#Oromë was like 'Ah yes

[markscherz]

Hello,

Please enjoy these gray tree frogs(I’m pretty sure) that like to hang out around my house. They make me happy :)

I mean, tree frogs always give me joy. You are blessed to have such ready access to them.

[swanmaids]

celegorm and orome 7!

7. to shut them up

this got away from me a little :') warning for some tame implied sex

~

Tyelkormo stretched out against the base of the tree, shucked his boots off and dug his toes in the loamy soil. He took a deep, deliberate breath of green forest air, let it fill up his lungs, and smiled. By his side, his mare snuffled at the ground. Ah, yes - it had been several days of hard riding to make it here, and she probably deserved a reward. He held out a hand to the air, and a perfectly round, red apple dropped into his palm. Tyelkormo said a silent thanks to Vána and offered the treat to his horse, her hot tongue licking over his hand as she gratefully accepted, before wandering off to graze elsewhere.

After such a short time back in the Woods of Oromë, Tyelkormo was already feeling more like himself than he ever did at Formenos. Yes - he was pleased with himself. This little excursion had been an excellent idea.

Well, perhaps excursion was putting it a bit delicately. But he'd been climbing the walls cooped up in Formenos. Tyelkormo was not meant to be caged - he needed the Woods. He needed him. So he'd taken matters into his own hands.

Tyelkormo could imagine his father's reaction when he'd inevitably discovered that the elf-shaped pile of pillows underneath Tyelkormo’s blankets was not, in fact, his third son, but right now that wasn't his problem. It had been an easy enough task to bribe Curufinwë to tell father that he'd snuck out to visit Angaráto and his family for the week - father was not going to be pleased to hear it, but it was far and away a better story for him to believe than the reality, and besides, he wasn't the one banned from Tirion. Then he'd waited until the keep was asleep, before swinging himself out of his bedroom window with the aid of a few tied-together spare bedsheets like a maiden in a romance novel and jumping the last metre or so to reach the ground. A short jog under darkness to the stables was the final step, and then it was goodbye, Formenos.

For now, anyway. He'd followed his father into exile in the first place for a reason, after all. But in this moment, he had no reason to dwell on the future, because he was finally here.

Oromë stood before him in the little clearing as though he'd always been there. The form he wore was a little different to those which Tyelkormo had seen before - his hair long and in beaded locs, his horns an unfamiliar shape - but the Power that Oromë carried was unmistakable, as was the little flip that Tyelkormo's stomach did at the sight of him. The trees almost seemed to bend in reverance to their lord, and the air itself was still.

"My hasty one," the great Hunter said, "how did you come to be here?"

Tyelkormo simply grinned up at him in response - Oromë's voice said that he knew exactly how, and approved.

They embraced deliberately, coming together in the way of those who have endured a long seperation and are soon to be parted once more. Some of Tyelkormo's brothers talked of the Valar as wispy, insubstantial creatures, but little did they know of Oromë. Entwined with Tyelkormo in the Woods, he was all strength and flesh and muscle. He was the scent of sweat and leather in Tyelkormo's nose and the taste of salt on his tongue, the rub of the earth against his back and the pleasant soreness throughout his body. He was inside him, underneath him, and all around him.

Afterwards, Oromë was uncharacteristically pensive.

"Will you be leaving again?"

"Soon, I suppose. My father needs us all close - these times are uncertain."

"That they are." Oromë's face was grave. "My youngest brother seeks Melkor throughout the valleys and trees of this land, but he has found no trace. And it may well be too late - the discord that he sought to sow has already taken root. Does the light of the Trees not seem dimmer to you, too?"

An icy trickle ran down Tyelkormo's spine - he could hardly deny that he had thought the same. It was not something that he wished to dwell on.

"I did not come to you for talk of doom and portents," he said, putting a little smile into his voice. "I can get plenty of that at home with my father. Surely there is something else we could be doing instead?"

Oromë clearly saw the clumsy avoidance of the subject for what it was, but allowed it; and allowed Tyelkormo to press their mouths together for another kiss, and another, and another after that. Tyelkormo closed his eyes, melted into it, and did not think about the future.

[silmforrookies]

Chapter II. Valaquenta, or Wow, That's a Lot of Names

Alright, so where were we - ah yes, Eru showed the Ainur the vision of the World (Arda), and a lot of them decided Arda is cool so they came down and started shaping the world. Sounds about right.

Now, what exactly is Valaquenta? Basically, it's a chapter where Tolkien introduces us to the divine beings, not in "general", like in the last chapter, but more personally - we learn their names, what they are like, what are their domains, and that Melkor is a b-(CENSORED). Though we already knew that last bit.

Valaquenta can be divided into three sections:

Fanboying Over Valar

Fanboying Over Maiar

Melkor Is A Bastard And We Should Not Forget That

"Noldo", you might ask, "with all my due respect, who the hell are Valar and Maiar?"

Valar and Maiar are two kinds of Ainur - an Ainu is a Vala or a Maia depending on their power; Valar are the rulers, and Maiar are the servants. There are seven Vala-Lords and seven Valië-Queens; so fourteen if put them together and fifteen if you add Melkor - but Melkor is an idiot so he doesn't count. Their names are: Manwë, Ulmo, Aulë, Oromë, Namo (Mandos), Irmo (Lórien), and Tulkas; and Varda, Yavanna, Nienna, Estë, Vairë, Vána, and Nessa.

Well. Onto the main course! (if you've just heard someone sobbing in despair, yeah, that was me, sorry.) LETS LEARN ABOUT THE VALAR, KIDS! LETS RAISE OUR PRAYERS TO OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR MANWË SÚLIMO-

Manwë, also known as Manwë Súlimo, is the creator of skies and air and all that inhabits it. He's Eru's favourite. Eru's perfect son. Eru's golden child. He understands Eru like no one else does and often has private chats with him. When they only descended into Arda, he was second in might to Melkor, but, since Melkor is an idiot, he's deemed the strongest of the Valar. Manwë is married, and his wife's name is Varda.

Varda is elven favourite. Her surname is Elbereth, or Elentári, depending on which political party you will choose later in the years. She is Lady of Stars, and her domain is light. She and Manwë dwell together on the highest peak of Taniquetil (local holy mountain), and when they sit beside each other on their thrones, Varda hears all what's happening in Arda, and Manwë sees further than anyone else.

Oh, by the way! Melkor wanted to date Varda but she rejected him, because - you guessed it! - he is an idiot. So Melkor is scared shitless of her, as he should be.

Ulmo is the Vala of water, and he is positively Done. Manwë? Done. Melkor? Done. Eruhini? Do- oh wait, he loves those, actually.

Ulmo doesn't give a shit unless the world is literally falling apart. He doesn't wear "normal" bodies like the other Valar and appears in a form of giant warrior (borderline giant wave) which scares the Children of Ilùvatar which, in turn, makes Ulmo sad - because he loves them.

Ulmo reigns over all waters and often travels to Middle-Earth. Elves believe his voice and words can be heard in rivers and streams. He was best friends with Manwë, but we don't know much about the current state of affairs - only that Ulmo rarely visits land or other Valar.

Aulë is a craftsman. He is second in might to Ulmo, and created a lot in tandem with him and Manwë. He made metals and minerals, and he delights in all handiworks - from little trinkets to majestic buildings. He and Melkor are ✨narrative parralels✨. Both of them are driven by the will to create something new and original - but, while Melkor wastes his power on envy and hatred, Aulë doesn't think himself greater than the others, is quick to help and to be helped. Melkor absolutely hates his guts. He's been destroying Aulë's creations since the dawn of time. Aulë first have been repairing them, but then grew weary, tired of Melkor's temper tantrums.

Aulë is married to Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits, also called Kementári, Queen of Earth. She claims author rights to the animals and plants and is as powerful as Varda.

Next up are Feantúri-brothers, Námo Mandos and Irmo Lórien, named so for the places of their dwellings - and then, their respective spouses.

Námo, the Lord of Doom, knows time, or, as Galadriel said, "things that were, things that are, and things that yet may be". He suffers from a disease known as "I TOLD YOU SO! I TOLD YOU SO, BUT NOOOO, WHY WOULD WE LISTEN TO NÁMO, AKA THE DOOMSMAN, AKA THE ONE WHO KNOWS LITERALLY ALL THE SPOILERS?!" His name is Námo, but he is often called Mandos because his home is called Mandos, House of the Dead. He summons all the dead souls and makes sure they heal accordingly. He's married to Vairë the Weaver, who weaves the history of Arda into her tapestries.

Irmo Lórien is a Vala of dreams and rest. His respectable place of dwelling is Lórien - the fairest of places in Arda. He lives with his wife Estë, Valie of healing, who sleeps by day and walks by night. Lórien is a place where many find peace and refreshment - not just Elves, but Ainur too.

Similar to Estë, but more powerful than her, is Nienna. To shorten the story:

Nienna is Sadness and Grief, and she mourns every wound Melkor does to Arda. In fact, she started mourning long before the Arda even existed, in her Song. She spends a lot of time in Halls of Mandos, helping dead souls and mourning with them.

Then comes Tulkas the Valiant. Tulkas is. Well.

(live footage of tulkas viping the floor with melkor, years of the lamps, silmarillion)

He's super strong and is absolutely unhinged. Dude knows no fear. He has only one mission: to beat up Melkor. Yes, you guessed it, Melkor absolutely hates his guts. He is married to Nessa, Valie of... dancing? beauty? Nessa is a sister of Oromë - Vala of Hunting. Oromë loves forests and loves Middle-Earth; he would often visit it, and he would often beat Melkor's ass, too. Orome has a sister, Vaná, Valië of Youth.

So, there are fourteen Valar - but if you thought we're done, ohoho! you're in for a wild ride, my friend, for the Valar are divided into Aratar (kings and queens) and non-Aratar (everybody else). There are eight Aratar: Manwë, Varda, Ulmo, Aulë, Yavanna, Aulë, Nàmo, Nienna and Oromë. Melkor could've been up there, but he's an idiot, so. Yeah.

Yeah.

Yeah.

(cries in dozen more of the Maiar)

Alright, kids. Buckle up, since the Maiar are beating up my ass and I have no patience left!

Ilmarë and Eönwë - chiefs of the Maiar in Valinor. Ilmarë is a handmaid of Varda and Eönwë is a Herald of Manwë.

Uinen and Ossë - Maiar of Ulmo. Ossë loves coasts and islands and delights in storms. Uinen is his wife, and she loves the deep waters. Ossë, chaotic bastard as he was, once almost joined Melkor and went unhinged, but, fortunately, Uinen brought him back to the light side with the ✨power of love✨. Ossë is still a tiny little bit unhinged and sometimes loves drowning ships for funsies, that's why sailors pray to Uinen to calm him down. Relationship goals, amirite.

Melian was a Maia who spent most of her life in Middle-Earth, married a major elven hottie, borned a daughter who was even a bigger hottie, and suffered from a disease known as "for god's sake please someone listen to a literal angel advising you", but we know nothing about that yet.

Ólorin, aka Gandalf, aka Mithrandir, aka The Guy You Definitely Know About!

AND NOW, FINALLY, LETS TALK ABOUT OUR LOCAL DEMONS! I'VE GOT FITEEN MINUTES UNTIL 15 H, CAN YOU TELL I'M SANE

Alright - so, of course, we've got our local Satan, Melkor, aka Morgoth, aka Bauglir, aka The Guy Who is Still A Bastard. He didn't have a particular domain - but he had part in powers of all the Ainur, and it was intended for him to help other Ainur excell even more at their crafts. Unfortunately, he spent all of his might to hate and envy, until he could do nothing else but imitate the creations of other Ainur. Still, there were many who followed him; most terrifying of them were Valaraukar, aka Balrogs - spirits of fire, demons of terror.

And of course, Sauron. What to say about Sauron?... Well, he's a bastard who looks up to Melkor. Mini-Boss. Mini-Morgoth. He does have cool fire-cat-werewolf aesthetic, though. If Melkor is chaos, Sauron is Order. If Melkor is brute force, Sauron is swift strategy. Sauron, though he's a Maia, is as terrifying as his Master, and it's better not to cross him.

Well, that was it! I've got two more minutes left until 15h - you'll get me next time, procrastination >:)

taglist: @none-ofthisnonsense (ask to be added!)

[ladysternchen]

All of Arda Is Autistic- Elu Thingol

“And what exactly are you doing here?”

Elu jumped so much at the sound of her voice that he almost dropped the neatly wrapped parcel in his hand. Melian’s grey eyes sparkled in the dark, and though her expression was unfathomable, Elu could sense her faint amusement.

“Um…”

Being caught red-handed, so to say, made him feel like a little child that had been discovered in some mischief-making, and however much he tried to convince himself that he was not, that he was an Elvenking and Lord of Beleriand to boot, he could not shake the feeling off.   

“You have not, of course, tried to sneak some way-bread from under my nose, did you, my dear? Or are you still to tell me of travel-plans I do not know about yet?”

He drew himself up to his full height, looking back at his wife defensively.

“You know full well I wouldn’t go anywhere without telling you!”

She raised an eyebrow, her arms folded before her chest.

“Well then, lord, you might want to tell me what you just stole that lembas for!”

“I didn’t steal… can’t a king even take what supplies he needs within his own kingdom?”

“No. Because the lembas belongs to our wardens, and to the healers who may give it to the wounded if need be. It is certainly not meant for any elf who is just too lazy to eat, not even if that elf happens to be you!”

Elu sighed deeply, and put the parcel back, wondering vaguely if he had indeed been able to fool Melian for that past centuries or if she had -for reasons best known to herself- only now decided that this was one time too many. She didn’t speak as she stepped closer to him and wrapped him in her embrace, and he pressed his nose into her black curls, inhaling that familiar scent deeply.

“I love you…” he murmured, which made Melian laugh.

“I love you, too, but you’re evading my question: what were you doing with that lembas?”

He raised his eyebrows at her. As if she didn’t know the answer herself.

“Well, what do you think I was going to do with it? Live off it for a while.”

Again, Melian sighed deeply. 

“It doesn’t work like that, Elu. Lembas is no substitute for real food, not on long term. Oh, come on, who’s the Maia here who needed to learn about those things?”

She was still talking as if in jest, though he could make out the concern behind her serene tone.

“We lived off little else on the journey. Had Oromë not given it to us, none of us would ever have made it to Beleriand.”

��Yes, beloved…” she answered in a tone that would have been well fit for an elfling who refused to believe that water indeed was wet “… that’s what it was made for, thus it is called way-bread. But we’re not on a journey. We’re home, so stay away from my lembas!”

Elu could not help but scowl at her.

“Fine. Then I’ll have to learn to bake it myself!”

Predictably, Melian went into a fit of laughter at this, and Elu had to admit that the idea was indeed funny- as he knew full well that the art of making lembas was taught to only a few handpicked ellith, and needed to be blessed by Melian, and that he had no way ever to succeed in that task. 

“Ah, it’s almost worth wasting the corn to see you try.” she said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “That would give all of Beleriand something to laugh for a while!”

“It would also be worth it just to make my point.”

Melian laid her head on his shoulder again.

“A battle of wills, then? Something you think you can but win, because you know I would never let you starve? Really, Elu? Why can’t you just come with me and join the others in our evening meal? You know you’ll get whatever you want!”

“It’s…” 

Suddenly, he was at a loss of what to say. He had never found eating easy, not even in his earliest memories. He had become quite skilled in slipping Olwë (and much later again Elmo) his share of the food without their parents noticing, trusting that even if his baby-brother didn’t eat it, he would still love to play around with it. He shuddered even now when he remembered his brother examining with glee the different textures of the various foods. Later, when they had left Cuiviénen for good, and Oromë had gifted them with the first lembas, he had rejoiced even more than everyone else, as this truly was the perfect solution as far as he was concerned. And then, of course, when he had stood unmoving with Melian in Nan Elmoth, he had not needed to eat, and had never truly relearned it since. 

“I just don’t like eating. Especially not with everyone else around.”

He was starting to feel more and more nettled, and he knew he needed to get out of this conversation quickly, before he said something he would later regret. Melian, clearly sensing his emotions, stepped away from him, giving him the space he needed. They stood in silence for a while, then she spoke again, though softly this time.

“I did not mean to upset you, beloved, I am worried about you… here’s a deal: you accept that I am the one to give away the lembas, and no one else. And you try your best to eat normal food, but if you really can’t manage sometimes, you come to me, and I shall give you some? Does that sound like an agreement?”

Swallowing his pride, he nodded, for however much he searched for an argument against her proposal, he couldn’t find one. Then, when it truly sank in what she had just offered, he pulled her back into his arms.

“Thanks!” he mumbled.

[oxbridge-scribbles]

For Innumerable Stars 2022

Prompt by BloodwingBlackbird for the character group "Farmer Maggot's Dogs & Oromë"

Inspired by the Strength card from the Rider–Waite Tarot deck and an abundance of existential terror. More after the jump.

(Fish's note--Noodle didn't quite finish this note before life intervened but says that the gist of it is here. Having listened to endless moaning about this for the past two months, I can confirm.)

----------------------

I probably intermittently screamed for about half an hour when I saw this character group nestled amongst other (ostensibly) more... approachable groups, but I like to suffer, so I sorrowfully set aside my draft of a M*A*S*H* pastiche set in the Houses of Healing and went on a journey through the gurgling bowels of the internet.

Eventually, I somehow stumbled on the Strength card from the Rider-Waite deck:

"Ah," I said to myself sagely after reading precisely half a Wikipedia article, "Yes."

The Strength card depicts a lion and a woman with a lemniscate (infinity symbol) over her head. Some cards place the woman in a more explicit position of power, while others simply have them cuddling and the like.

Wikipedia says that A. E. Waite says that this card is associated with "power, energy, action, courage, magnanimity; also complete success and honours" while, when reversed, it is associated with "despotism, abuse of power, weakness, discord, sometimes even disgrace."

"Tulkas," I mumbled feverishly, "Melkor. Trees."

Sluggishly, I plumbed Google for some inspiration on Farmer Maggot's dogs. I emerged from that dark road with nothing but their names, which I promptly forgot.

"That lion looks like a hairy dog," I said, "And sure, let's make Oromë genderously ambiguous and worry about everything else later."

Oromë, along with most of the Valar, have always felt a little sinister to me, so the initial plan was to draw Oromë smilingly slitting lion-dog's throat, with the corpses of Nahar and the other two dogs lying around in the foreground. When I proposed this to my dog-loving friend, he stopped just short of attempting to execute me, but it was a near thing.

"But dogs," I pleaded, "Hunting. Death."

"No," he replied.

Defeated, I returned to the internet for inspiration. In the pits of delirium, I stumbled upon this Wikipedia article about Sköll, a wolf that supposedly spends its time chasing the sun.

"Wolves are basically dogs, but hairier," I declared.

From there my fate was sealed. I'm not a fan of hair in general, so Oromë was given a skull to wear, and I made some half-hearted attempts at mushrooms.

As the Strength card is the eighth card in the eight card in the Rider-Waite deck, I had the brilliant idea to substitute an eight-rayed sun for the Roman numerals at the top. Suddenly, I had a draft.

Another early idea I'd had was to show Oromë being hunted by the three dogs, but that didn't seem to fit with the general theme of "Oromë, the magnanimous despot" I was going for, so I nixed it. I did want to have some sort of theme of vengeance, however, so the sköll-dog emerged from a blackened tree, which I imagined to be the withered remains of Laurelin (or even just your run-of-the-mill dead tree) to suggest the role of the Valar in the Darkening.

Time passed. Things got more dramatic. Sköll-dog became a limbless dragon-dog. I became geographically confused, found myself in Japan, and then the sun tragically lost both sunglasses and rays. Lion-dog became problematic. I helpfully forgot Nahar existed.

Eventually, I lost my mind, gave lion-dog a mushroom infection, and decided to digitally burn out the ugliest tree I have ever drawn in my life.

I'm going to take a nap now.

[yellow-faerie]

Nothing Like Love

I have written a little something for day 2 of @tolkienocweek - a small snippet of Findis getting together with her husband for the first time (prompted by her husband's sister).

Laurwendë does not regularly frequent the library. She much prefers the wilds of Oromë’s hunt and the company of those like-minded individuals there than the stuffy bookishness of her mother’s abode.

But still, Laurwendë does want to visit her brother on his begetting day and there is no more likely place for him to be.

She greets her mother with a tight smile to her frown and quickly darts into the shelves lest she be dragged into an argument about her attire or her hair or something equally aesthetic and pointless. She’s here for her brother and no-one else.

“Ah, here you are,” she says, her voice ringing through the almost silent shelves.

Rilyanixë shushes her furiously, grabbing her wrist and dragging her into the little nook he’s tucked himself into. “Don’t be so loud!”

Laurwendë rolls her eyes but does as is asked. “What are you hiding for?”

“I’m not hiding,” Rilyanixë hisses back.

“Yes you are, the library’s empty but you’re here.”

Rilyanixë’s face darkens and he very pointedly does not look at his sister. “Well, maybe I am hiding but that’s none of your business.”

Laurwendë follows Rilyanixë’s gaze and sees as it lands on a young elf bent over her desk, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders in neatly pinned waves and braids.

“Oh you have a crush.” She frowns. “Don’t spy on your crush, Rilyo, that’s incredibly creepy.”

Rilyanixë scowls right back. “I’m not spying, I’m hiding.”

“I don’t think that’s much better.”

“It is, because this way I don’t have to think about my feelings.”

Laurwendë rolls her eyes. “Yeah, definitely not better. Go and talk to her or I’ll make you go and talk to her.”

“You are a traitor of a sister and I think that I am beginning to understand his highness Fëanáro vitriol against his brother.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. That’s Findis right? The girl you talk about in all your letters?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“She won’t say no if you ask her out. Go on now.”

One advantage of being a sailor, Laurwendë has found, is that she has gained a good deal of upper body strength while hauling ropes and sails. Which means she is in the perfect place to lift her brother off his feet (he is very light from being raised in academics) and drop him out from behind the bookcases.

He stumbles and turns around to come right back but Findis is not so deeply invested in her book that she is completely oblivious to the world around her.

“Oh Rilyanixë! I didn’t see you when I came in, I thought it was your day off.” Findis smiles brightly, shutting her book and setting it on the table. Rilyanixë doesn’t look angry at his sister anymore; in fact, he didn’t seem to even remember Laurwendë was there at all.

“Hi Findis, I was just reading in the corner, I must have been in my own little world over there.” He takes a seat opposite her at the table. “How are you doing?”

“Well, I’m nearly there with my apprenticeship. I have a final assessment of sorts and then I am free to pursue my career however I may please!”

“And you’ll move permanently to Valmar? Or stay with your family again?”

From behind the bookcase, Laurwendë sees Findis’ face darken.

“Oh don’t bring up that Rilyo, I don’t even want to think about anything like that. I can already hear the argument.”

Rilyanixë reaches out and takes her hand. “I apologise Lintë. I know your family is a point of contention, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m just a bit…snappy from all this work. I think I must have been here since First Mingling at least.”

“Findis!” Rilyanixë admonishes. “It’s nearly the second, have you left at all? Even to eat?”

“I forgot.”

“That’s no excuse! Come on, we’re going to get food together, let me just go and get my cloak and then we’ll get going.”

Findis’ smile is fond as she stands as well. “Alright, alright. Allow me to tidy my things away first.”

Rilyanixë lets go of her hand as he stands. “I’ll be back in a minute!”

Laurwendë gets to the cloak pegs before him and is standing there when he arrives.

“That was smooth,” she says, crossing her arms.

“Oh shut up,” Rilyanixë says, swatting at her arm but he can’t quite keep the joy out of his eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

“I’m your little sister, it’s my job.”

“Just – don’t follow us, OK?”

“I make no promises.”

[nikosheba]

Part two!!! For @captainadwen again!! Still in response to this meme.

“You’re an idiot! I’ve met smarter sandwiches!”

Findekáno wished Maitimo wouldn’t look quite so stressed. This would be fun, hilarious even, if Maitimo’s brow were not furrowed, his hands were not pressed tightly together.

He had not meant to cause an incident--indeed, he rather thought he had not caused anything at all, and was entirely innocent. He had merely stopped to speak to Maitimo, as was expected of them, as scions of the royal house. It was hardly his fault that their younger brothers were collectively as well-behaved as a pack of...

Well, as a pack of the dogs that were currently following Tyelkormo around, tails wagging, stuffing their noses into any pocket of the world that might possibly contain something edible, nipping and yipping at each other, and thoroughly surrounding Turukáno.

In his finest dress robes.

On his way to present his plans for a new palace spire to the King and to Manwë.

Tyelkormo grinned, showing teeth that Findekáno thought were a bit too sharp to be normal, wondering if that was a result of joining Oromë’s hunt, or whether it was simply a case of affinity. He made a mental note to check Írissë’s teeth later, just in case. “Ah, bad luck, cousin. If I’m such an imbecile, I might lose control of my pack at any moment. Might whistle to them that you’ve got a fine ham up those pretty sleeves.”

“Turko,” Maitimo said, tight-lipped and obviously frustrated. “You aren’t supposed to bring them into the city.”

“You can’t take his side over mine!” Tyelkormo protested, with an edge to the words that threatened some sort of reprisal. “If Father heard you--“

“He’s not taking any sides,” Findekáno snapped, unable to stay silent when Maitimo looked as if his mood were turning black. “You’ve already been reprimanded for those beasts making a mess in the Palace, haven’t you?”

“And you’re eager to come to his defense when you wouldn’t come to mine!” Turukáno shot hotly at him, his face set in grim anger. “Some brotherly devotion!”

Findekáno thought he might rip his own braids out and throw them at his brother, a common emotion. “Do you really need defending from a pack of puppies, Turvo?”

“It’s his fault for having them--“

“They’ve as much right to be here--“

“--In the Palace, you wouldn’t know anything--“

“--Told you not to--“

“--Out of your ass, you prick--“

“--Tell Father, see if I care--“

An earsplitting whistle split the crisp air. Suddenly, all the dogs left off their harassing of Turukáno, bounding eagerly up the diamond-dust covered street. “Hey!” Tyelkormo shouted, and went chasing after them, looking for a moment as though he would fall to all four legs to bound after them himself.

Turukáno gave his brother one last very severe glare, then drew himself up to his full ridiculous height, and swept up the street, clutching his scrolls protectively to his chest.

“I owe Írissë some kind of present,” Findekáno said with a sigh, staring after Tyelkormo’s retreating pack, where he and the dogs were now engaged in some sort of chase-game with Findekáno’s sister. “Where did she learn to whistle like that?”

“Right outside of my bedroom window,” Maitimo said dryly, and rubbed at his temples for a moment, then spared Findekáno a small smile. “That’s what we get for trying to interact publicly, hm?”

Don’t say that, Findekáno thought, suddenly nervous, imagining Maitimo turning away at the sight of him. Don’t make yourself even more lonely. “Come hunting with me,” he said instead. “Let’s take the horses and ride to the edge of Yavanna’s pastures, until they will not be able to find us to call us back.”

Maitimo’s lips twitched. It was almost a smile. “It sounds as though you propose a great journey.”

“Any journey we take together will perforce be great,” Findekáno informed him.

“Must it be by force?”

“If you will not take it by gentleness, yes.”

It was a true smile, now, and Findekáno felt himself grinning in return. “Fine,” Maitimo said, and even laughed as they made for the stables. “But...let’s bring no hounds.”

[prismatic-starstuff]

Thoughts on: each of the Fëanorians? 👀 🤷🏼‍♀️ 💖

Ahh, the disaster boys! Let’s see:

Fëanor: Peak Disaster. Would slap him upside the head just as quickly as I’d listen to his awesome speeches. I have a very weird ‘I like him and yet I roll my eyes at him’ relationship with him honestly...

Maedhros: Mae makes me Very Sad; yes he did bad things in the name of That Oath, but his imprisonment and his ultimate fate really get me in the feelings. Would pet his hair and tell him he doesn’t need to keep fighting.

Maglor: I’m very very fond of Maglor and that’s a hill I’ll die on! Again, Bad Things Were Done, but he adopted two kids when he really didn’t have to and was genuinely remorseful... Would absolutely pet his hair and let him sing to me!

Celegorm: Mans tried to forcibly marry someone, which really wasn’t good... But, he’s still an interesting character; I really liked his relationship with Oromë in the beginning, I wish that’d been expanded on more.

Caranthir: Ah, One Angry Boi! ...yet despite being One Angry Boi, honestly seemed to be a kinda nice fella, like when he rescued Haleth and her company. Always found it funny how the ‘harshest’ one actually did something kind!

Curufin: Weeeeell, he’s Fëanor-lite and only a little less disastrous, and he did help with the aforementioned Celegorm Trying To Forcefully Marry Someone, but he’s Tyelpë’s father so that’s a plus.

The Ambarussa: I can’t not see them as the poor boys who were burned to death, so even if we’re talking about versions where that wasn’t the case, I always get sad any time these two are brought up!

So tl;dr: I honestly like them all a lot as characters, for different reasons and in different ways, but they’re all super interesting and have tons of plot potential in ‘em!

[mythopoeticreality]

The Road Goes Ever On- Chapter 6

Ayyy! Two Chapters within a week! I’m on a roll!^^ Nah, but I really enjoyed writing this one (Fairies are always fun to write) and I hope ya’ll like it just as much as I do! :)

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900423/chapters/56544772

Chapter 6

He recognized those horns. The same sound that called him from his dreams. Huan’s ears, too, pricked at the sound, and Tyelcormo pulled himself straighter, eyes snapping in it’s direction.

That bone-stirring rumble of an uncountable herd stampeding towards you. The whoops and taunting laughter carried on the air. The haunting moan of the horn, and the baying of the hounds, oddly seeming to grow more echoing and distant as they grew the nearer. But it wasn’t the strangeness of any of it that got to Tyelco. No, of course not. Rather, it was that he knew these sensations, that they were as familiar to him as the the feeling of his own stride or the sound of Huan’s panting breaths.The air nearly pulsing with a heartbeat of its own, feeling sharp as it came into the lungs, and he could nearly feel the powerful muscle of the horses beneath him as they crashed through the trees, coming nearer. To ride and feel those horses break into a run, it was like an awakening. It was to come alive again. That was what a Hunt was, chaos, noise, life, driving onward. Always onward.

And he could feel that pulse now, even from the ground, even separate from them. It called, yet at the same time it repelled. It prickled at the skin, electric. Made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end -- an echo of the ecstasy he felt riding amongst Oromë’s folk. He could feel his muscles pulling bow-sting taught, ready to leap off in a run. Out of his own control it was instinct, the very air whispering to him, Run, now, Run! You are prey now, even as it also called, Come join us! Ride with us! Let us take you away to be a part of our company…

Tyelcormo licked at his lips. Gave his head a sharp shake. No. No. What was this? He had to focus now. He was out here for a reason. Tyelpë. They had to find Tyelpë.

But the night air was stirring, cool and sweet in his lungs and tasting of something he both knew and didn’t. It was as though every star in the heavens had turned it’s eyes upon him and every tree in the surrounding forest was calling for him in the hissing clatter of their leaves.

It was the flash of his father’s knife in Telperion’s light that brought him back. That had Tyelco reaching for his own . It felt safer somehow, more grounding. Like the only solid thing in the world at that moment.

“That will not serve you here. Put it away.” The stranger’s voice. As calm, as firm, as cool as ever. It was the same bloody trick that Curvo used so often, one that had always escaped him.

Atar only scoffed at this, and Tyelco only found himself grasping all the tighter to his own blade. “What? So that I may fall to the same foe that has stolen my grandson without a fight? That I might --”

“Atar, I do not like this.” Curvo. Atar cut himself off to listen. “Something is coming this way, it feels almost planned. What if we were brought out here to meet whoever comes?

At this Atar’s eyes narrowed, gaze sharpening to a needle point. “Is that what you want? Is that why you brought us here? To hand us over to these beings...Servants of Melkor or--”

The stranger sighed, the tone of his voice making clear that he’d said well enough before, “I do not know who this ‘Melkor’ of yours is.”

And here it was Tyelcormo’s turn to scoff. Unwise, perhaps to antagonize their only lead on his nephew’s whereabouts, but it was either to focus on the obvious lies coming dripping from the man’s lips or to that chorus of carried on the wind, intent of drawing him into the deep shadows of the trees.

He needed...he needed to focus. Atar and the Stranger were still talking. Well, they were not talking at the moment, but the stubborn looks traveling between them communicated well enough Atar starred the man down, but his gaze was met in equal measure.

“You do not wish to cause offense. Put your knife away.” The stranger, this Raven King murmured.

A Moment passed, then a moment more. The thunder of Horse’s hooves grew the nearer and the blazing white flash of the hound’s bodies could be seen through the trees. Beautiful creatures, Tyelco could not help but think.

Finally, grudgingly, Atar shoved his knife back into its scabbard again, barking something back to Tyelco and Curvo.

“Atar, why...” Curvo was arguing. Tyelco wasn’t paying attention.

His mind was spinning, edging towards that familiar wild high that he felt every time his horse plunged into a gallop, every time the chase was on. The world itself felt almost unreal somehow, like a sheet of rain that could be blown aside with a strong enough gust of wind. And his nails clawing into his palm, the solidness of the knife handle he held was all that kept him clutching to reality…

Come join us! Come ride with us!

“No!” It came out a strangled shout, and Suddenly Tyelco was aware of a pair of dark eyes boring into his own.

The Stranger’s head just canted to the side, eyes narrowing in thought. Tyelco’s feet remained rooted to the spot, and even as this Raven King approached, the hunter’s own gaze kept flickering back over the stranger’s shoulder, off towards the trees and the ever nearing company.

The stranger’s gaze darted down to Tyelco’ hands. He murmured something to himself, Tyelcormo couldn’t quite catch it. “Clever instincts…” He would have guessed the words were, if forced to it.

The man’s hands came up, were wrapping around Tyelcormo’s own fingers. Tyelco flinched back. Huan snarled. But the stranger remained, prying open the elf’s hand with a surprising gentleness as he slipped the blade up and into Tyelcormo’ grasp.

He spoke...words Tyelcormo couldn’t quite wrap his mind about, cold and ringing as the hammer in the forge, and a shooting pain --as though the steel of the blade had buried itself into the flesh of his hand -- pierced through Tyelco. The world flashed white for an instant, and it felt as though he could barely move for the agony of it.

When his vision cleared, he was staring into the Raven King’s eyes once more.“Remember your purpose here.” Was all the man said, before stepping away again, and turning back to face the Hunt now gathered all before them.

They were a troop of wild figures, some clad in clinging garments of tattered furs and leathers, and iridescent feathers, others in tunics and robes woven from...from things Tyelcormo couldn’t recognize --or rather he could but to say it aloud would be utter madness! Autumn Evenings and Forest Mists…

At their head rode their leader, his hair a wild mass of curls who’s color brought to mind nothing so much as autumn leaves and leaping sparks. Wide-shouldered and tall, with eyes that danced with reflected torchlight, he seemed to Tyelco’s eyes so sharply cut out from the shadows that surrounded him. His mind couldn’t help but travel to the golden-warm light of the campfires of those nights he spent camping out with Oromë’s hunt, of the laughter and joy of his own companions as they sat ‘round, figures emerging from the obscurity of those surrounding shadows into the flickering light. The echoes of that laughter played at the edge of his hearing now, while in his chest rose that restless joy, and more then that. That fleeting sense he got when sitting beneath the wide field of stars above, or when riding along the roots of the Pelori, and seeing the mountains tower above him. And all of that wrapped in the man who stood before them, who’s eyes were raking over both he and Huan.

Celegorm found himself standing straighter, feeling that gaze on him. And in snaked that thought, whispering at the back of his mind, Yes, I could follow him…

A jolt. A piercing, spasming agony stabbing through his hand, flashing white again before his eyes. His ears rang, as though he were entering Atar’s forge.

“...With friends this time as well I see!” The Huntsman’s voice, reaching him as his vision cleared. Speaking to the Raven King. “And were you not just warning us of the dangers of such things?”

Tyelcormo blinked, both breath and body shaking. His eyes dropped down to his hand, still grasping that knife blade...but still whole….

He shook himself, trying to push off the half-formed thoughts still drifting through his mind. Tyelpë. He was out here to find Tyelpë.

There was a low, questioning whine from Huan. “Are you alright? What did he do to --”

“No, No, I am...fine. Fine.” Tyecomo felt off to even be saying it somehow. But..he was. His mind in fact felt far clearer than it had before…

And now, thinking on it, there was something about the question the Hunstaman asked that Tylcormo did not like, not with the way the Huntsman was looking at them, sizing them up like harts for the kill.

~*~

It was not a question the Raven King himself much liked either. A trap, either to expose hypocrisy on his part, or to feel out whether these men here, these ‘friends’ as the Huntsman -- Sacha was the name he used here -- called them, were free for the taking. There was no good answer of course. There rarely were in such situations. And so John said nothing, simply shrugging the words off as though they were nothing, not even worthy of his consideration.

To this, Sacha simply laughed. He quickly shook his head, swatting aside his own words as though they were so many buzzing flies. “Oh, but no matter, I certainly hold nothing against you. Is that Prince Fëanáro I see?” He leaned forward on his horse, eyeing John’s guide, before slipping down and striding nearer.

The Hound lept, suddenly between the Sidhe and John’s guide, leaning down low, teeth bared as he snarled.

In surprise Sacha stepped back, his eyes wide, yet in a moment he was laughing once more. “Ah! And one of Arōmēz’s mighty hounds as well! Which means…”

He was gone, suddenly there behind John, standing there before the Rider, lips curling into a cat’s grin. “The third one, the hunter. And a handsome one he is, as well…” Sacha reached up, as though to brush his hand along the Rider’s jawline, but the man stumbled backwards.

John’s guide-- Fëanáro, apparently -- nearly growled. “Get away from my son.”

Blunt, perhaps too much so, though here at least John could not fault him. The man protected what was his. Would he, himself have not drawn such a line just as clearly?

The other son -- the father of the boy who was missing, that was -- was bristling by now, reaching again for his knife, and the hound was now wildly barking, readying itself to pounce on the Sidhe.

By the time the Hound bounded forward though, even as the missing boy’s father had freed blade from scabbard, Sacha was gone, once more standing before Fëanáro. A brief drama was quickly unfolding across his features. His brows shot up, and he looked at Fëanáro as though he’d just been shouted at by an ant-hill he’d kicked over (truth to tell, he likely would have been less surprised by shouting ant-hills). That surprise lasted only a moment though, before his expression morphed into a wide grin.

“Ah! You must forgive me!” The Sidhe said, hand to heart and bowing his head, “To speak of you without speaking to you! How rude indeed! I had no idea that you might understand, however! And, of course, young Starling here” He gestured back towards John at this, as John gnawed at the inside of his lip, forcing down rising irritation, “Does not speak Quenya.”

With the sort of whimsicality that could be posessed only by one of the Sidhe, Sacha immediately brightened then,“But that is no matter now, of course. Though I must admit I am rather surprised at running across you out here! Should you not be in Tirion, astounding all with your latest creation?”

There was silence in that first moment, as Fëanáro stood there, blinking. Just trying to trace out just how the conversation had found itself here. Despite himself, The Raven King could not help but find himself just slightly amused by it. Going by the expression the man wore, it seemed Fëanáro was not often one to find himself dumbfounded. All through the Huntsman’s speech he’d looked suitably unimpressed, and now that the Sidhe was here speaking to him as though they were old friends?

“And who are you to ask?” Fëanáro asked, finally finding his voice.

Painfully blunt, and with a Prince’s pride.. The Raven King sighed from where he stood watching. He should expect no different of course.He should have recognized it from the first. The man had the pride of a King’s son, after all -- and there shone a sign one could spot whether it was Faerie, England, France or Scotland who’s earth they stood upon. No, the Raven King knew the air royalty carried about it by now. He was unsurprised.

He was not pleased with it -- neither that pride nor whatever rash actions would be taken to soothe it. But he was unsurprised.

And now, before things grew too out of hand, it seemed he would have to intervene…

“He is a Sidhe Lord,” John interjected, “and perhaps one of the mightiest within the regions of Faerie that border your realm.” Perhaps the flattery would mollify Sacha. He was hoping at least the words would give the Prince hint enough to get him to stop talking.

“Quite. Who am I indeed!” Sacha scoffed, turning back to John, “I would advise you against taking with you such an ill-mannered creature --”

“What did you just--”

The rest came out a strangled sound, leaving Fëanáro wide eyed and clutching at his throat. His sons were shouting, just behind John, rushing towards their father as he gasped and mouth working, yet no sound emerging.

“Really now!” The Sidhe rolled his eyes, and he let his hand fall back to his side and turned to John, saying so casually, “I am half tempted to kill him, you know. The night’s hunt has been frustrating enough as it is.”

The tension in the air suddenly increased a thousandfold, underlined by a low snarl from the hound, as it’s master’s eyes flashed.

The look alone that the Raven King gave the Sidhe was a warning in and of itself.

“Oh, you know I would never. There are laws and customs, after all, and I am no barbarian! They are yours, these Elves, and I would not interfere!”

The Raven King responded with a low hum. “Yet all I have seen would suggest otherwise.”

Sparks lit in Sacha’s eyes. “Oh, is that so, now? Is something amiss, young Starling?”

A shrug was all the Magician gave in reply, as his gaze glanced back over the Huntsman’s shoulder. “You are missing two amongst your number.” He murmured.

“Hrmmm?” The Sidhe’s brows shot up and he glanced backwards. “Ah! So it seems!”

“Who is it?”

“Come again?”

“Who left?”

“Why, Starling, What interest you seem to be taking in the going on of my court!”

A faint smile just touched at the Raven King’ lips. It was not a pleasant smile. “Should I not? I came here in hopes of solidifying an alliance with you, after all.” The rest of that sentance, ‘I should hate to leave instead an enemy.’ was left to hang silently upon the air.

There was a moment, just briefly, where Sacha held the Magician under his gaze, regarding him almost thoughtfully.

“I have had some trouble in keeping track of Tethil recently. He has always been one of my more flighty companions, of course, and since his cousin arrived in my realm for a visit…?”

“Cousin?”

“Oh, I forget his name...some young Lord or King from the other side of Faerie, nearer to your own realm I believe...”

“I see.” Nearer to his own realm...huh, well it seemed now this short detour was now spanning across Faerie...

“If either have crossed you, I should like to know about it.” Sacha went on. The corner of John’s lips quirked upward at the tone in his voice. If they were crossing him, they were endangering this alliance for their Lord. Getting in his way. And that, John doubted, he would appreciate much at all.

“Perhaps I shall leave it to you then. For now however…”

“Yes, you must find them, I suppose?”

“Indeed. Better luck on your hunt, Sacha”

“And I wish you the same on yours, Starling.”

And with those words the Huntsman turned and mounted his horse again. Heels digging into the magnificent creature’s side, he urged it onward, plunging into the night air, cloaks and manes swirling and snapping behind them as the shining company thundered past.

Even before the distant rumble of hooves against the hard packed earth stopped echoing in the Magician’s bones, he was turning to face the other three. They had already gathered together, each with a face like granite as they stared John down

“Enough of this.” It was the Rider who spoke, standing nearest to John. “what was that? You owe us something of an explanation. We go no further with you until we know just what is going on.”

Until you know what happened to you… John could not help but think. The man was still grasping onto his knife blade, only sliding it away, back into it’s scabbard once he realized that the Raven King was indeed looking. It had been a patchwork of a spell, that he knew. He’d not had enough time to do the magic properly of course, to call upon the bees and the moon --if she could even hear him here! But it seemed it had served him well enough, in the circumstance.

Nail his hand with an iron nail so that he shall not raise it to do the deceiver's bidding.

Or, well, a hunting knife could serve just as well in a pinch.

“Then that is your choice to make.” The Raven King replied, quite simply. Fëanáro and the lost boy’s father were now turning, wide eyed, on the Rider, clearly with something to say for themselves about this. Why would they not have? They were the ones who needed his help, after all.

The Rider simply smirked, however, nodding back towards the Trees. Out of the corner of his vision John could just catch the motion of white flapping wings. A hoot as the bird settled on a nearby branch. “Yes, and I am sure Lady Varda will be glad to hear that you have gone.”

Clumsy. But it was a start now…

John canted his head to the side, brows edging up his forehead.“I owe it to you, is that so?” he repeated.

“Yes.” The Rider insisted, staring stone-faced right back at John.

“No. I owe you nothing.” Indeed considering what he had just saved the man from it rather seemed the other way around. But John gave a shrug and there was a short pause. The Raven King raked his eyes over the Rider, and the missing boy’s father beside him. “That said, I will tell you, if only to prevent any further foolishness along the way.”

At this the Magician’s eyes fell squarely upon Fëanáro, who opened his mouth to protest --only for silence to emerge.

“Now,” the Raven King said, crossing his legs beneath him as he sat upon the forest floor, looking as at home in that very spot as he might have upon a throne, “Where shall I begin?”

[quentaleardanomion]

Religion in Middle-earth (Part 2)

Having discussed the Elves and their ideas about religion, I will now turn to the other races. This will be a more straightforward, and also speculative discussion, and I will divide it into sections by peoples: the Atani, the Drúedain, and briefly other miscellaneous peoples. This is part 2 of a series. (Part 1 / Part 3)

The Atani

We are given very little information about the culture of the three houses of the Atani. Indeed, we see most of their story from snippets caught in the glimpses of the Elven chronicles of the first age. Our most valuable resource in this discussion will definitely be the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth.

Andreth is of the people of Bëor, who are said to be speakers of the same tongue as the people of Marach. In ages past they dwelt by the Sea of Rhûn together, and had concourse, and marched west together, the people of Bëor leading the way. Andreth says of the philosophy of Men:

Yet among my people, from Wise unto Wise out of the darkness, comes the voice saying that Men are not now as they were, nor as their true nature was in their beginning. And clearer still is this said by the Wise of the People of Marach, who have preserved in memory a name for Him that ye call Eru, though in my folk He was almost forgotten. So I learn from Adanel. They say plainly that Men are not by nature short-lived, but have become so through the malice of the Lord of the Darkness whom they do not name.

She claims that the wise men and women of their peoples believe that Men were not always destined for death, and were once like the Elves in body, designed to be immortal on earth and beyond it. Finrod and she have a debate about the veracity of this belief and the particulars, and arrive at a more modified conclusion: that if they were thus in the beginning, they must have been made mortal by an act of Eru, whom all the Atani acknowledge. Andreth plainly has some lore as to what Men may have done, but says she will not speak of it to those of other race.

She and Finrod discuss the ideas of fëar and hröar, and find their beliefs much in accordance. She says that they received instruction from the Avari, who spoke much as Finrod did, and that her own peoples’ lore agreed: that they were a union of body and soul, and were the special children of the Creator. However, she speaks with scorn of the Valar:

'Do you think that none know save yourselves?' said Finrod at last. 'Do not the Valar know?'

Andreth looked up and her eyes darkened. 'The Valar?' she said. 'How should I know, or any Man? Your Valar do not trouble us—either with care or with instruction. They sent no summons to us.'

From this we can glean that the Atani, although ultimately those who reject Melkor, do not feel loyalty or devotion to the Valar in any particular way. However, the Valaquenta says of the Valar that ‘Men have called them gods,’ which seems to imply that Men have worshipped them in some capacity in certain places. This may be through the instruction of the Avari, who knew of the Valar from the arrival of Oromë, but never saw them or their land. The tales of these ‘gods’ may have spread in Mannish cultures and inspired similar deities, but of this we know no more than this.

Andreth seems to say throughout the Athrabeth that the Men of the Atani do not practice any religion, feeling themselves rejected by their Creator because of some undisclosed transgression in their past, but at the same time rejecting the deific lordship of Melkor or the regency of the Valar. This paints a picture of a very bleak outlook on life for the Atani, although Andreth hints that the people of Marach hold out a more hopeful view:

'A few,' she said; 'but their number has grown since we came to this land, and they see that the Nameless can (as they think) be defied. Yet that is no good reason. To defy him does not undo his work of old. And if the valor of the Eldar fails here, then their despair will be deeper. For it was not on the might of Men, or of any of the peoples of Arda, that the old hope was grounded.'

'What then was this hope, if you know?' Finrod asked. 'They say,' answered Andreth: 'they say that the One will himself enter into Arda, and heal Men and all the Marring from the beginning to the end. This they say also, or they feign, is a rumor that has come down through years uncounted, even from the days of our undoing.'

To be fair, she does not ascribe this view exclusively to the people of Marach, but says earlier that they have more clear legends about Eru and their relationship to him (more on that later). This is the most religious of the sentiments we are ever shown by the Edain in Beleriand in the First Age: ‘Those of the Old Hope.’ This bears very strong parallels to Jewish tradition of the promised Messiah, although with the explicit Christian twist of the seeming Incarnation or at least the special entrance of God into the Creation (Finrod extrapolates more, and Tolkien discusses this in more detail in his Commentary).

Andreth present the people of Bëor overall as being less religious than the people of Marach, and less concerned with metaphysics in general. Theirs is a practical concern: survival. Marach’s people, being more numerous and more domestic, also harbor the most developed legends and stories of their Fall, and their relation with the Divine. Indeed, in the Commentary we are given an ‘alternate form’ of the Athrabeth where Andreth tells Finrod the legend of the fall, saying she learned it from Adanel of the people of Marach. However, Tolkien himself concludes that this was written much later, indeed saying it was written (or at least edited) under Númenórean influence. However, he concludes that it was drawn from the lore of the people of Marach, who made up the majority of Númenórean peoples, and who contributed the most non-Elvish cultural traditions.

In this Tale of Adanel’ we learn that in the beginning Eru created Men in his image, and they walked with him and heard his Voice in their hearts, and they lived and grew under the new Sun. But then came one in fair guise who won their hearts and admiration with fair gifts and great knowledge, and who began to teach them and govern them. As time went on, he became more lordly and more commanding; more cruel and more jealous. He told them that the Voice they heard was the voice of the Dark, and that they must worship him so that he would deliver them from the Dark. They then turned from the Voice and worshipped him, offering sacrifice to him in his temple upon his chosen mountain. But they heard the Voice one more time, saying that they had rejected him, and that they would reap the fruits of their rejection. Death began to enter the world, and then they perceived that the cruel lord would not defend them from the Dark, because he was the lord thereof. Then many repented of their folly, and fled the lands of the awakening of Men, heading west, towards where they had seen the Sun rise in their beginning. Thus the Edain came to Beleriand, and there found the Lord of the Dark before them, in his true guise as Melkor.

This provides a basis for the hinted darkness in the past of Men, and a story of their Fall. It contains a clear knowledge of Eru, Melkor, and the belief in the origin of the mortality of Men. However, beyond what is hinted, we can know no more of the religious beliefs of Men.

In the Narn i-Chîn Húrin, Túrin asks Sador about the darkness in the past of Men, but is refused the knowledge. This shows that even among the people of Marach, these beliefs were not discussed or widely known. It seems that they were the province of the Wise-women of the Atani to guard these stories, to keep them in memory, but not in the general mind of the people. In this way, they may be counted as ‘priestesses’ but only in a very loose definition of the word, as there seems to have been no religious ceremony, preaching, or any other function of religion in the society of the Atani.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Haladin were a different people, and although generally of the same origin as the others, did not share a common language or societal structure. We know nothing about them, save that they were a proud and lordly people, who believed in the power of the individual and the reliance on one’s own strength. They had bards, as we learn in The Wanderings of Húrin, and some had the ability of prophecy, but whether they functioned like Nordic skalds or had a more religious vein beyond that is not known. In addition, whether or not the bards were a universal feature in Atani society is unknown.

The Drúedain

The Drúedain (and by extension the Púkel men, Dunlendings, Men of the Mountains, and the Woses) were a unique branch of the Atani. They clearly left Hildórien along with the others of the repentant after the beginning of Death, but many of their branches never came to Beleriand. They had very complex spiritual knowledge, and apparently excellent control of their fëa (as they had the ability to control stone figures which they carved and imbued with their own essence). This practice of golem-making is not unique to the Drúedain, as the Púkel men also created stone figures with spirits of watchfulness.

We are given no stories of their beliefs or religious practices, due mainly to their isolationist nature and the rarity of their concourse with other people (with the notable exception of Brethil and the Drúedain and the Haladin). Ghân-buri-ghân and his people describe a hatred of Orcs, and they seem to use drums (although whether in ritual or simply practical use is unknown). Sadly, beyond this there is not much we can know about the Drúedain, except that they rejected Melkor and hated him and his people.

Other Races

I have not included a discussion of the Easterlings, Southrons, Variags, etc. simply because we know nothing about them beyond the fact that they might be descended from the people who worshiped Melkor long ago, and so their religions may be as varied as the imagination could conceive. Sauron is also said to be a god-king to many of them, but that’s as much as we know. As for the Dwarves, we know that they revered Aulë (whom they called Mahal) as their maker and had some ideas about the Apocalypse, but beyond that we have no idea. Whether they acknowledged the other Valar, or Eru, is unknown, although the legend of the Dwarves’ creation given in the Silmarillion is said to come from Pengolodh’s discussions with the Dwarves, so it would seem that they do acknowledge Eru and the other Valar. The Dwarves are said many times to be mostly concerned with themselves, however, and I doubt that they would have been devoted to other Valar beyond Aulë. The Orcs worship Melkor or Sauron in some capacity, although what this means practically is not clear.

[mythopoeticreality]

The Road Goes Ever On - Chapter 3

And our adventure continues!^^ Everything is starting to come together now, meanwhile no one has any idea what’s actually going on xD

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900423/chapters/55152814

Chapter 3

By the time he’d woken Huan and set down the track himself, Curufinwë was a good several yards ahead of them, a swiftly shrinking shadow-speck becoming lost in the twisting corridors and narrow passageways the arching branches above created as they wove within one another’s grasp.

“Iron hells!” Tyelcormo nearly spat the words,swinging himself onto Huan’s back. Not a word needed to pass to the great wolfhound before he went sprinting off, the earth between the two of them and Curvo devoured in Huan’s great, loping strides.

Grasping twigs and low hanging branches snapped and snagged against his cloak and the hair whipping out behind him. Tyelcormo pressed low against Huan’s back, fingers digging into his fur.

“You need to stop him. He goes the wrong way,” Huan said. Spoken in the language of Hounds, the words came out a rumbling growl, one Tyelcormo felt in his bones as much as he heard in his ears.

“What? What do you mean? That path-”

“Does not carry the pup’s scent. Of what scent it does carry, I cannot say but...” The hound only trailed off, grunts and snarls transformed into a low whine.

Celegorm frowned. It was not like Huan to be confused. How far had he traveled? How much had the both of them encountered? Some things even now Tyelcormo did not think he could adequately describe to others. For Huan to not be able to identify a scent…

Tyelcomo pressed his lips together, for a long moment just frowning at the blur of silver and shadows about him before quickly shaking his head, urging Huan on.

“Curvo!” He called out as they neared, “Curufinwë! Stop! Slow down!”

Curvo ignored him. Tyelcormo cursed again.

“You know what to do.” He grunted to Huan.

Tyelcormo braced himself, but even so his breath still came in all a rush as Huan lunged forward, breaking into full speed. His face pressed down against the hound’s thick, ropy coat, as Huan rounded on Curvo, cornering him like a deer.

As he pushed himself back upright, he was met with a glower that could likely melt stone. Ah, well, they did always say that Curvo was most like Atar…

“Get out of my way, Tyelcormo.”

“Not until you listen.”

Curvo’s brows shot up at that, slowly his head turned on it’s side. His eyes remained ever fixed on Tyelcormo. “Until I listen?” He repeated. His voice remained level, even, but there was a blade hidden in those words. Meanwhile, Curvo’s thumb kept flicking, like one of Kano’s metronomes, over the blade held in his hand. “Forgive me brother, but were you not the one who alerted me to this matter? My son is --”

“Not down this way.” Tyelcormo cut in, “Or, at the least, Huan does not pick up upon his scent.”

There was a sharp hiss. Curvo sucking the air in between his teeth, as the knife bit down into his flesh. Were it not for that tight grip, that leash-like control he held over himself always, Tyelcormo was sure his brother would have bolted by now. He could see it, lurking there just below the surface, in the sharp ridge of bone that stood out along his knuckles and that flicker of worry just behind his eyes.

“We waste time, then.” Those were Curvo’s only words before he turned on his heel and began driving off back the way they had come.

Tyelcormo sighed. He trotted up Huan beside his brother. “We will find him, Curvo.” he insisted. “You must believe that.”

In an effort to comfort him, Huan leaned his head towards the elf, nuzzling against his chest.

“Tch.” Curufinwe raised his arms to push the hound away. Only to freeze.

Huan had gone still. Huan was growling.

In the next moment Huan rounded back on the trail again, lunging down it.

“Huan! To heel!” Tyelcormo cried, “What is the matter with you?”

“That scent. It is on him.”

“What? You mean--”

“Yes, whatever it was that took the pup, it has come down this way. And recently.”

Tyelcormo’s breath came in sharp. He swung around, calling over his shoulder to his brother, “Curvo, come! We have found something…”

~*~

“If it is another world you are from, can the same be said for those Hunters you spoke to earlier?”

By now, Fëanáro expected the answer. The silence that followed, that vague turn of the head, a gesture of the hand, halfway between a balancing scale and a dismissive wave. It hadn’t been long, perhaps an hour or so at most since first he’d encountered the Stranger, yet he felt he was beginning to understand -- not the man himself, of course, not really, but what he was like, at least.

And so he continued on. “If they are, then I imagine they would have come here through a similar path, yes? And that is the route we look for now?” He’d just remembered the lead Huntsman saying something of the like to the young man earlier. It had slipped his mind before, but, as it was, Fëanáro was rather concerned with other matters at the time. “But if that is the case, then I should hardly think you would need me to find it…”

The Stranger was simply watching him as he asked these things, eyes resting upon him in a lazy half-lidded stare. The corner of his lips quirked upwards.

Fëanáro snorted, catching the man’s look, “By all means,” he drawled, “if you have anything to say, your input would be quite welcome.”

“If I felt any need for it, I would.”

Fëanáro fixed the stranger with a flat look. With a slow shake of his head, he returned his gaze to the surrounding trees and mushrooms poking out of the leaf litter. They at least provided answers if one knew what to look for.

“I will say this.” The stranger said after a moment or so, “you are nearing the truth of it.”

“Am I, now?”

“You are. They are not of this world. But it is theirs more than mine.”

“Of course.” Of course, that should be the answer the Stranger gave him. The man seemed completely incapable of speaking in anything but riddles, should he expect anything different?

The mushrooms along the way were growing more thickly now, in long clusters forming lines to either side of them. Fëanáro remembered passing this way, beneath Laurelin’s light he had first seen it and it had struck him as odd then, as if something were trying to guide the walker somewhere. Now, the world bleached of all color save for Telperion’s pale cast, it was almost eerie.

He knew at least, he was going in the right direction. He began picking up speed, his step more assured as he led the Stranger onward.

“You have followed this way before?”

Fëanáro glanced up as the Stranger next spoke. It was the tone in the man’s voice as much as anything -- surprise, just laced with a faint air of judgement (or atleast what he interpreted as such). It made his hackles rise. “Yes…” He said, drawing out the word if only to hold back his own frustration.

A low, thoughtful sort of hum, that was the entirety of the man’s response as his eyes played along the trail of mushrooms.

“And if I had not?” Fëanáro pressed, “Where would you be then?”

The stranger’s gaze flickered back to the elf. There was something piercing in that gaze, searching. As though he were looking into Fëanáro, rather than simply at him.“I would find my way.” he said, before simply turning to look straight on ahead. “Do you really have no idea where this road leads? No tales that tell of such places?”

“What? Of mushroom strewn paths that lead off to other worlds?” But there were tales. Half forgotten in Valinor, dismissed by scholars such as himself as mere misinterpretation, encounters with Maiar upon Middle-Earth, or vauge glimpses of Oromë’s company before anything was understood. Folklore on the same level of the Black Rider. And yet those words began to whisper in his mind now, Nermir, Nandini, Orrosi, Oromandi… “Children’s tales.” Fëanáro insisted. “You cannot be serious abou--”

A high, ringing bark broke through the woods at that moment. It happened so fast, there was no time to react. A blur of white. A grunt and a thud.

Turko?

It was the only thought able to register in Fëanáro’s mind in that split moment.

Tyelcormo sat, crouched over Huan’s back, his hair streaming about his face, his eyes a wild reflection of the Hound’s own. Huan himself stood growling down at the Stranger, now pinned beneath the hound’s great paws.

“Tyelco, call your hound off!” Curufinwë’s voice. A moment later, he too came crashing out through the trees, “We need answers now, not the bastard’s blood streaming out over--Atar?!” He cut himself off, his eyes widening, gaze flickering between the stranger so near to Huan’s teeth, and his own father.

~*~

“Where is he? What did you do with him?” The words were a low, rolling growl, the sort that stretched on, and twisted at some deep, animal part of him. The part that was a frightened hare, and only screamed to run, over and over.

Wild eyes and gleaming teeth. Long, snaking flows of silver hair. Hot, reeking breath huffed into his face and creeping along his neck. In those first shocked moments, there was only impressions. The ground tipping up over itself, the bite of stones and twisting tree roots into his back. The weight pressing into his shoulders.

He blinked, staring up at the towering creature that now loomed over him. His mind still reeling -- he was not used to being surprised, not like this. He should have known, should have heard whisperings of something -- it took him a moment even to separate hound from rider.

Hound. It was a hound wasn’t it? The size of a horse, yes, but still undeniably…

There were voices shouting off, a way back. The voice of the first man he’d met on the road --his guide-- rising. The Rider twisted around, barked something to the other two. John Uskglass would not have understood it even were he paying attention. As it stood, the hound’s growling had grown only lower and more insistent, especially as the rider now turned back, and demanded something of the Magician.

“Do not just lie there! Answer him! Where did you leave --”

“Who do you think I am?”

The hound’s ears pricked, and for a moment the sharp little pins of pressure at his shoulders --the hound’s claws digging in -- eased up just slightly. John could feel the weight of the Rider’s stare upon him as well.

“You speak to me?”

“As you speak to me.”

This earned John another low growl, “You try to distract me. To win my trust against those of my pack.”

“No, I do not.”

“Then why do you not speak to me?” This time the growl had a much more human quality to it. John’s eyes flickered upward to find himself staring down the Rider. “I could have your throat torn out right now, and yet rather than answer, you reply to my dog?”

It was a threat few would have dared to make in any of his own realms, and it struck the Raven King as rather ironic. What could he have done if of a mind to do it? A faint smirk quirked at his lips. But he only shook his head, shut his eyes, pressed a long breath out through his nose. “I reply to the one speaking to me in a tongue I can understand.”

A sharp bark of laughter from the Rider, “And what? Were you raised by hounds that you cannot speak as one of the Eldar?”

“Wolves.” The Raven King replied.

And perhaps he had pushed too far. It was not a comment to win trust, even on his own world. The Rider’s eyes flashed. The Hound began snarling again. Somewhere behind them voices started to murmur and a call was shouted in this direction.

To the Raven King, it grew all too tiresome.

And so he vanished. Fell into the drowning dark of the Hound’s own shadow looming over him.

The Hound yelped, leaping back as though afraid to vanish himself.

The Rider made a sound like a strangled squawk.

As the Raven King emerged from the shadows between the trees (as though he were stepping from a doorway. Striding through and solidifying as though from a dream or some othere where entirely) it was the companion he first met upon the Road who’s eyes landed upon him first -- and those eyes were now blazing,just as bright as the heart of any star.

“My grandson.” He ground out, “Where is he? Speak, and speak quickly.”