said Findaráto. His eyes flickered briefly up to meet Finarfin’s. “And Ammë?”

“She waits for thee,” said Finarfin. “I told thee she bears no grudge.”

“Thou art here,” repeated Findaráto.

“Yes,” said Finarfin, “and I shall not leave - thy mother and I - we shall not leave - and I will kneel upon the road with thee all the night if that is thy wish.”

He meant it, he found, with skin and bone, muscle and sinew. He would cast aside his crown in an instant and sit upon this dusty roadside for an Age, if it meant his son would not leave again.

Findaráto blinked, and blinked again; then he pitched forward. His arms wrapped about Finarfin’s shoulders as they had in his youth - smaller then, but still his - his tears were wetting Finarfin’s braid set all askew, his pulse was beating against Finarfin’s chest.

Finarfin gathered him close as he wept, tears coursing anew down his own cheeks. “Hinya,” he said again. He could not stop saying it. “My child. My child is home.”

#finarfin #finrod #earwen #silm fic #my writing #the silmarillion

172 notes · View notes

aipilosse · 9 months

Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#Pengolodh #justice for pengolodh #pengolodh nation rise up

158 notes · View notes

imakemywings · 5 months

Text

The Hope of Love: Eärendil and Elwing as Symbols of Romance in Popular Culture

KEY WORDS: Earendil, Elwing, Pop culture, Third Kinslaying, Sirion, Theater, Art, War of Wrath

Viewing options: AO3 | SWG

One of the most famous love stories in the history of Middle-earth, the quasi-mythical tale of Lady Elwing of the Havens at Sirion, last queen of Doriath, and her husband, Lord Eärendil of Gondolin has captivated popular imagination for centuries. Some of these portrayals are strikingly vivid, reaching to the heart of a young queen facing the destruction of her people at the hands of the Elves of the West, while others appeal to a narrower interest in the notion of the seemingly-doomed lovers overcoming insurmountable obstacles. We have seen everything from epic tales to reference in pop songs [See: Radio-favorite I’m Coming with its second stanza lyrics “Baby I’m falling fast/But our love will last/Baby I’m flying out to you/Hold your ship steady for me”] to more physical reminders of their story [See: Durin’s Jewelers’ pendant replica of the fabled “Phial of Galadriel” said to contain the light of the star of Eärendil. Its eye-watering price tag make it a niche item.]

What is it about this story that continues to draw us in year after year? Perhaps through an examination of the various efforts to tell Elwing and Eärendil’s tale, we can see.

The Play of Mirkwood – We know of the existence of this early play only due to the survival of a single document: a letter from a woman to a close friend. In it, she tells of her recent viewing of this sober tale. While hers is the only confirmation we have of the existence of the play, it would also be the earliest documented telling of the tale. Her story is very believable: it fits with the theory that Oropher, king of Greenwood the Great, and possibly also his son Thranduil, king of Mirkwood, were themselves Iathrim refugees who took shelter east with the handful of their surviving kinsmen after the Third Kinslaying. For them, Elwing’s tale would have been deeply personal to their cultural loss.

According to our letter-writer, the Play of Mirkwood has very few actors and focuses almost entirely on Elwing and her capacity as the last queen of Doriath. Her children do not appear in the play, but are frequently referenced, and her last words evoke a mother’s grief. Eärendil is relegated to barely a side character here, with Elwing’s mourning being largely for her people and her children. This tracks for the creation of a people mourning the death of their kingdom and their culture.

The Rivendell Frieze – Sadly, this frieze is all but ruins. However, a few key elements allowed for historians to eventually come to broad agreement that it depicts Elwing. The faded, cracked image—which must have once been a centerpiece of a likely highly visible installation, as even what remains suggest it was once fantastic in detail—shows a dark-haired woman clad in white, facing the viewer, clutching a shining jewel in one hand. Her location is unclear, due to the deterioration of the paint, but could plausibly be a cliffside.

The location in which this frieze was discovered also hints at the location of Imladris—more commonly known as Rivendell. This would also lean us towards assuming the figure in the frieze is Elwing, as Rivendell was formed and ruled over by Eärendil and Elwing’s son, Elrond. The discovery was a blow to the small minority of historians who continue to assert that Elrond preferred his Noldor heritage to the Sindar, or even considered himself Feanorian. They dispute the authenticity of the frieze as well as the details about its location and construction.

The Gondorin Opera (Title: Eärendil and Elwing) – This was the first effort by Men to retell the story of Eärendil and Elwing. Eschewing much of the politics of the day, the opera makes a love story of the tale, focusing almost entirely on the romance of Eärendil and Elwing. Here, they are childhood companions separated when Eärendil departs in early adolescence to spend time with his Edain kin. When he returns as a young man, he and Elwing fall in love at first reunion.

The later part of the opera centers on Elwing’s desperate flight to Vingilot and their impossible journey to Valinor. It concludes with their celebration in Alqualondë after securing the aid of the Valar.

Rumored to be a favorite piece of altos due to the standout solos available, this play captures a high romance angle of the story, digging deep into the personal feelings of Eärendil and Elwing and their quest for happiness and peace, with far less attention paid to the monumental historical significance of their actions.

Allegedly, it was popular in early performances to cast Hobbits as Elrond and Elros, as they took direction better than actual children. This fell out of favor when such casting choices came to be seen as infantilizing, though opinions differ even among Hobbits.

The Glamben Play (Title: Downfall of a Queen) – One of the most controversial depictions of Elwing in popular history. Here, the young queen is a self-centered and politically-inept scion of a dying dynasty, who out of pride refuses to surrender the Silmaril and by her own fumbling leaves Sirion open to the attack by the Feanorians. Downfall of a Queen fits in a few digs at Elwing’s ancestors as well. In a move fairly roundly condemned by historians, even those more inclined to show sympathy to Feanorian forces, Maedhros here bargains with Elwing for the release of her children for the Silmaril, which she entirely rejects, openly stating she would rather retain the jewel than her children.

Several runs of this play have Elwing slipping backwards off the cliff rather than making the decision to jump.

Eärendil himself does not even appear in the play and is perhaps implied to have abandoned Elwing by the end.

Downfall of a Queen has long since run out of whatever favor it had, and is not seen in any reputable theater these days. However, it does represent a viewpoint that at one point, had more traction, and the fight it has been for historians to reclaim the history of Elwing and Eärendil from popular misunderstandings.

The Angwedthor Film (Title: The Tale of Eärendil and Elwing and the Saving of Middle-earth) – This was the first effort to capture the story of Eärendil and Elwing on film, before “talkies” had hit the scene. As such, it is technologically incredibly limited, with a run time of only 40 minutes—and even this strained the finances and capacities of the studio. Some of the artistic license taken here is hard to understand—why, for instance, Elrond is here written as a female child, or why Elwing was given a youthful romantic affair with Gil-galad which motivates his effort to stave the Feanorians off the Havens.

Due to the expenses of the time, the film avoids any large-scale scenes of battle and destruction, and leaps somewhat jarringly from Elwing’s transformation to her and Eärendil’s arrival in Tirion. However, the film made several unique choices heretofore unseen in Middle-earth cinema, such as the crowds which awaited Elwing and Eärendil in Tirion. While historians debate the accuracy of whether or not Tirion would have evacuated on the news that strangers from over the sea had successfully landed in Valinor, it can’t be denied that this was the first time which crowds of this size had been portrayed in media. Furthermore, director Angwedthor went through the laborious effort of liberally showering the set in actual gold dust to give an ethereal, almost divine feel to the scene, and the sparkle of Tirion’s streets enchanted audiences at the time.

Furthermore, the film debuted several new cinematographic techniques which have since become standard in the film industry, although the film itself did not endure in popularity. For several decades, though, it was cherished by a loyal group of fans for the tender charisma between the lead actors, but few copies of it remain.

The Manthor Film (Title: Forever Across the Sea) – Learning from the experience of The Tale of Eärendil and Elwing, here was a stronger effort to capture this famed tale. This film opts to center Eärendil as the protagonist, with Elwing only entering the scene thirty minutes into the film, after Eärendil has already made the decision to begin questing for the Blessed Realm.

It is commonly agreed that the actress portraying Idril steals the first half of the show, despite her relatively few lines. Her powerful presence and guiding hand on Eärendil paint a picture of a remarkable woman and Falcthel’s palpable confidence onscreen bolster the image.

Behind-the-scenes controversy suggests Manthor originally meant to make a more foolish figure of Gil-galad: a dull-witted, self-interested clown who came to the throne only by chance. However, the actor playing him took things firmly in a different direction, presenting Gil-galad as war-weary and wary, though not unsympathetic to the unstable position of the Havens. In the end, director Manthor was so impressed with the gravitas of Goror’s portrayal that he ceded direction on the character to Goror.

Additionally, Tomben’s portrayal of Eärendil is still considered by many to be the best onscreen portrayal of Eärendil of all time. His booming voice and captivating demeanor make it all too believable that his sailors would follow him into the unknown time and time again.

Capping off these mesmerizing performances is Elwing’s final speech to the Teleri of Aman, a moment so fascinating that it has become the basis of many other dramatic confrontations throughout popular media. Almost anyone will recognize the line “I plead my hope,” or even its more extended version “Oh ye of foreign shores, I plead my hope. Let my home not be crushed ‘neath the boot of Bauglir,” even with no familiarity with the film. The passion of Torthoriel’s performance here has brought many a moviegoer to tears and captures a moment few had before bothered with—Elwing’s part in gaining the aid of Aman.

However, despite its artistic merit, this film is loudly criticized for fueling the largely-debunked myth that Eärendil came and went from Sirion multiple times during the course of Elwing’s converse with Maedhros, lord of the Feanorians.

The TV miniseries (Title: Saving Our Shores) – Attempting to reach a younger audience, this 5-episode limited series portrayed Eärendil and Elwing as high schoolers trying to stave off the efforts of Feanorian Oil Refining, Co. to validate some historical claim on the land where the teens’ hometown sits. Due to the characters’ young age, the kidnapping of Elwing and Eärendil’s children was replaced with the poisoning of Elwing’s beloved pet doves. Their backstories as refugees are largely retconned, though Elwing remains an orphan.

The series did not make much of a stir, being largely dismissed as an ineffective effort at “modernization.” The costuming and camerawork, standard at the time, painfully date the series and are contemporarily found laughably lacking in style or finesse. It was also criticized for putting its environmental message ahead of the story of the characters. However, it remains popular with teenagers (possibly in part due to the number of sequences the main characters spend lightly clad at the beach), such that at any given youth costume party, one is likely to observe at least a single young woman wearing Elwing’s signature look from the film: the breezy white sundress and the necklace of cowrie shells (a gift from Eärendil).

A few defenders of the series point to how well it captures the feeling of being up against an impossible enemy and how naturally Elwing and Eärendil’s relationship comes off. It is most remembered for the incredibly catching opening song, as well as a few other effective, limited uses of lyric throughout the series. So much so that it was said to be partial inspiration for the next adaptation in our study.

The Methoril Rock Opera (Title: Blood of the Day) – This is one adaptation people either love or hate (and in some cases, love to hate or hate to love). It makes no claims at being a historical piece and therefore makes no apologies for the broad artistic license it takes.

In this raucous stage performance—which includes, at one point, flamethrowers—Gil-galad sells out the location of Elwing and the Silmaril to the Feanorians in exchange for their recognizing his kingship, a scene which kicks off the story. Other notable stylistic choices include choosing to portray Tuor as a humorous if inept drunkard, the infamous make-out scene with Elwing and one of her female companions which is never raised again in the performance, Idril’s florescent pink mohawk and her somewhat bone-chilling solo “Mother Knows Best,” and the decision to show the Feanorians attacking the Havens with machine guns (one of which serves as Lord Maedhros’ prosthetic hand).

Historians largely disdain the piece, and its merits among the artistic community have been debated since its release, but what one cannot deny is the electrifying discography. Hearing Elwing scream into the microphone about having to choose between her city and her children is hair-raising in the best way, and the electric guitar work in Eärendil and Elwing’s love theme drives home the intensity of their relationship like nothing else. Other standouts include Tuor’s surprisingly touching goodbye to Eärendil before his and Idril’s departure, by far the quietest song of the score, and Eärendil and Elwing’s duet of lament for their lost homes.

What Blood of the Day captures is not the accuracies in detail of Elwing and Eärendil’s story, but the feelings of it. In these blaring odes to electrifying instruments that perhaps should not be electrified, Methoril captures the incredible weight of the feelings that bear on the lovers and their story.

The Helethwen Film (Title: Eärendil and Elwing) – Hopes were not high for this revival piece, with many arguing that we are past the need for further adaptations of this story. However, a number of opinion column writers were forced to eat their words after the debut of this box office-shattering instant classic. Helethwen’s masterpiece blew all expectations out of the water, even those of movie executives who argued that two and a half hours was far too long to engage any audience in a historical piece.

This is the first of any adaptation which begins with Elwing’s flight from Doriath during the Second Kinslaying and which centers her character around this formative trauma. It picks up Eärendil’s story with the trek of the Gondolindrim away from the smoking ruin of their city; they arrive in a Havens at Sirion already established by the Iathrim. The friendship between the child Elwing—initially aloof, but quickly warming up to the amiable Eärendil—and her companion is very believable thanks to stellar performances by the child actors, and the tender romance which blossoms in their late adolescence is sure to soften the heart even of the most cynical viewer.

This film also places the children—Elrond and Elros—firmly in the core of the narrative, with Eärendil and Elwing’s concern for their young family being a significant motivator. During the assault on the Havens, it is Elwing who lures the Feanorians away from the city center in an effort to keep them from discovering her children.

The main criticism of this film comes from the brief confrontation between Lord Amrod of the Feanorians and Elwing, wherein he attempts to rape her. The act never comes close to consummation, but there are voices on both sides, arguing that it accurately captures the violence of war, or that it was a distraction from the core story and unneeded additional victimization of Elwing. At least one DVD release of the film cuts the scene entirely.

There are others who feel Braxton’s performance as Eärendil does not compare with Tomben’s earlier performance, but most still feel that Braxton was a solid choice. Furthermore, Aelil’s electrifying portrayal of Elwing covers over any weaknesses in her co-star’s work. She is undoubtedly the heart of the story, a choice which many critics have cited as key to the film’s success.

Elfie Graphic Novel (Title: Peredhel Tale) – Beginning as a webcomic almost a decade ago, Peredhel Tale kicked off its print run two years back. Wrangling a huge cast of characters, creator Elfwyne (known online as “Elfie”)focuses the core of the story on Eärendil and Elwing, and their developing friendship and romance throughout their time in the Havens at Sirion, but also digs into backstories for supporting characters, featuring prominently Idril and Tuor and their struggles with a mortal/immortal marriage; Evranin’s difficulty in seeing Elwing grow up; and the history of Círdan the Shipwright as well as his relationship with Elwing (he here plays something of a grandfatherly role for her).

Peredhel Tale excels in the details of the story because it has the luxury of lingering on smaller elements that more condensed adaptations cannot. For instance, Elfie dedicates an entire chapter (18 pages) to Eärendil and Elwing’s first meeting on the beach as children. Their unusually adult dialogue in this sequence serves to display how quickly they have been forced to mature, and the difficult and heavy thoughts weighing on them even in the middle of seemingly normal child’s play. Her use of vivid color and bold linework make her style easily identifiable and lend great depth of emotion to her drawings. Her tonal coloring in particular sets the scene before any dialogue has been uttered.

The graphic novel has only issued the first book, which ends while Eärendil and Elwing are still in childhood and dealing with the struggles of their trauma as refugees and future leaders of their people, but the webcomic has gone as far as Elrond and Elros’ fourth birthday. Elfie also plans to include in one of the printed volumes the accompanying short story A Frog for Nana, which focuses entirely on Elrond and Elros, at play in the village and in the surrounding landscape of the Havens.

Much of the content in the story is pure fiction—Elfie goes into detail on things we simply cannot know, such as whether there was anything romantic between Elwing’s nurse Evranin and Gereth, or to what extent Elwing and Eärendil exhibited Elvish traits in spite of their mortal blood—but her author’s notes reveal a copious study of the historical period and frank admissions where things were invented for the sake of the story. Tonally, it remains consistent, and great attention was given to the most accurate depiction possible of life in the Havens, as well as various cultural details of the Gondolindrim and the Iathrim.

Above all, Peredhel Tale is a story of love—between Eärendil and Elwing, between Eärendil and his parents, between Círdan and Elwing, and between the people of the Havens and their city. Elfie never lets the reader stray too far from this core and the result is a deeply humanizing—if not wholly historically accurate—portrait not only of the central couple, but their friends, family, and neighbors. Scholars on this subject may wish to subscribe to future updates of Peredhel Tale to see how Elfie handles the Third Kinslaying and the voyage to Valinor.

Conclusion

What do all these things tell us about the story of Eärendil and Elwing and its place in society? First, it shows us that there is an enduring interest in a good love story—platonic or romantic—and that Middle-earth never loses its thirst for a tale of hope. Seeing characters onscreen, on stage, or on the page who have lost everything pick themselves up and carry on, find new purpose in life, can be comforting for us. There is something reassuring in seeing that, thousands of years ago, people loved and despaired and hoped just as they do now. It is a connection with ages long gone and an affirmation that we are all people—historical figures included.

Second, it illustrates the effectiveness of using a personal story to illustrate a historical event. The horror of the Third Kinslaying remains shocking and potentially overwhelming even today. The wanton loss of life as well as the wholesale cultural destruction from which the Iathrim never recovered is painful even now. Indeed, the tale of Elwing may be seen as the last gasp of the Iathrim, reaching through the years to remind us that they were here. However, it can be difficult to grasp the magnitude of such things. Wrapping it up in the personal story of Eärendil and Elwing’s struggles and tragedy drive it home in a way that facts and figures do not.

Most of all, it tells us that their story remains relevant even in our times and that we still find hope in their struggles and successes. Eärendil and Elwing are still speaking to us, and perhaps in listening, we are reaching back to tell them that their sacrifice matters. We may feel that these stories tell us we are not alone—but perhaps we also seek to tell them that they are not alone, either.

#earendil #elwing #starwing #the silmarillion #rocky writes #tolkien tag #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #fake academia

67 notes · View notes

annoyinglandmagazine · 26 days

Text

Then They All Fell To Their Knees As He Raised His Fist Before He Spoke Chapter 1

Summary: Elrond decides fuck it and joins the fellowship of the ring. Sauron should be getting very worried right about now. Title from Hells Comin’ With Me because that’s kind of the vibe here.

He appraised those before him, many valiant warriors certainly, some with enough good in their hearts to perhaps fight the corruption. Maybe they would stand a chance, just maybe, of overcoming this darkness. They would have to he supposed, after all the age of the elves was coming to an end, his kind were dwindling after so many ages of loss, few remained on these shores and fewer still of the famed heroes renowned in song.

Even they were chiefly renowned in songs recounting their heroic deaths, their last stands, their attempt to fight against total despair just that, attempts; brave ones of course but…. The Elven heroes of song almost always failed, with particular emphasis on those coming from the house all three of his fathers belonged to who in their case were quite literally doomed, ‘to evil end shall all things turn that they begin well,’ summed it up quite succinctly he thought.

Now, Earendil had circumvented that Doom for himself but only by forsaking all else, an untold sacrifice of all he held dear and through incredibly fortunate timing that was unlikely to be replicated and they certainly couldn’t wait for. If there was hope to be found was it really to be found in those great heroes? Perhaps their time had truly passed, now their only role was to provide shelter and counsel to those who needed it and protect their own until the time came to sail.

Had they not already given enough to this Middle Earth? Now they were truly spent and the other kindred must finally learn to do this completely for themselves, they’d needed him less and less as the years wore on regardless, fewer travellers coming through as his house’s existence was occasionally forgotten to mortal memory . In a few more millennia it would be as if they’d never been there.

He was willing to see it done, the Fellowship of the Ring with the hobbit as Ring Bearer, least likely of all the kindred to be corrupted if Bilbo Baggins was any example to go by. He was willing to see it done until the youngest hobbit appeared from where he’d been observing proceedings and demanded to be included in the quest. Elrond knew he would not be able to turn him away, just as he and Elros could not have been made back down from bearing arms at what must be a comparable age.

How many times must this happen? How many would have to sacrifice their innocence for their safety, make such impossible decisions for those they loved? Could he truly let this continue, let more people continue to suffer as he and his brother did in a world torn apart by war? He could not in good conscience stop Pippin from fighting to save Middle Earth from subjugation or refuse him his loyalty to his friend but perhaps he could protect him as he hadn’t been protected.

If Earendil had broken the Doom through sacrifice Elrond would do it through sheer righteous fury. One thing the Noldor could not be criticised for was their lack of will to keep trying when all the odds and common sense were stacked against them. Besides, Luthien and Beren had won against Morgoth. Perhaps he could take some of those ‘whatever the opposite of cursed is’ genetics and combine it with the stubbornness and fury to end this once and for all.

He was definitely not doing the ‘and my weapon’ bit though. This was a time sensitive matter and it would take many more years than they had for him to list all the items he had on his person that would be considered weapons in his hands.

*****

They waited for Elrond to finalise it, surely he must say something, after all this was his council so it only followed that he would announce its end. He simply furrowed his brow, Frodo wondered if perhaps he had decided they may not have hope after all; if Elrond believed it was futile he wasn’t sure what they would do next. There was nowhere else to go, no one more likely to have all the answers.

After a tense moment’s pause Elrond rose to his feet, all eyes in the room waiting for him to voice his approval of the quest. He announced with suitable solemnity ‘You will be the Fellowship of the Ring.’

Gandalf nodded to Elrond in a private moment of conference, accepting the path that had been chosen. Then, for the first time in Frodo’s memory, Gandalf seemed genuinely taken aback when his old friend continued to speak, eyes widening in complete shock.

Elrond smiled at Frodo, with just as much kindness as he had before but an edge of something, of light and passion glinting in his silver eyes that Frodo hadn’t seen anywhere before. ‘I will accompany you on this quest also and give what assistance you may require to see it to its end.’

This was met with a moment of confused silence, no one quite knowing if they had understood correctly; it was one thing for a reckless young archer prince from Mirkwood to volunteer his services but elven lords- elven lords known for their scholarly and healing prowess at that- did not go on quests. They simply didn’t, they hadn’t for more generations than hobbits as a species had existed for, they hadn’t since the One Ring was new to the world.

Glorfindel was the first to recover his voice, ‘My- my lord are you certain?’

The advisor at his side, Erestor if Frodo remembered correctly, looked at him incredulously, distracted from the look of pure exhaustion he was sending towards Elrond, ‘Of course he’s certain. We hoped this day would never come but just look at him, he’s gone full Finwean. There is no way you’ll be able to get him to back down now.’

The look of pure terror that took hold of Glorfindel at these words, when he had shown not a trace of concern at those black riders, was staggering to behold as he swung around in his chair and stared at Elrond in horror, ‘Elrond- I beg you to think rationally. Please don’t do this.’

Elrond spoke gently, ‘Glorfindel, you needn’t worry, I can manage-’

Glorfindel exclaimed in despair ‘I’m not worried about you! You don’t understand, your family will kill me if you pull a Fingolfin. We’ve gotten so far, you can’t do this to me now.’

‘Glorfindel no one is going to hold you responsible. I’m several millennia old, they know I make my own decisions-’

‘Do you think that will be enough to hold off the Lady Idril if I tell her her only grandchild rode off to face Sauron the year he was meant to sail! That’s not even to start on if the Feanorians in Aman have recognised your adoption as making you a genuine heir to their house, they’ll tear people limb from limb! Starting with me!’

Erestor seemed much more calm about the whole thing, inquiring in a voice dripping with sarcasm, ‘Will you require a large hound of some kind? Since we seem to be resorting to plan L of our Last Alliance contingencies?’

Elrond did not pay him much heed and began to move on to other matters, ‘Arwen will take care of Rivendell, she’s more than capable.’ Here Gandalf shot Elrond a questioning look and Elrond nodded in response which seemed to both satisfy and surprise him going from a brief rise of the eyebrows.

‘And I have full faith my captain and counsellors will assist her should she need it. My sons will muster the Dunedain, they are not as many as they once were but I’m sure Aragorn can attest they may be of no small importance in the fight to come.’

‘Is there anything else?’

*******

By the end of the week Elrond had set as much in order as he could, organising a few packs, mostly comprised of whatever healing herbs he may struggle to forage for and anything he thought his companions likely to neglect, he had enough faith to know Aragorn would pack well but it was best to be cautious for the rest of them.

The hobbits were not used to such journeys and while they could be relied on to think of things that would be nowhere on anyone else’s list of priorities such as, from what some of his rather mystified kitchen staff had informed him, pots and pans, they may pass over more urgent matters such as tertiary blades in case they lost their first two. They would have packed at least two wouldn’t they? He’d heard the Shire was a peaceful place but surely not so peaceful they wouldn’t carry little knives in their boots just in case? Maybe it would be best he pack them five each as a precaution.

The old motions brought more memories back than he usually cared to respond to all at once, Maedhros drilling into him what he would need to have on him at all times, yes even while still in Amon Ereb you never knew when orcs could attack, grabbing the essentials from a camp that needed to be abandoned without a trace faster than anticipated.

He knew he was putting this off, it was a greater struggle than he should like to admit to relinquish the power Tyelpe’s last creation gave him; despite never seeking it out, to feel it leaving him, especially on the brink something that would require any reserves of strength he could call on, was no small thing.

The longer he left it the higher the likelihood he would manage to convince himself it was unnecessary when he knew how disastrous the consequences would be if one of the three left Rivendell, where it was safe from Sauron’s designs and protected this place that was so dear to him and would not survive without it.

He found Arwen by the shores of the Bruinen, the spray dancing about her hands as if it had already recognised her as its current mistress; perhaps it had. There was a melancholy air about her, an apprehensiveness; the fate of this quest certainly held more at stake for her than many others as now it would include both her love and her father in the balance.

He carefully slipped Vilya from his finger and gazed upon it for one last time, cradling in his palm the flawless work of one of the greatest smiths who had ever lived, his beloved, far too trusting, cousin, betrayed for his good nature by one he had let into his halls.

This was for him, for his Tyelpe and for his king who had pressed the ring into his hand, entrusting it to his keeping, in the bright dawn of the day he had ridden off never to return, a parting gift to the person he had loved most in the world, given with a chaste kiss to his hands.

This was for Celebrian, his wife who had endured horrific torment and suffering at their hands, who had been forced to leave by the vindictiveness of all that Sauron had created. This was for all of them, what they had begun must finally be called to completion, they must finally be able to see that it had not been for nothing, he would not sail and join those he loved until they could rest in the knowledge that Middle Earth was safe, that their tormentors were gone.

He could not hope to succeed if he allowed his desire for the power he could call on from this ring if situations left his control to cloud his judgement of what would truly be best for their goal. He must be able to trust that he was strong enough himself, if he was going to need to fall back on external power to save them once things got challenging there was no point in this entire endeavour.

So he smothered any lingering hesitancy and sat by his daughter’s side, holding the ring out before her. ‘I think it is time you take this, my daughter. It will give you the power to shelter this valley from those who would do it harm in my absence.’

She met his eyes and took it, watching for any hint of reluctance to relinquish it, cautious as he had taught her of the snare objects such as this held on those who possessed or coveted them. He watched her place it into her finger with a combination of many emotions but mostly an overwhelming sense of pride.

She closed her eyes and he could feel her mind pushing out cautiously around her, prodding her and there and embedding herself into the valley’s fabric, the force of the river setting in her consciousness with the throb of her heart, the earth beneath her bursting into bloom quite suddenly with the excess of power flowing through her veins and spilling out in the form of a few new rose bushes on the river bank.

The valley may have been reluctant to accept another guardian after so long, even one who was in many ways familiar to it, so to intertwine with it fully Arwen only needed a little push. Elrond’s heart was somewhat lighter after discovering that the process did not push him out of alignment but only have her settle in beside him, even without Vilya he could feel the hum of the valley around him as he had before.

He was also much relieved that he hadn’t been relying on the ring as much as he’d feared, hadn’t become complacent enough to forget years of training and he felt his- well Galadriel didn’t like to call her own abilities magic but he was less certain about that matter in his case, as, he believed, was she though she hid it well- was as honed as ever, restless and waiting for a chance to be set free on it’s unfortunate enemy.

When Arwen opened her eyes at last her eyes were wide and shining, reeling from what she felt coursing through her, suddenly having things that she had only glimpsed in her father’s eyes her entire life at her fingertips in a single moment. She had most likely never looked more like Luthien Tinuviel, the certain sense of the otherworldly enhanced to a degree rarely seen in those with as slight Maia heritage as her.

‘Ada, I,’ she blinked rapidly trying to carry a train of thought through when bombarded by that of so many in the valley’s at once than she was used to, finally setting for a disbelieving, ‘Is this how you feel all the time?’

Elrond chuckled, ‘You get used to it my dear.’

‘Really?’

‘Just give it a few thousand years.’ The glare she gave him was met with perhaps less cowering and a good deal more chuckling than she would have liked.

#silmarillion #tolkien #elrond peredhel #lotr #arwen undomiel #gandalf #frodo baggins #celebrimbor #gil galad

45 notes · View notes

hirazuki · 1 year

Text

Hush, child, the darkness will rise from the deep And carry you down into sleep, Child, the darkness will rise from the deep And carry you down into sleep. (Loyalty loyalty loyalty loyalty Loyalty loyalty loyalty only to me.) -- Mordred's Lullaby

Personal preferred interpretation of *gestures to everything* under the cut! Warning for blatant and shameless conflation of multiple versions of the text with pure, self-indulgent headcanons.

I've gone back and forth on this a lot, but I think I've finally settled on preferring Eol to be both a Dark Elf (i.e. never went to Aman) and a "darkened elf" (i.e. former thrall of Angband/corrupted by Melkor). I know Tolkien changed his mind on both of these later, but I don't find it repetitive at all to have Maeglin also suffer the same fate; I think the cycle is meaningful and adds another layer of complexity to these characters. Also, it would give Eol's "ill at ease" within Melian's girdle and seeking to stay away additional meaning, making it a physical consequence of his circumstances and not only a predilection of his personality. Idk, the more layers and reasons something has behind it, the more enjoyment I draw from it :)

I do like Eol being Sindar and Thingol's kin, but also more alike in spirit and behavior to the Avari than anything else. Witch of the Wilds aesthetic, and more in tune with nature and the land than the Sindar in Doriath. He and Maeglin have always given me a Morgana and Mordred vibe. (fun fact: the mirror is supposed to be obsidian, which is used for scrying.)

He truly loved his son, and his relationship with Maeglin was no more and no less positive/negative than your average father-son relationship -- some minor disagreements as any parent and child are bound to have -- until Maeglin started expressing a desire to see the Noldor; and it was all downhill from there. He still loved his son, however, despite everything, and his attempt to choose death over Gondolin for him was done out of love as well. Perhaps not a healthy love, but a genuine one all the same.

Eol being a darkened elf + Maeglin being born in Beleriand + the "Melkor ingredient" present in all matter outside of the Blessed Realm = a compounded (x3) tendency towards Melkor within Maeglin's spirit that was there since he was conceived. If everyone who has a body that is nourished by Arda (outside of Aman) has an inclination towards Melkor that they can't be free of in their incarnate forms, how much stronger might that be if one of your parents is a former thrall who -- going off of his behavior and tendencies -- still bears the marks of that bond? I like to think that the way Melkor affects his thralls can carry down genetically, even for elves that remain elves and weren't turned into orcs.

I personally prefer Maeglin to not be under an enchantment as a way to explain why he betrayed Gondolin -- I like him being responsible for his own actions! Even if he also never had a chance and was doomed from before he was born. I like the interplay of those two concepts and generally don't find them mutually exclusive -- but I do love the idea of compulsion. Of his pre-existing link to Melkor through Eol and through Arda being used (I prefer this to be Mairon's work, but it certainly can be done by Melkor instead) to sway him. Like, not Mairon actually spelling him and making him not be in control of his body or not being able to warn people in Gondolin because his speech is bound, etc., but like. Mairon slipping certain elements into the fabric of his voice -- he is Ainur; underscoring his speech with Music is no big deal -- to manipulate that Melkor ingredient within Maeglin and make him be more receptive. Compliant. Add to that some carefully crafted understanding as one talented smith who knows what it is like to feel ill-suited to his surroundings to another, a little bribery, and, of course, the ever-present and very real threat of torture -- in delicately balanced respective quantities -- and done.

This is totally entirely self-indulgent headcanon territory here, especially since Mairon is never actually present for Maeglin's imprisonment in any version of the text (to my knowledge) BUT: I like to think that, just as with Maedhros in my headcanons, Mairon formed a kind of reluctant attachment to Maeglin. But whereas with Maedhros it was more of an equal footing type of thing, a grudging acknowledgement of a worthy opponent being cut from the same cloth, with Maeglin it's more of a foster situation. Like: "Here is this very valuable prisoner who we can work with, who -- with a only a small amount of effort -- is amenable to working together and he's the son of a former thrall so there's already a connection there and, oh, he's also a smith? Oh, he's actually pretty good. Wait, he's only 189 years old, idk because I've never cared much for elves but isn't that ridiculously young wtf, he's clearly ambitious and reeling for approval and acknowledgement and will easily take to a guiding hand. Well, there's no one else around but me, I guess I'll take one for the team and the war effort and all that" *accidentally transfers all the instructing instincts he possesses that had previously gone to his wolves now all long dead, he doesn't keep wolves anymore since losing Tol-in-Guarhoth, it's too painful to this strange elf* Again, not healthy, but complicated and messy and invested.

... I did not mean to make it all about Mairon again lmao I am so sorry XD

I'm sure I'll have additional thoughts as I keep re-reading the Silmarillion, or my opinions/preferences may somewhat alter (I still have to sit down and read HoME and Nature of Middle Earth properly, I've only read snippets), but. an overwhelming number of you voted that you enjoyed reading stuff like this so. There you go. This is where I'm currently at lol.

#maeglin #eol #mairon #sauron #silmarillion #tolkien #my art #don't mind me i've just been plagued by a case of The Thoughts™#i'm a big fan of the mix-and-match/create-your-own approach to Legendarium content if you couldn't tell lmao #i mean if we're going to be given numerous variants and alternate versions. i'm clearly going to go with the angstiest combination possible #... and then proceed to spiral wayyyyyyyy off the deep end from there #XDD #silm #silm musings #hira draws tolkien

212 notes · View notes

welcomingdisaster · 1 year

Text

i think in the theatre and musical performances of their youth (of which i am sure there are many!) maglor, despite his clearly superior skill, very rarely plays the lead hero. i think he nearly always leaves that to someone like fingon or finrod -- instead he's the wry voice of the narrator, the wise king at the head of the council of gods, the doomed lover dead at the end of the first act.

he likes to take a part that is usually considered background completely redefine it, play with it, put such a twist on that every performance that follows his will have to be compared to it. that even after their exile every single actor to play his parts will be defined by their choice to play them differently. that traces of him -- even as conspicuous absence-- will define aman's theatrical circles for centuries after the flight of the noldor.

#lena speaks #maglor #idk my brain is buzzing today #this might be kinda dumb #fic i think i'm gonna write

186 notes · View notes

winterpinetrees · 10 days

Text

Sometimes I think about the Siege of Angband, and how for those 400 years (four hundred years!) all was pretty much well in Beleriand.

Four hundred years! That’s five entire human lifetimes, at least, with no danger but occasional raids by Morgoth’s forces and one dragon halfway through. The Noldor set out for Middle Earth “to find joy; or freedom, at the least”. They got off to a kinslayingly horrible start, but for four whole centuries, things were pretty good!

Yes, the silmarils are stuck in the Iron Crown. Yes, there’s a big mountain fortress in the north full of thralls and orcs. Yes, Feanor is still dead and his oldest son only has one hand. However, the realms are thriving. The sun is shining (though the two trees are still very dead) and they’re easily holding back Morgoth. There must have been fear, but also this amazing wartime optimism at how well they were holding back one of the Valar. Did the common Noldor start to forget about the Doom of Mandos? Some of them probably did. They weren’t exactly shedding unnumbered tears at that point.

And then how quickly it all falls apart. Four hundred years of siege, and then only a century and a half from the Dagor Bragollach until the end of the age. I wonder when they realized that they really were doomed.

#by me #the silmarillion #tolkien

25 notes · View notes

imfromthemiddlekingdom · 7 months

Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

67 notes · View notes

ceescedasticity · 2 months

Note

Highly specific scenario question for the Teleri royals that I’ve been meaning to ask for a while, because I’ll need it for a fic when I finally get to writing it: What would happen if Finrod actually DID bring the swanships back circa 450 FA, and reported that Fëanor and Fingolfin are getting along in Beleriand and the Noldor have Angband besieged, at a stalemate—at least, that’s how it was when Finrod left; apparently he and all his small navy have been enchanted-asleep for several hundred years, and based on many people’s faint senses of exiled loved ones, there was just a massive battle where many died.

How would assorted Olwëans react? How would they react when Finrod inevitably promptly said, “oh god, I have to go back and help fight; who’s with me?”?

Details that may matter:

It’s as near to ALL the Swanships as can be remotely expected—there was attrition of storms, incompetent sailors, 1 or 2 Falthrim fell in love with specific ships and the ships were content to stay with them; but basically all came home, sailed by a combination of the guiltiest, most homesick, and most competent sailors

Finrod reports that Fëanor is officially High King of the Noldor in exile, but functionally Maedhros is High King of the Noldor and Fingolfin and Finrod (now Angrod) are more or less doing as they please as Kings of East and West respectively. Also, Elwë’s forest kingdom is flourishing with his Maia wife and daughter (he thinks the Noldor are collectively assholes), and Nowë and a bunch of people are doing great on the shore, and there’s etc. Laegrim, and dwarves… [Finrod did sail before Men showed up.]

Finrod & co sailed over 300 years ago, and this delay is very directly due to the Valar not letting them in, even though their goal is basically just to apologize and set things right. (If that eases the Doom and/or gets them more allies, well, it’s not the primary goal.)

Ambarussa also came with the world’s most non-apology apology message for Nerdanel from Fëanor, and a smidge of a hint of offer of alliance to the Valar (ie, the instructions for making silima, which he’d previously kept jealously secret). This won’t affect any initial reactions in Alqualondë because the twins sneak ashore separately to deliver it, but the gist of the messages become publicly known.

Of close relatives, Curufin died in that initial terrible battle; more importantly, Aegnor dies within a year afterward. Not long after Aegnor’s death, the Valar assure everyone—and cross-sea death awarenesses confirm—that the conflict has abated again, though it remains more ongoingly active than it has been for several centuries.

It’s narratively convenient for me that no backup reach Beleriand for another 20 years, though you don’t need to hold to that—I can futz with the timeline. What happens in 20 years is, in short order, Fëanor blows up Thangorodrim and active war resumes, and Lúthien comes to Mandos to plead for Beren.

Hmmm…

The ships not getting destroyed is going to make a significant difference in the mood in Alqualondë — for example, Volue will have spent 400-some years pining and fretting rather than seething, and while he's an extreme case he's not alone.

Not pictured: Luinél spending 300 years getting more and more sure the ships are reachable if people will just let her try and quite possibly trying to take Swan-salt out to the Enchanted Isles to look and getting shooed back to Alqualondë by Ainur. —Possibly more than once. —Probably accompanied by Duimiwen, Duinipen, Nettë, Telperin, and in fact Volue on one or more occasion. —Obviously Olwë disapproves of these unauthorized excursions! but he never put Swan-salt under guard, either.

There is still a lot of anger, and still some people who have decided to make hating Noldor their entire personality, but the ships being intact means there's less, and the ships being returned has a lot of meaning.

—I think the end result is going to be some people are still being assholes, but it isn't hard for Olwë to bring the Lindar around to the idea of "the swan-ships aren't leaving our sight [or the harbor, until they get too restless], BUT we will help you build and sail new ships to return to Beleriand".

(When Olwë says that, he adds 'Valar permitting' on the end. Not everyone else does. The ships really being just out of reach for 300 years for Mysterious Valar Reasons hasn't impressed anyone.)

Olwë would rather the Lindar not start volunteering to go to Middle-earth as more than a taxi service, but suspects it's going to be unavoidable.

The Exiles directly involved in the Kinslaying should still expect to be banned from Alqualondë and Lindarin ships until they have made satisfactory apologies.

And like I said there are still angry people — but the predominant mood is more focused on the ships than the Noldor.

#a tolkien tag #reckless application of spackle

26 notes · View notes

searchingforserendipity25 · 7 months

Text

@finweanladiesweek. day 4. finduilas & idril

finduilas was never going to get out of this story alive.

it is a hard lesson for a young maiden to learn, but on the burning shores of the sirion she learned it all through the long retreat. the smoke moved like a living creature, and the fire was nothing so much as garthour's will extended. the air smoked of blood, bone-ash, dying grass, groaning stones.

orodreth held the tower as long as he could, but his daughter was sent away with the first refugees. because the way to nargothrond was long and winding, and the pursuit relentless, finduilas' guards took many days to find shelter.

she looked backwards many times, over hill and crag, riding through the aspen country, ever-fearful. it was because she looked back that she saw them. fair and golden, vaster than even the songs had told, the great eagles of manwë crossed the very edge of the horizon.

finduilas' heart leapt, for a moment, high enough that she could taste her own hope. had improbable rescue not come before already to the noldor, at the time of greatest despair? had not the princes of her people been brought to salvation unlooked for? orodreth might live; her people might leave, the tower might be retaken, the crops sown once again, the rot sang out of the land --

the eagles crossed the very edge of the horizon. they took the high roads of the sky, where the wind was fiercest. their great wings cut the sick yellow of the smoke clouds like knifes. they flew past it, and did not look back.

this, then, was the doom of the noldor, as much as the great battlefields, the poisoning cold, the impossibly crowded barracks of melkor's thralls.

this: the rider clad in grey linens and black soot, the lady all lonesome on the crest of the hill. finduilas was never going to get out of this story alive; maidens who look back never do.

they waited as long as they could. the tower faced the sea, was built to enlarge its echoes. tuor could not sleep, now, without that song to lull him, and even his dreams were dark, damp, blue-lit.

silver found its way to his beard, the fur of his chest, the back of his clever hands; then his temples. some days he woke coughing, spitting out mouthfuls of salt.

they waited as long as they could: until idril said, enough. said: we with our backs to the sea are as the hare against the fence. said: i will have you dead of ancient age or a bad plague or morgoth's spears, but not this.

'no hope have we here; westwards i shall go, and make the speeches my father lent his mariners,' idril said.

she stood in the fullness of her height, hair braided for ruling, her bare hands upon the maps laid out on her great table. all the rings she owned were the ones she had worn on the feast that became gondolin's wake; all of them she had passed, one after another, to her son and her son's wife; to her vassals.

they stood also, the last lords of the white city. legolas pressed his palms together in prayer, rog was very still, dangerous contention barely at bay.

her husband looked at her, and the relief in his eyes was dearer to her than all the feasting and treasures lost to the balrogs and the dragons.

her son alone of all the gathered wept. but her son always wept a great deal. at times ulmondil's son seemed to his mother made up of water as much as flesh. for him too idril built the ship, and for the sake of young elwing's fledgling queenship.

tuor embraced all his friends; idril blessed all her servants. their son sang over the tiller, and elwing raised high the farewell pennants.

they went west. the west would not have them.

adrift, their vessel wandered from strange island to strange island. foul fogs trapped them; ossë's whims overtook them, his queer jealousy of ulmo's friends won over only over many a swell and many a quest. becalming days kept them trapped for fortnights with no wind to stir the sails.

and none of it mattered, none of it - for tuor's voice sang salt out of the water, tuor's webs caught fish often, tuor slept well on the berth under the stars, tuor's cough grew even and faded.

tuor's silver hairs shone under the pitiless sun, marvelous to idril's eyes, wondrous under her hands; petulant ossë dragged their ship away from the doldrums whenever they started to enjoy each other's closeness too much, spraying them for their laughter.

longing wounded sharply, fear clogged the hours of uncertain charting. the sea was their friend; but the sea was not an easy friend to have, not constant in its mood or reliable in its boons.

they traded stories, sang together, crafted little things to gift each other, engraved the walls of their cabins and the pantry and the mast, too: chased each other like trapped cats, at times, imprisoned together without relief. old griefs rose; harsh words caught the edge of the wind and cut close to the skin.

it was never long, before they reconciled; but it was never simple to sit down, hold a hand, weep for the pain they shared and the children left behind, their maddening odyssey and its mad estel.

all the same. tuor grew old, not ill. away from shore, caught between worlds, idril did laugh: at night, when the rigging was set, and there were new sun-spots to count on tuor's cheeks, idril did not think of gondolin.

westwards, always. their course was set to hope most necessary, hope most dire, hope unanswered. in urgency they had sought to evade grief and disaster from their kin, and grief and disaster came, on swords raised by their own kin.

idril and tuor know this not. none can say where they sail still; but ëarendil in his far journeys to give guidance to lost sailors peers often downwards into the wide sea, seeking for a glimmer of fair braids, an old man's silver head.

#finweanladiesweek #finduilas #orodreth #idril #tuor #my fics #the silm #the house of finwe #earendil

58 notes · View notes