#Barahir

[elena-kukanova]

In the meantime, a whole plot bundle has come together

Fen of Serech

[ayaosguqin]

King of Nargothrond , Five Act Tragedy

“I go now to my long rest in the timeless halls beyond the seas and the Mountains of Aman. It will be long ere I am seen among the Noldor again; and it may be that we shall not meet a second time in death or life, for the fates of our kindreds are apart. Farewell!' He died then in the dark, in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, whose great tower he himself had built.

Link to my Ko Fi

[forestials]

“…but Barahir came up with the bravest of his men and rescued him, and made a wall of spears about him; and they cut their way out of the battle with great loss. Thus Felagund escaped, and returned to his deep fortress of Nargothrond; but he swore an oath of abiding friendship and aid in every need to Barahir and all his kin, and in token of his vow he gave to Barahir his ring."

[eilinelsghost]

The Ring of Felagund/The Ring of Barahir

I confess that (despite mostly enjoying the films) I hold onto several longstanding and extremely petty beefs with Peter Jackson's LOTR trilogy. And, surprising no one, my pettiest and fiercest grudge is their design for the Ring of Barahir.

I think (besides the One Ring) it's the most clearly described piece of jewelry in the legendarium:

two serpents with emerald eyes, one upholding, one devouring a crown of golden flowers

And yet! When you look at the film's design, there is a) no crown of golden flowers, b) the serpents do not seem to be either upholding or devouring anything, but kind of just chilling there, and c) the serpents do not have emerald eyes, but rather a single, giant emerald that's plopped in the middle, presumably in place of the golden crown.

It's a lovely ring! But it's not the ring Finrod gave to Barahir.

Anyway, all that to say I finally caved and drew the one that has lived in my head for 24 years. Please clap.

[arlenianchronicles]

After a million years' absence, I come back to you now at the turn of the tide ... with some @allthatglittersisnotgoldrush fanart! Rest assured I have other Silm art to share once the time comes (they're for TRSB and S&D, so I can't post them until the events are over loll)

The recent AU installments got me back into the Beren-Luthien-Finrod mood, which led to these portrait attempts! For starters, we have Barahir, Emeldir the Blind, and Beren, once again inspired by the Pacific Northwest tribes. For Barahir in particular, I based him off of Michael Greyeyes in the movie, Woman Walks Ahead, hence why his hair is down for now XD

The other three are Luthien, Melian, and Thingol! For Melian, her hairstyle and clothes are inspired by the Qing Dynasty since she was born during that time. I'm not quite satisfied with Thingol's look, but I'm at least glad I knew of his mustachio from the Pharmakos fic lololl

[azalearanger]

"For the valour of the Edain the Elves shall ever remember as the ages lengthen, marvelling that they gave life so freely of which on earth they had so little." - Ulmo to Tuor (The Fall of Gondolin)

How tragic, how heartbreaking and bittersweet, that the greatest gift of undying friendship of men to elves must be cut short by death.

How heart-wrenching for the Eldar to linger on with the memory of that gift, a hole torn in the flowing fabric of their ageless years, a friend never returning, never to meet again beyond the western sea.

What choice do they have, but to return this gift to the children of their dearest friends, fleeting though their time may be.

[aotearoa20]

lil’ Beren: Master Elf! I… I… this is my rabbit! I love him so much!! Do you like rabbits more than Men?

Finrod: (crouching down) Well little one, all sentient beings are important and so I don’t think you can love any sentient creature more than another. We should care about everything and love everything unless…

Finrod: (pause) unless, of course, it attacks you

Finrod: in which case, lovingly see it off with a big stick

Barahir: (trying not to laugh) that’s… that’s so profond Nòm

Finrod: But! Love all things buddy :)

Lil’ Beren: unless..

Finrod: unless it’s coming at you mate, then… dispatch it with love

[velvet4510]

I’ve read some criticisms that Beren doesn’t listen to Lúthien and keeps trying to leave her behind even when she’s proven herself capable … and I’m like … are you even aware of Beren’s life story?

This man has lost everything he’s ever loved.

He had to part ways with his mother and sister for their safety, and then came back from a hunt to find his entire clan brutally murdered, including his father. He tracked down those responsible to take revenge and get his father’s ring back, because what else could he do? What purpose did he have without his family and his comrades? What was the use when the enemy was hunting him down 24/7? While his survival instincts won out, he was still a man who had no hope, afraid of love and attachment after what he’d lost, completely alone and isolated for years.

Then he met Lúthien. And she made him want to live. She gave him something to fight for: her. He found a new purpose, a new dream: he could be her husband, he could give her love and a family, happiness and freedom, everything she deserves.

He invoked Finrod’s promise to his father just so he could achieve his new goal…and how did that turn out? His entire group of helpers got captured and killed, because of him, including his dear friend. Every time he gets attached to someone in the heat of danger, he loses them. Every time. The poor guy must feel like he’s cursed.

And suddenly here’s Lúthien, in the middle of Sauron’s fortress, targeted by the sons of Fëanor, vowing to follow him into the lion’s mouth to end all lion’s mouths that is Angband.

And Beren just…can’t bear it. She is his hope, his light, his love, his Tinúviel…he can’t let that “curse” on him affect her. He can’t drag her into further danger when that has spelled doom for everyone else he’s loved. Not when the enemy has proven time and again that he can and will conquer everyone Beren cares for, no matter how strong.

He pushes her away not because he doesn’t respect her, but because he does.

He insists that she go back to Doriath and he go on alone, NOT because he thinks she can’t handle herself - he knows her far too well to believe that - but because he can’t lose her too.

[anira-naeg]

House of Beor: Part 2

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Silmarillion Daily - Of the Finding of the Elves

This was one that struck me hard on the reread, because the parallels between Oromë encountering the Elves for the first time, and Finrod encountering Men for the first time in Beleriand, are so strong.

In both cases, they come upon them while hunting, on the edge of the eastern mountains, when they hear them singing:

And on a time it chanced that Oromë rode eastward in his hunting, and he turned north by the shore of Helcar and passed under the shadows of the Orocarni, the Mountains of the East. Then on a sudden Nahar set up a great neighing, and stood still. And Oromë wondered and sat silent, and it seemed to him that in the quiet of the land under the stars he heard afar off many voices singing.

Finrod Felagund lord of Nargothrond journeyed east of Sirion and went hunting with Maglor amd Maedhros…In a valley among the foothills of the mountains, below the springs of Thalos, [Finrod] saw lights in the mountains, and far off he heard the sound of song.

In both cases they see these new people and love them not in spire of, but because of, the fact that they are different from themselves:

And Oromë looking upon the Elves was filled with wonder, as though they were beings sudden and marvellous and unforeseen…And Oromë loved the Quendi, and named them in their own tongue Eldar, the people of the stars.

Then Felagund, standing silent in the night-shadow of the trees, looked down into the camp, and there he beheld a strange people…Long Felagund watched them, and love for them stirred in his heart.

Here is where things diverge - and I think this is very intentional on Finrod’s part. He grew up among the Valar. He would have heard the story of Oromë first encountering the Elves hundreds of times, and he’s suddenly found himself in a parallel situation. And he would remember from the story how so e Elves reacted when Oromë, a Vala, suddenly appeared among them:

Yet many of the Quendi were filled with dread at his coming; and this was the doing of Melkor. For by after-knowledge the Wise declare that Melkor, ever watchful, was first aware of the awakening of the Quendi, and sent shadows and evil spirits to spy upon them and waylay them. So it came to pass, some years ere the coming of Oromë, that if any of the Elves strayed far abroad, alone or few together, they would often vanish, and never return; and the Quendi said that the Hunter had caught them, and were afraid…Thus it was than when Nahar neighed and Oromë indeed came among them, some of the Quendi hid themselves, and some fled and were lost.

And some of these elves who hid or fled were captured by Melkor and turned into Orcs.

So Finrod thinks of this, and decides he doesn’t want to risk startling them and thereby endangering them. So he waits until they are all sleeping, and then goes down and plays music, and because of the beauty and the dreamlike feel of things, they are not afraid and don’t run.

Now men awoke and listened to Felagund as he harped and sang, and each thought that he was in some fair dream, until that he saw that his fellows were awake also beside him; but they did not speak or stir while Felagund still played, because of the beauty of the music and the wonder of the song.

In a way, it’s no wonder that Men at first mistake Finrod for a Vala - he’s reliving the experience of the Vala who first discovered the Elves, and he’s trying (and succeeding) to use that history to do better. And this continues in his later dealings with Men. The Valar gave the Elves a binary choice: come to Valinor and we’ll teach you and keep you safe, or stay in Middle-earth and you’re on your own. But Finrod leaves the choice up to Men: Bëor wants to come with him to Nargothrond, the others choose to stay in Estolad, later generations come to live in Dorthonion, and he does his best to look out for them and advise them whichever of those choices they make. I suspect he’s thinking of the history between the Elves and the Valar again here, and wondering what might have happened if the Valar had taken a different approach.

Now, that does not last. The Valar were not able to keep the Elves free from harm even in Valinor, and Finrod, who does not have a Vala’s power, is still less able to keep them safe in Beleriand. But he’s doing the best he can. And I think it’s the shock of that moment in the Fen of Serech, when not only is he unable to get to Dorthonion to help his little brothers and the House of Bëor, but the men of the House of Bëor are saving him and losing their lives doing it, that prompts his oath to Barahir. On the flip side, for Barahir, you can contrast this reaction to that of Fëanor and many of the Noldor at the Darkening. The Darkening is when the Noldor realize the Valar can lose; and the Bragollach is similarly when Men see that Elves can lose. But because Men’s relationship with Elves is already to some extent a collaborative one, seeing them lose just makes them seem more ‘human’ rather than prompting the sense of betrayal the Noldor seem to have felt towards the Valar.

[prastevnik]

Still trying to figure out digital painting.

Finrod and Barahir moment (and Pikachu-faced Beren in the background)

Feanor and Nerdanel chilling in a greenhouse (by the way, congratulations, you unlocked my blue-sweater Feanor design. While reading the silm I imagined Finwe and all his sons wearing blue sweaters. Just wanted to share my curse. Thank you for your attention.)

[anna-dreamer]

Finrod and the Edain

And I returned to my beautiful city

Black skies change into blue

And though my love is so wise and so pretty

Some nights I'll still dream of you

[curufiin]

PART 2 OF THE NARGOTHROND AU: IT IS ON AO3 NOW!!! AND WE HAVE A FIC TITLE!!!

Still called nargothrond au internally because i’m horribly uncreative :)

Part 1 // ao3

Before Celegorm realizes what is happening, he is surrounded again.

Except rather than having swords pointed directly at his heart on all sides, the weapons are facing away from him, and…

…they’re speaking Sindarin?

Celegorm bothers not asking, yet. The identity of his savior is of little importance when he could still very well die, when they are still so obviously outnumbered.

He sheaths his sword, and instead draws his bow, releasing arrow after arrow into the gaps between heads.

By hour’s end, the marshes looked like the aftermath of a blind massacre. Dead orc bodies littered the waters around them, and it seemed more as if it was Celegorm who came to the fens looking for slaughter.

He is breathing heavily, with some minor scratches, but otherwise unharmed. He whispers a prayer to Oromë for this fortune.

“Who are you?” Celegorm turns to his saviors. They’re noticeably shorter than elves, with rounded ears and long, coarse hair on their faces and chins. Their dark eyes tell him they’re not of Valinor. These are no elves, it is obvious immediately, but Celegorm could not exactly put his tongue on what they are— for they are more like an elf than they are not.

And they are very, very good with their spears.

One of them steps forth. There are streaks of grey in his otherwise dark hair, and faint wrinkles on his forehead: youth was far behind him. “Barahir, Son of Bregor,” he says, a noble quality aloft in his voice. “And these are my men. Those damned orcs have infested these lands, haven’t they? We’ve been trying to weed out their kind from the pass since the fires started, but they’re like rats. You’re one of those Elf Lords, are you not?”

“You know of me?”

Barahir grins. “Oh, I’ve heard of the Sons of Fëanor from Lord Finrod. Never thought I’d ever meet one in person, much less save one from what could’ve been his peril.”

Celegorm scoffs, though not without a grin of his own. “I would’ve been alright even without your help.”

A lie— they both knew that. Celegorm was lucky he did not lose any of his servants.

Still, he thinks it is at least polite to invite these non-elves to their camp, even if they do not have much to offer. Curufin would be pleased to learn more of Finrod, besides.

Barahir agrees. They return to Rivil, and it is silent, save for the crackling of campfires.

Curufin is still awake; Celegorm hears the faint scratching of his quill against paper.

“Curvo? Gods, you should be sleeping. Why are you still awake?”

Curufin flinches at the sudden voice, but relief quickly washes over him, and a rare smile forms on his face. “I was just waiting for you to return.” He stands, and immediately his eyes turn to the strangers behind him. His hand reaches for his sword—

—Celegorm reaches his hand first. “No, no, Curvo,” he says, “I know them. I invited them to join us, at least for the night.”

His eyes narrow with suspicion. “Tyelkormo, you are aware I don’t take kindly to strangers, especially in these times.”

“Yeah, I know, but Barahir and his men are good people. They helped me at the fens. You can trust them.”

“Saved your life, you mean,” Barahir says from behind, and Celegorm only laughs. “An honor, Lord Curufin. I am Barahir, Son of Bregor, friend of Lord Finrod. It was my and my men’s honor to fight beside your lord brother.”

At the mention of Finrod’s name, Curufin’s eyes light up. “You’re a friend of Ingoldo-? How is he? I haven’t heard from him in so long.”

They stay up late into the night chatting, and only at Celegorm’s insistence do they get any sleep. “We must march at sun up,” he said, knowing full well Curufin is probably not going to listen anyway.

By dawn, they are riding again, but not without Barahir’s company. “The pass has become more dangerous than ever,” he said, “if you would allow it, we would be happy to offer what protection we can for your people through.”

Celegorm and Curufin graciously accept the offer, and they set off.

They are out of the pass before sundown. No notable troubles come up along the way, other than Huan over exerting just ro catch a rabbit.

A servant is ordered to continue leading their people south. Celegorm and Curufin fall behind in order to speak with Barahir.

“I don’t know how we can repay you,” Curufin says, “Our treasures are largely lost to the fires and the orcs, and we have no homes to offer you.”

“There is no need to repay me. We were only protecting our lands from the Enemy. The satisfaction of aiding another is payment enough. Go, catch up with your people. I am satisfied with this matter.”

Barahir turns to leave, but Celegorm stops him. “Wait—”

He gets off his horse, and pulls an ornate ring of gold off his finger. An emerald is set in the center, with serpents coiled around both the jewel and the ring itself. It is reminiscent of a slit pupil.

“Please, take this ring as a symbol of my gratitude. It is made by my father, the great smith Fëanor, and upon it I swear this oath: should you, or any of your descendants from henceforth, ever find yourself in need of aid, call upon me. And I, Celegorm son of Fëanor, shall hear your call, and I shall answer.”

A beat skips in Curufin’s heart.

“Upon Manwë and Varda’s name I swear, and they shall hear my vow, and remember.”

[outofangband]

But still there lived in hiding cold

Undaunted, Barahir the bold

Of land bereaved of lordship shorn

Who once a prince of men was born

And now an outlaw lurked and lay

In the hard Heath and Woodland Grey

And with him clung of faithful men

But Beren his son and other ten

Happy extremely late birthday, @eilinelsghost !! I’m so sorry this is so late. I am always in awe of your world building and lore for the Bëorians, especially in customs and language. It’s incredible and you are so talented!

[actual-bill-potts]

I.

Nóm arrives with the dawn, shining gold and smiling.

Little Beren is asleep; he had passed a restless night, waking often to wail with all the power of his little lungs - which was considerable. The babe had woken Emeldir so many times that she, who had shed hardly a tear from birthing-pains, had begun to cry; and at that Barahir had swept Beren from her arms, wrapped him up warmly, and departed their hut altogether.

At the first touch of the night air on his face, Beren had stopped crying; instead he had stared wide-eyed at the stars, wide brown eyes reflecting the light of the Valacirca until they slowly closed. More than half an Elf, that one - so like Emeldir already. Despite her stern face and strong arms, Emeldir loved the old tales, and the stars, and had something of the dreamy nature of her ancestor Belen - or so Nóm had said, at their wedding, and Barahir supposed that he would know.

Despite his exhaustion and the chill of the pre-dawn air, Barahir feels a smile tug at his lips at that. He hopes his son will take after Emeldir indeed, for she is everything good. In the strength of her arm, in the depth of her love, in her vivid way of telling tales, she is everything that he would have dared to hope for in a wife: aye, everything and more.

And then, as the first rays of the Sun bring a flush to his cheeks, he spots a tell-tale glint of gold on the horizon and breaks into a grin. He does not cry out a greeting - if Beren wakes again then Barahir will weep - but he shifts the little babe to one arm and raises the other in greeting, knowing Nóm will be able to see.

Not ten minutes later, Nóm arrives in truth. His smile near outshines his hair as he leaps from his horse. He is carrying a small velvet bag, cleverly sewn and encrusted with tiny glittering gems. At the sight, Barahir feels his face soften further, for he has a similar bag, tucked away in a closet; and so does Emeldir; and so indeed do all in the House of Bëor, living or dead.

"Good morning, friend Barahir!" Nóm greets cheerfully - but softly, mindful of little Beren. "Oh - your son is beautiful!"

"Good morning, Lord," Barahir responds, mildly amused by the sudden besotted tone in Nóm's voice. "I thank you. I said the same thing, when I first held him in my arms, though Emeldir persists in comparing him to a potato."

Nóm laughs. "A true lady of the Atani! As I recall, Andreth said something very similar about you - though not in Bregor's hearing, I assure you."

Barahir laughs lowly, holding Beren a little away from himself so that the laughter will not jostle him. "I am sure she will say the same thing about Beren, when she gets the chance," he says fondly.

"Ah, no," Nóm protests, "for Andreth speaks only the truth, and your babe is handsomeness itself."

Barahir looks hard at Nóm. "Was I a particularly ugly baby, then?"

"Ah - no - but Andreth was younger then, and perhaps more inclined to untruth," Nóm says hurriedly. "You were also beautiful, when I met you as a babe. You had such lovely small fingers and a laugh that could charm birds out of the trees. Your parents assured me it was remarkable for a child of the Atani to laugh so young!"

Barahir cannot help laughing again at Nóm's earnest protestations of his youthful perfection. "Ordinarily I would say that it is merely the famous Elvish love of children speaking for you - but in this my pride as a father must win out. Beren has not a single flaw in my eyes."

Nóm's eyes soften at the name. "Another Beren!" he says. "Is his grandfather pleased?"

"Pleased, and more than pleased!" Barahir exclaims, for his law-father had nearly fallen over with delight upon being introduced to his grandchild.

Then he remembers his manners. "Ah - Lord, you must be hungry - I can -" he breaks off, for he does not wish to set Beren down and run the risk of another waking, and Emeldir is asleep inside.

"No need, no need," Nóm says, waving his hand expansively. "I have no wish to inconvenience you, especially now. I have brought enough food to share," he adds, with a gesture to his saddlebags, "So do not worry."

"Thank you," Barahir says after a moment - his pride stings briefly, but not enough to overcome the idea of letting Emeldir sleep as she ought, and wake up to breakfast and a babe in good temper. And anyway, after so long it cannot be denied that it is Nóm's delight to bring gifts to the House of Bëor. It is an expression of love for a friend long-lost, his father Bregor had explained when he was young; and Andreth his sister had added, a wry twist to her mouth, it helps with the grief, to care for the family of one so loved.

So he does not protest the food, nor the other gifts he knows are coming, and Nóm's bright smile remains undimmed.

"I have brought this for little Beren," he says, gesturing to the bag in his hand, "and some other small things, for you and Emeldir - but all of those can wait! I have no wish to disturb the sleep of a child. I shall visit Andreth, and bring breakfast as a peace offering for my early arrival, and I will come back later in the day."

"Thank you!" Barahir says again, and smiles. "It is truly a delight to see you, Nóm."

Nóm's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles this time: the only sign of his great age that Barahir has ever been able to discern. "And it is a joy to see you, my friend!" he says.

He leads his horse away, and Barahir returns to rocking Beren, basking in the sun and the soft glow of Nóm's retreating presence.

Not long after that, both Emeldir and Beren begin to stir, and so they are all awake when Nóm comes again. He has found somewhere to leave his horse, and he brings with him a delicious-smelling covered basket in one hand and a somewhat lumpy sack in the other.

"Hello, Emeldir - and hello again, Barahir!" he says cheerfully, as soon as they open the door. "I have brought breakfast: potatoes and eggs, and sausage, and some fruit. I hope it was not too presumptuous," he adds, and then interrupts himself as he spots Beren in Emeldir’s arms, "oh, little Beren! He is perfect! Many congratulations!"

Barahir, feeling his stomach rumble and the exhaustion from his sleepless nights take hold, is even less inclined to listen to his pride than before. He says, "Thank you very much for bringing breakfast, Nóm. Will you eat with us?"

"Of course, of course!" Nóm says, beaming, "Many thanks!"

As Barahir is setting their table for breakfast, Emeldir says, "It is wonderful to see you, Nóm. Would you like to hold Beren?"

"Oh - yes!" Nóm exclaims, and holds out his arms. Barahir feels a moment of apprehension at that - Lord Finrod is so excited, it is as if he has never held a baby before - but reminds himself that Nóm had held both him and Emeldir as babes, and all their ancestors besides. And indeed Nóm supports Beren’s head with the necessary care, and Barahir feels a smile grow on his own face as Elf and baby stare enraptured at each other.

"Bah!" Beren exclaims, and tugs on one of Nóm’s braids.

"Bah indeed, little one!" Nóm echoes. "I have a present for you, if your parents permit it," looking questioningly at them, and when Emeldir nods he says, "it is in the sack I left by the door - if you would bring the little bag to him? There are some other small gifts in there," he adds, seemingly carelessly, as Emeldir goes to open the sack, "for you, and for him - but those can wait till after breakfast!"

Barahir watches, plates forgotten for the moment, as Nóm takes the little shining bag from Emeldir and opens it for Beren. He withdraws a little wooden figure and sets it in Beren’s tiny hands. Beren immediately brings it to his mouth and begins to chew.

"No no, it is not for chewing -" Emeldir begins to protest, but Nóm is laughing.

"It will do him no harm, I promise," he says, "and it is his toy, after all, to do with as he wills."

"What animal is it?" Barahir asks, rather eager to know. When he had been a tiny child, Nóm had carved him a hound, ears pricked and head up, ready for a hunt; and Emeldir’s gift from him had been a badger. They were lovely things, sturdy toys for children that became treasured pieces of decoration as they grew; and Barahir’s hound now nestled with Emeldir’s badger upon their mantel.

"It is a nightingale!" Nóm says. "You know, it is very odd," he adds thoughtfully, "I felt certain that it must be a nightingale, for him, though I know not why. Perhaps he will grow up to be a bard!"

"Perhaps," says Barahir.

"He has the lungs for it," adds Emeldir, to general laughter.

Beren suddenly pulls the toy out of his mouth and smiles at Nóm: a real smile, the first from their babe! He has a deep dimple in his left cheek, and he is smiling so hard that his brown eyes nearly disappear into the folds of his cheeks. Barahir feels joy fill his heart at the sight; looking at Emeldir, he knows she feels the same.

"You have a beautiful smile, little Beren!" Nóm says, near glowing with satisfaction. Then he looks at Barahir and his wife.

"Thank you," he says. "I treasure these moments dearly."

"But of course!" Emeldir says. She is smiling.

"Thank you for coming to us!" Barahir says. "And now we should eat," he adds, feeling his stomach rumble again; and Nóm hands the baby back to Emeldir, and comes to help him set everything out for breakfast.

Nóm departs after a stay of only a few days, citing unrest in the North. He leaves behind three lovely baby-blankets, downy-soft; several sets of baby-clothes, in varying sizes, which button cleverly, the smallest of which somehow fits Beren perfectly; a new set of knives for Barahir; a lovely warm shawl for Emeldir; and the little nightingale, which Barahir hopes will someday sit on a mantle of Beren’s own.

He wonders, sometimes, what it means for his son that Nóm the Farsighted was so sure he would want a nightingale. Perhaps Beren will be a singer after all.

But mostly he looks at Beren, who now smiles more often than he cries, and feels nothing but joy.