#Belen

[digitalfountains]

Belen & Mariana Vieira Elek Machado by Autumn Sonnichsen

[seraphirism]

Chapter 5 of the main story is going to be released soon, with its first part dropping during the end of august.

It will have 5 parts, the first two parts focusing on Belen/ベレン and the white-haired (elf-ish looking) character (that was relevant in chapter 4 of the main story.)

From part 3 onwards, we’ll be focusing on a butler’s past (the usual.). AND this chapter will mark a turning point in the main story, hence it’s a very important chapter; so say the devs.

[unteriors]

S 10th Street, Belen, New Mexico.

[anira-naeg]

House of Beor: Part 1

(I rely on Professor Tolkien's descriptions, where it was said that the people of Beor were darker than the rest of the Edain tribes, and that among them there were both very dark and pale ones, such as Morwen. Therefore, please, don’t point your finger at me that I did something wrong, because I only do what is written in the books)

[eilinelsghost]

Part 20: Far Have You Roamed

Rating: T Relationships: Bëor & Gildor Inglorion, Bëor & Baran, Bëor & Belen Characters: Bëor, Gildor Inglorion, Baran, Belen, Estreth (OC), Finrod (in that he sort of haunts the narrative) Word Count: 12.7k

Balan felt a twinge in his chest as he looked out over them, first of pride in his son’s work, and then of loss—that this land which held his early love for Nóm had been changed now beyond return.

Bëor and Gildor travel to Estolad while Finrod is occupied in Doriath. The two discuss their similar griefs and Bëor must face seeing his people - and his eldest son - for the first time since passing down the clan's leadership.

[thelordofgifs]

Podfic: Grief in All Her Guises

I am forever just so blown away by how gorgeously musical the prose of @eilinelsghost's Atandil series is – and so, several months on, I am continuing with my little project of reading it aloud!

You can listen to my podfic of the second fic in the series, Grief in All Her Guises, on its AO3 page, or stream and download it from the Internet Archive here.

Summary: A few months after Finrod discovered the Edain near Thalos, he continues to dwell with them and form friendships. Balan (Bëor) attempts to learn multiple languages, some old folktales of the Edain come up in conversation, and Balan and Finrod discuss grief with a side of constellations. Balan has a crush.

[teatro-magico-solo-para-locos]

@teatro-magico-solo-para-locos

Católico

[wgm-beautiful-world]

Igreja de Santa Maria de Belém (Mosteiro de Jerônimo) em Lisboa, PORTUGAL

[actual-bill-potts]

Thanks @eilinelsghost for enabling me

Balan held on. By his fingernails, somehow, and his teeth if necessary. It was odd, because he was fairly sure most of his teeth had been gone by the time he died, but here they were back, and if they’d help him hold on then by all the gods he’d use them.

You must go, a hooded and cloaked figure had said when he first arrived. You do not belong here. Námo, he had realized with cold shock, the Doomsman of the Valar. He who had cursed Finrod.

Bright rage had flowed through his body then (so frail just a moment ago, and the juxtaposition between memory and feeling near made him fall over before mastering himself). "I will not leave until I see Nóm again."

Who? The tolling voice of Námo sounded almost puzzled, for a moment. Then the air seemed to clear. Oh. Him.

"Yes," Balan spat, "he whom you doomed."

He did that himself, Námo said, voice falling wearily like the pounding of great stones upon the earth.

Balan decided not to argue the point. "I won’t leave," he said. "I promised."

The feeling of a sigh seemed to manifest in the air around him. And what of your first wife, who has gone beyond the veil of Arda?

A pang. Esrid. To see her again, after all this time -

But Finrod had wept. Finrod had begged him not to leave, to stay for but another hour, another minute -

And Balan had left him.

"Esrid is gone indeed, beyond the world," he said, "but Nóm lives still. I will not leave him."

You must, said Námo - but was there hesitation in his voice?

There was.

Balan smiled to himself. "I will not leave," he said. "You do not command my fate. You cannot force me."

Námo inclined his great head. It will hurt, he warned. My halls are not made for mortals.

"I don’t care," Balan said.

The feeling of weariness, of great age, in the air intensified. Very well, Námo said, but neither can I help you.

"I don’t care," Balan had said again; but his heart misgave him. Finrod might live for a thousand years more. A thousand years, alone in the dark. He could not do it. He was not made for it.

Well, might as well try anyway, he told himself, and anyway I made a promise.

It was cold and dark for a long time then, and he was alone. He wandered in dreams, and tried to cling to happy memories: Baran and Belen, laid in his arms. Baran climbing a tree, eyes alight with happiness; Belen sat by the fire, eyes shining and far away.

Balan could see, as if from very far away, the shining motion of spirits through and out of Mandos. He wondered absently if anyone he knew was in that great procession; then decided it was not worth the risk to ask, lest he be swept up with them.

One day (night? He was sitting in an endless dusk) his eldest son approached, spirit blazing as brightly as it ever had within his body. From far away he appeared old and worn, older than Balan had ever seen: but as he approached the years seemed to fall away, until he was again the study youth of twenty-two summers he had been when Balan departed for Nargothrond.

"Father!" he exclaimed, rushing to fling his arms around Balan; and Balan found to his surprise that he was solid enough to be embraced. "Father, it is so good to see you!"

"And it is good to see you," Balan returned, laughing and weeping at once, "my eldest, pride of my heart!"

"What are you doing here?" Baran asked when the embrace ended. "We are all going that way," and he pointed to the endless procession.

"I am waiting," Balan said.

"Oh," Baran said. His face fell. "Father, will you not come with me? I have missed you."

Balan felt as if he were being torn in two; but he had made a promise. He pulled his son close to him again.

"I must wait," he said gently. "I promised. Carry my greetings to your mother, will you? I love you, Baran."

"I will wait with you," Baran offered - but reluctantly.

Balan shook his head. "You have made no vows. My son - O my son! I am so proud of you!" He found himself weeping again. He had not remembered he could weep.

Baran’s tears were wetting his shoulder; but at last his son pulled away. "I must go," Baran said reluctantly.

"I know you must," Balan said. "Be happy, my son. Go and find light."

Baran smiled. "I will!" he said, for he was strong, and merry of heart, and after all very wise.

"Wait -" Balan said, as Baran turned away. "What news of Nóm?"

Baran turned back, briefly. "He visits us often, and plays with the children. But he grieves."

With that he was gone, and Balan was left blinking in the endless dark.

There were more, after him. Belen, soon enough; then his grandchildren, Boron and Baranor and Beldir, grown into old men whose years fell off them as they stepped into Mandos, and who shed their bodies as they stepped out of it. They recognized him, always; and he loved them, always.

"I will stay with you," offered Belen, and Belemir, and Bereg. Their high quick courage swept Balan with pride every time. His children surpassed him at every turn.

Always he shook his head. The years blurred together.

"What news of Nóm?" he asked Belegor, and Bregor, and Gilwen.

Nóm was helping rebuild their great hall, which had been destroyed in a fire that past summer; Nóm was being taught woodworking, and was comically bad at it; Nóm was visiting less, for there was trouble in the North.

He grieves for thee, they said. He grieves for thee. He grieves for thee.

The blink of an eye passed - or was it years? - and a man with Baran’s nose stumbled into view. He was bleeding badly, looking around in shock.

He - wasn’t old.

No.

As the man - Balan guessed he was one of Bregor’s children - approached, his wounds seemed to close, and he stood up straighter. Still he seemed weary and sad.

"Father?" he whispered as he passed by.

"Not your father, nor yet his father," Balan said, who after all had lived with Elves for many a year and furthermore had nothing to do in the endless dusk save amuse himself with riddles.

The man’s eyes widened. "Bëor?"

"Tis I," Balan said, "and what is your name, son?"

"I am - Barahir," the man said, and Balan felt a lurch in his stomach. But Barahir was so young! The youngest of Bregor’s children!

"There was - fire," said Barahir, seeing his look, "fire and death; and our lands are gone. My son -" he broke off. He began to weep.

Balan drew him close. "I am sorry," he breathed, "so sorry. You will see him again."

"I hope he does not suffer too much," Barahir whispered. "O Emeldir! Say not that she too has died in pain!"

"I have not met Emeldir," said Balan, "so she is not dead."

"Little comfort that is, in these times," Barahir said grimly; but his face lightened. "She led our people to safety. She is stronger than I. She will survive."

He began to move away, towards the ever-moving column of light that Balan refused to join; then he stopped as Balan said urgently, "Wait! Is Nóm - has he -"

"Nóm lives," said Barahir. "I saved his life, in fact; and he swore to me a life-debt in return."

Balan stood stunned. A life-debt? Why? They were all of them sworn to protect Nóm, as he was to protect them. Why would he…?

Barahir laughed at his expression. "That’s what I said!" he exclaimed. "But he insisted. I didn’t want to refuse. He was very badly injured. It will all come to nothing, anyway," he added wryly. "The ring he gave me is doubtless in some Orc trophy-hoard by now. More’s the pity. It was beautiful."

There was only one ring Balan had ever seen Finrod wear. "He gave you the ring of his father?" he demanded.

Barahir nodded. "He has not forgotten you," he said quietly. "I did not expect to see you here; but I am glad of it, for there are dark times coming. But my part in the story is done!" he added. "I go to await my wife and son, and see my father. I wish you joy," he added as he left.

In the retreating light of Barahir’s spirit, Balan reeled. He could near picture the scene: Finrod, wounded and tired - his heart bled to think of it - giving Barahir his father’s ring. Of course Finrod would do something foolish like that, he thought fondly, the second one of us did him the slightest favor.

He longed to see Nóm; but he hoped Finrod would survive Morgoth’s onslaught. He did not deserve to die in pain.

Balan settled himself in to wait again. He had mastered waiting by now. He laid his spirit down, gently, and closed the eyes he did not have. Let the stars he could not see wheel behind above his head; felt the soft hand of memory close in his own. There was peace in it, after all this time. But he worried. Was Nóm all right?

Suddenly behind him there came an animal cry, guttural and hoarse. Balan sat up so fast his head - which was more metaphorical than physical - spun. He whipped around as the cry came again and saw a body.

That was…not good. Wasn’t Námo supposed to take care of these things? Not let people suffer?

Balan waited a moment; but the Doomsman did not appear. The Elf - if Elf he was - was now breathing raggedly. The sound tugged at his heartstrings. When Námo still made no appearance, he sighed and approached. Perhaps he could offer comfort, before Námo came from wherever he was hiding and swept this one off to be healed.

The Elf was naked, and so thin and wasted that Balan could count every one of his ribs. His hair fell to his knees, but was so tangled and matted its color could not be seen. He was covered in blood: so much blood, Balan had never seen so much blood on a person!

He knelt beside the Elf and reached out, carefully, to touch his shoulder. "My friend," he said gently, feeling an odd stirring of familiarity and foreboding as he said the words, "can I help?"

A sharp intake of breath: and Balan knew already what he would see as the Elf forced his ruined body to turn and face him. Clear grey eyes opened wide, and Balan looked into the face of Finrod Felagund for the first time in a hundred years.

"Nóm?" he whispered, torn between furious joy and deep heartsickness. "Nóm, what happened?"

"Balan?" Finrod rasped. His eyes were filled with pain and terror. One of them was swollen nearly shut, and the left side of his face tilted oddly: something was broken in his face. "Balan, how came you here?"

"How came I - I died!" Balan said, exasperated. "And you, foolish Elf, were supposed to live! What is wrong?" He did not know what to do. He had nothing with which to bind wounds, and little skill in healing. The sight of Finrod in such pain smote his heart.

But as he continued speaking, Finrod sat up slowly and reached out a hand. It progressed hesitatingly towards Balan, inch by shaking inch; and as it extended the twisted fingers straightened, the bloodied wrist became whole, until the hand that cupped Balan’s cheek was as warm and solid as it had once been in Nargothrond.

"Bëor?" Finrod whispered. "Beyond hope I have passed - is this joy truly mine?"

"I waited for you," Balan said. "I said I wouldn’t leave you. I promised."

A sob; and suddenly Finrod was in Balan’s arms, shining and whole and weeping as if his heart would break.

[digitalfountains]

Belen & Mariana Vieira Elek Machado by Autumn Sonnichsen

[anerea-lantiria]

"We are the sum of the parts of the world"

The Edain creation myth in Atanatárissë by @eilinelsghost is so inspiring! Here's my rendering of the page she describes from Beor's book of lore, an heirloom handed down through the generations from second child to second child. Do yourself a favour and treat yourself to this fic!

In the beginning of time there was the Dark. Within the Dark dwelt Melishk, the goddess of earth. And within the Dark dwelt Guënid, the god of water. Long they danced in the time ere forms were bound, long they wound together in the shapeless mingling. Each pressed into each, seeking ever to lessen the substance wherein they lay separate from the other, until from their union was wrought clay, there amid the timeless spheres.

Thence from the clay of their unity were wrought six forms, limbed and visaged in the fashion of Men. Then Melishk said to Guënid, “Now let us call forth our sisters to aid us, now let us summon hence our brothers for succor. Let us make within the dark a habitation, that these figures we have shaped may be filled with our breath and live, that within them we might dwell forever as one. From earth and from water have they been ordered, from earth and from water have they been formed, and within them shall earth and water walk ever in the bond of unity.” Then Melishk set forth hills rising up from the soil, upon its face she smoothed valleys and fields. And Guënid swiftly did follow her there: to the heights where he rushed down in torrents; to the valleys in sluggish, wide calm; to the fields where his tendrils spread through her loam.

At that time Fon rose up from his slumber and fire came forth within the world. He passed over hill and field and vale, till he stood beside the gods of water and earth and looked on the work of their mingling. Heat he gave unto the six waiting figures before him and receiving such, their clay limbs eased into flesh. Then Luftu soared through the timeless spheres and with the wind of her presence she laid breath within them. Iuthap awakened too at the call of her sister and illuminated the bare world about them. She set her lips to the face of each figure and sight came into their eyes. Then she leapt laughing into the firmament to take up once more the gods’ dance in the sky. At the last, Satheweis arose from the silence and his singing followed Iuthap’s dance through the air. He brushed his lips across each waiting mouth and at once speech came forth from their tongues. Thus were our people born from the Darkness, our tale called up from the Silence. Remember its measure and call out its rhythm: We are the sum of the parts of the world. We are the meeting of earth and of water. We are the fire and light. Ours, the song of the Dark.

[viejospellejos]

Secuestran al niño Jesús de un Belén de Alicante y piden 2000€ de rescate:

[reecerarts]

belén agreed to this pinup, but ONLY because it's christmas times!!

[that-angry-noldo]

a small illustration for @eilinelsghost Atandil! i have absolutely fallen in love with the series and would recommend it to everyone. hope you don't mind :3

[eilinelsghost]

Atanatárissë

Fic by @eilinelsghost; Art by @anerea-lantiria For @tolkienrsb 2023

Fic Rating: T; Art Rating: G Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Anárion & Elendil, Finrod/Bëor, Hiril/Hathaldir, Hiril & Rían, Hiril & Beleth, Andreth/Aegnor, Andreth & Adanel, Bëor & Belen, Belen & Finrod, Belen & Baran, Bëor & Baran Characters: Anárion, Bëor, Finrod, Silmariën, Hiril, Hathaldir, Rían, Beleth, Andreth, Adanel, Aegnor, Belen, Baran Word Count: 16,914

In Nargothrond in the First Age, Bëor wrote down the oral tradition of his people to pass on to his younger son, Belen. Throughout the rest of that age and the next, his descendants preserve this book through grief and joy, war and cataclysm, from the highlands of Dorthonion to the fall of Númenor, and reencounter the mythology of their people in the ongoing dance of memory and immortality.

Atanatári: (Quenya) The Fathers of Men Issë: (Quenya) Knowledge, Lore

"Belen [was the] second son of Bëor the Old, to whom the wisdom of Bëor (for Bëor himself had been one of the wise) was chiefly transmitted." - Introductory notes to the "Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth," Morgoth's Ring, page 306

I am thrilled to finally get to share Atanatárissë with you all! I was so nervous going into TRSB this year - I've never done an event before and am very new both to writing fanfic and to online fandom in general - but this has been one of the most delightful writing experiences I've ever had. I have so much gratitude to @anerea-lantiria for this incredible art and for the amazing encouragement she's given throughout this whole process. It has been such a joy to work together on this project and I'm indebted to you for providing the inspiration that allowed this piece to come to life.

[thelordofgifs]

Obscure Tolkien Blorbo: Round 1

Hareth vs Belen

[entertainingly, if you swap two letters around you get Haleth vs Beren - but these blorbos are rather more obscure than that...]

Hareth:

The daughter of Halmir, the Chieftain of the Haladin. She married Galdor and is the mother of Húrin and Huor.

I created her entire personality and I love her

Belen:

Younger son of Bëor the Old. An ancestor of Beren.

Bëor passed all his wisdom down to the 2nd son. So he's the imaginative, brainy one who would also be fascinated by the random Elf who showed up and probably lived in Nargothrond for a bit if Bëor had a chance to teach him all his wisdom and lore, since Belen was only 18 when Bëor peaced out for Nargothrond.

Round 1 masterpost