#The quenya just means 'good evening my father'

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Today in questions people weren’t exactly asking but I am thinking about nonetheless…

I am deeeep in the weeds of the lead-up to the kinstrife in Gondor because I had an idea for LOTR Week’s ancestors and history prompt (lol on the timing, maybe I’ll have it done before the *next* LOTR Week rolls around!) and in the process, I think I might have found a (personally) satisfying answer to the question of why Rohan has a tradition of “Elf-” names (Elfhelm, Elfhild, Elfwine, etc.) when they are not a culture that has substantive ties to the elves and, in fact, were even kind of hostile to them at times.

The kinstrife happened because Valacar, son and heir of the king of Gondor, went to live as an ambassador of sorts with the Northmen (the proto-Rohirrim), fell in love with and married a Northman princess, and had a half-Northman son who became Valacar’s own heir. A substantial number of Gondorians wouldn’t accept this half-Northman son as their king after Valacar’s death, and so there was a coup and a civil war before the son eventually retook and held the throne. That son was named Vinitharya, which means “victor of the east” in the language of the Northmen, but Valacar had also given him a Gondorian name to help ensure the Gondorians would accept him and see him as one of them (a good thought, even if it didn’t entirely work!). The name he chose was Eldacar, which is Quenya for “elf helm”!*

So MAYBE the Northmen honored and esteemed Eldacar, who is a son of their royal house just as much as a son of Gondor’s. They were proud of him and what he accomplished as one of them. He came from THEIR community, ascended to the highest levels of power in the biggest empire in all of Middle Earth, withstood a coup and a civil war against him to hold onto that power, greatly expanded rights and opportunities for other Northmen living in Gondor, and had his own son (Aldamir) who eventually succeeded him and kept those Northmen genes in the Gondorian royal family. OF COURSE they’d be proud, and maybe they were so proud that they started naming their kids after him. Maybe they took the name Eldacar, translated it back into their language, and kept using it consistently over the years. The name followed along with the changes in the language as the Northmen became first the Éothéod and then the Rohirrim, and eventually we see it being used as “Elfhelm” in late Third Age Rohan, where it has also spun off a whole bunch of other, related “Elf-” prefix names in the process. Maybe? I don’t know, but I like it!

*All the dynamics on the naming here are FASCINATING to me. The name of Valacar’s father, King Romendacil, ALSO happens to translate as “east victor,” which he started using as his regnal name after defeating a bunch of Easterlings together with Northmen allies led by Valacar’s father in law, Vidugavia. So it seems that when Valacar chose to name his kid Vinitharya, he was both naming his son after his own father, Romendacil, and referencing a historical event that brought the Gondorians/his family and the Northmen/his wife’s family together, just as Vinitharya himself was a union of Gondorian and Northman identities and families. So sweet! Then when they changed his name to Eldacar, they went 100% in the opposite direction, abandoning any ties to the Northmen and even the little tribute to Romendacil and choosing instead a name that was as Gondorian as could be. The first man to bear the name Eldacar was a grandson of Isildur himself, who was of course the last High King of both Gondor and Arnor and one of the founders of the whole realm. That makes sense as a strategy when the goal is to legitimize Eldacar in Gondorian eyes, but the loss of the name Vinitharya is so much sadder when you think about what it all means! (Please excuse my ridiculous enthusiasm for all of this minutiae, I love it though I recognize it’s probably a bunch of silly Name Salad to a lot of people!)

[viviane-lefay]

Taranel Gera

Santari and Dagan's daughter according to headcanon - because I really like the thought.

... and that of Dagan as a dad. Idk, it's kinda cute!

Aside from that ... any offspring of theirs would be absolutely beautiful! I mean, look at her - the caramel skintone combined with the silver hair and eyes is just stunning!

~*~

Just a few words on Dagan...

I think he really likes children. After all, he wouldn't have wanted to train initiates, if he didn't.

That said, I'm sure he'd definitely love the thought of having a child with the woman he loves, and Santari wouldn't mind a youngling of their own, either.

His own childhood on Arkania might have been far from ideal, but his parents (according to my headcanon) were really warm and caring - both concerning each other, as well as with him - and since the parents do imprint on their child regarding later relationships - I definitely imagine Dagan to be a very loving father himself, even though a bit overprotective at times.

I mean, on Reddit people constantly likened Tanalorr to Dagan and Santari's baby (screenshots are here), and we all know how he acted in that regard - just imagine how he'd be like in the case of an actual child ...

Even so, not matter how much he dotes on said kid - Santari is still his undisputed Number One, of course.

~*~

Taranel was a bit of a surprise child, but by far not an unwelcome one. She was born on Tanalorr around 2 years after the events of the game, and lives there, in the settlement, along with her parents.

Her name is a compound word taken from sanskrit "tara" (star) and quenya "anel" (daughter), meaning "daughter of the stars" (Dagan even calls her his "little star"), but usually she's called by the abbreviated version Tara.

As for her naming, I imagine Santari teased Dagan quite a bit regarding his supposedly questionable abilities to find appealing names - but was quite pleasantly surprised when he came up with said name.

Like her mother, Tara likes to wear her silver hair in long, twisted braids.

The colours of her garments are made to resemble the hues of Tanalorr's flora.

When she finally was old enough to get a kyber crystal to build her own lighsaber, she also chooses one to produce a golden blade (like her father's original one).

She's good friends with Cal & Merrin's kids, with whom she grew up, and is particularly close with Eamon.

[tathrin]

What's exactly is an Elf-Lord? I assume that the uncapitalized version is just an elf who holds the title of a Lord.

I don't consider myself any sort of expert on Tolkien's Legendarium (I mean, I haven't even read any of the Unfinished Tales yet, just for baseline starters!) so I am not a good choice to ask this of, tbh. And if you're asking specifically in regards to the way I used it in my fic The Names of My Fathers (which I'm guessing is the case, because I can't think what else I've done or posted recently that involves that particular term; if I'm off-base please feel free to provide more context!) then I should caution you that that was actually the first story I started working on during my recent re-obsession with LotR, and I was sooooo rusty on my Tolkien Canon then that I fucked-up the timeline of the Quenya Ban, for fuck's sake—something I definitely knew better about! So, take the following with an entire shaker of salt is what I'm saying.

Anyway. Elf-lord is a term that crops-up in Tolkien's work (I count seventeen uses in LotR but that's at a quick glance; I may be missing some), but not one that I've ever seen a clear definition on. It seems to be one of those things that falls under a "you know it when you see it" banner. An Elf-lord is an elf of particular power, might, or prominence; someone who can command, whether that be by the strength of their political position, their lineage, or simply their raw power. Someone whom others respect, and whose words carry weight.

Lord, of course, gets used as a term of rank; one could probably assume that any Elf who is called a Lord at any point (Celeborn, for instance) could likewise be described as an Elf-lord—but I don't think it's just a case of "you have x rank, congrats you're an Elf-lord now."

Glorfindel is repeatedly called an Elf-lord, even though he never ruled any lands. He is described to Frodo as being of "a house of princes," so one might claim on those grounds that it's a rank-thing only—but his status as an Elf-lord is also referenced explicitly in regards to the Ringwraiths being "dismayed" to see "an Elf-lord revealed in his wrath," so I think there's a more-than-just-political power aspect to it as well. It's not just about rank; it's also stature, majesty. Power. Any Elf who has a lordship over land or people would be called Lord [name], but would he be called an Elf-lord if he wasn't also mighty on his own merits? Hard to say. (Of course, the fact that those who wield command in Tolkien's stories are almost always people who are mighty, conveniently, muddies those waters a little; we've got aspects of that whole "divine right" thing going on, in a story written by an Englishman! Shocking I know!)

(If you're wondering why I'm only referencing LotR and not the Silmarillion, despite there being way more Elf-lords in the latter, it's because I don't know the Silm off the top of my head well enough to go snag quotes and references without having to actually page through it. Sorry. But we're talking Third/Fourth Age stuff anyway if we're talking about the fic I think we are, so let's say I'm sticking to topically appropriate references rather than being lazy. Shh.)

Anyway. "Elf-lord" also gets used as a comparison term to indicate that someone is particularly great in a particularly elvish way. For instance, after Galadriel arrays him in finery, Aragorn is described like this: "Then more than any king of Men he appeared, and seemed rather an Elf-lord from the Isles of the West." High praise, indeed, and to me the way it's used in that section of the Appendixes is being done to indicate that he is worthy of Arwen, for all that he's a mere mortal. "Not an Elf-lord, but really close! honest!" is basically how it comes off, to me. Likewise Elladan and Elrohir are said to be "fair and gallant as elven-lords." Ergo they do not quite rank the term themselves, because they are peredhil like their father rather than elves, but they are considered to possess comparable greatness.

Conversely, I'm assuming it's not a term that is simply a fancy way of saying elf, because it only seems to be used for elves who merit greater regard than the average. The term is used more than once during the Council of Elrond in reference to some of the elves gathered there to discuss the fate of the Ring in a general way ("What of the Three Tings of the Elves? Very mighty Rings, it is said. Do not the Elf-lords keep them?...I see Elf-lords here. Will they not say?") but not in such a general way as to be referring to just any elves; it seems evident to me that Glóin is using the term to specifically indicate elves of greater-than-average position or might, rather than simply talking about elves as a whole people, although he doesn't specify anyone in particular (since it's a secret who has the Three and he does not know).

Legolas is (unless I've missed an instance somewhere) never referred to as an Elf-lord. When Elrond is discussing who to send with the Fellowship, Gandalf says, "Even if you choose for us an Elf-lord, such as Glorfindel, he could not storm the Dark Tower..." and he says this after Legolas has already been named to the Fellowship as their elvish representative; ergo while once again the text doesn't explicitly state that Legolas doesn't qualify as an Elf-lord, I think it's fair to infer that he isn't considered one; neither Elrond nor Gandalf, at least, think of him an Elf-lord, because they wouldn't have been talking about Glorfindel being an Elf-lord who could theoretically be sent along if the Fellowship already had one Elf-lord in their number.

Indeed, in Appendix E there is a sentence that specifically delineates Elves and Elf-lords as separate, distinct terms: "...the tongue of all those Elves and Elf-lords that appear in this history," Tolkien writes.

So that's how I used it: as not necessarily a specific rank that someone can be given or earn or be appointed to, but as a way of signifying extra respect and might. Hence Legolas's not-exactly-joke that Oropher would probably have called himself an Elf-lord, but that none of the other Elf-lords were likely to have agreed with his claiming the title. Now technically as a king, Oropher would qualify as an Elf-lord...but in that part of the story, I wanted to lean into the lingering bitterness that Mirkwood feels about the disdainful way they feel they were treated during the Last Alliance, and the high price they paid because of it. So, would the Elf-lords who marched to war with Gil-galad have ranked Oropher as one of them, just because he had a bunch of scruffy archers under his command? I mean, they very well might have, even if solely as a gesture of respect—a courtesy title, so to speak. But Legolas wasn't there, so he's just going off the vibes that have endured, and in my take on Green/Mirkwood those vibes are not exactly enthusiastic towards the other elves of Middle-earth; the ones that they think looked down on them and didn't stand by them and left them to fight alone against the Shadow for so long.

Legolas does use the term to refer to his father near the end of the book, when talking about how he's going to ask Thranduil to let him bring some elves from Mirkwood to help spruce-up Minas Tirith; but he says it as "my Elven-lord," rather than just saying "and Thranduil, an Elf-Lord who blah blah..." so it seems in this case to be more about the fact that Thranduil has the rank of a lord over Legolas, being king of Mirkwood, and less that he's an Elf-lord, specifically. Of course, as a king, Thranduil would likely merit the term—but is it one that non-Mirkwood elves would use for their "more dangerous, less wise" kinsmen sitting out there in the half-feral spider-tree kingdom? Hmmm, maybe; he is a king, even if he's not going around tearing down walls with his willpower and chasing the Nazgûl out of Dol Guldur by force of his shiny presence alone...but I think it also probably depends on the situation. If we were talking about "mighty Elf-lords" like Galadriel and Glorfindel? Maybe not so much. If it were a discussion of various elven leaders, including him on behalf of Green/Mirkwood, then he'd have a better shot.

So that's how I see it, anyway. As with any term without a precise definition, there's wiggle-room to interpret it in different ways, clearly. You may look at it completely differently, and that's fine! But you asked for my definition, so there you go.

Oh, also re: capitalization...yeah, that's just called me being inconsistent with capitalization, because Tolkien capitalizes pretty much EVERYTHING and I...don't. I put it down to reading too much other fantasy that doesn't capitalize every use of Elf and Dwarf, and the inconsistency of species capitalization across spec-fic in general. I should capitalize it in Tolkienian fanfiction, because the source material does; but that doesn't come naturally to me when I write those words (as you'll notice when you read this post), so sometimes I remember to do it and sometimes I don't. Sorry for the confusion!

*I invite anyone who knows more about Tolkien minutia to chime-in with their greater knowledge on the Elf-lords subject btw!

[sadlybeans]

Nelyo

my favourite boi, love of my life, my little baby—

buckle up bc this is quite the ride

pretend i can draw scars

✨first age, post-imprisonment:✨

Either extremely short or shaved hair.

Nearly blind in left eye.

Missing both tips of his ears.

Favours left side when standing for his chronic pains.

Closeted and deep into denial, goes by she/her till the day he dies.

Originally named Russariel/Narwafinda.

if you guessed he’s gil-galad’s parent—

you’re right

long story aside

extremely traumatic ordeal, he and Finno still don’t end up together, Ereinion despises him

Two full heads taller than the average man and sinda, one head taller than the average noldo. no i don’t wanna do the work of putting an actual number to it.

Self harm scars on his fingers. (When he thinks he’s having delusions, he uses the pain to ground himself. As a consequence, doesn’t have much feeling in them.)

Freckles that I couldn’t draw bc the brush was being a bitch.

Sickly white skin.

Patches when hair don’t grow in his scalp.

Very raspy and hoarse voice.

✨first age, Elrond & Elros:✨

Is the only one who knows how to do braids, the twins’ hair never looks decent bc of this (try to do it with a single mangled hand). Káno often just puts their hair in ponytails that never really look good, but the twins refuse to do their hair themselves.

To his death, Elros wore his hair gathered in a ponytail.

All grown up, Elrond wore his braided like Nelyo did it.

Whenever he slept totally still and nearly not breathing, the boys knew he was having nightmares and snuck into his bed.

The twins actually became really loud when in their care, because they noticed Káno and Nelyo becoming anxious in absolute silence.

there were no more little brothers causing mayhem. silence became painful.

Elrond and Elros come out of their care speaking only quenya, with a marked Fëanorian accent, and refuse to speak anything else for years.

the day they left the boys waited deep into the night by the entrance to their refuge.

even after months of hunting food by their own they refused to give up.

eventually Elrond obeyed Nelyo’s orders to go to Gil-Galad.

they were gone.

forever.

Ereinion Gil-Galad still hated Nelyo, he always would. He only took them in because they came from his father’s side of the family, because he thought they were more victims to the House of Fëanor.

Maybe they were, but they still loved their fathers.

Elros Tar-Minyatur never once spoke a single word to him.

Elrond Peredhel only ever did it out of necessity and required politeness towards the king.

✨third age, newly reembodied:✨

Second time’s the charm; right hröa!

Exact same height as before, just a little bulkier.

Fixed relationship with his parents.

Fëanor and Nerdanel were ecstatic to name their firstborn son.

Essentially bullied into accepting that Finno loves him and that he deserves that love.

THEY. FINALLY. MARRY.

bc seriously guys wtf why did it take you three fucking eras

Decent relationship with the extended family.

i mean everyone sort of avoids them so they gotta support each other

ofc this is Nerdanel and her sisters in law’s doing

Became closer with Findo because they have common ground in worrying for Káno.

might or might have not been kicked in the balls beforehand tho

“Shut up Finno, your husband will be fine! I waited millennia for that and it was amazing!”

A few years are spent home, but there’s things to fix and a little brother to find.

There’s already a boat awaiting to sail for Middle Earth one last time.

[tanoraqui]

#unspeakably delighted we both had the reaction ''oh shit that's so good i'm tempted to change my headcanon now'' #lotr #lotr meta #the silmarillion #for the record the ''great‚ valiant woman'' translation is given in the shibboleth of fëanor (in the peoples of middle-earth) #(vs the translation as ''bride'' which comes from the etymologies & actually referred to the character we know later as nessa) #citing my sources!! #but yes on the one hand i do love and stand by my idea of indis—Great‚ Valiant‚ Notable—looking at her newborn second son #who will grow up to resemble her physically more than his father & brothers #(and perhaps temperamentally as well—arafinwë turns home to ask forgiveness and make amends when both his brothers press on #and finwë had exiled himself once for fëanor's sake already and died there‚ in formenos‚ while even fëanor returned to tirion for a feast #if finwë had returned with him but things still came to an Oath and the Doom of the Noldor #surely he too would have left?) #and so indis looks at her son and says this one who will look and act like me will be great and valiant and notable among the noldor #he will be noldorin and he will be like me #and there is absolutely nothing fëanor can do about it #but GOD that last line. the comparison of lúthien & indis—i'd never thought about it before this post #but they really do each reshape the world with their respective choices to marry the ones they love #(aside from the fact that indis isn't actively a self-insert for his wife) when you get down to it really what's the difference? #what makes indis and her love less worthy of note and of prophecy than lúthien? #that's good stuff man #and SO thematically appropriate on multiple levels #you know at some point i probably should've given up and taken this out of the tags #ETA: thinking about this again and realized there's literally no reason it can't be both #''indis'' is her father-name and means ''great/valiant woman'' #her mother-name is whatever word would've been ''bride'' in later quenya

@iridescentoracle OHH YOU'RE SO BIG-BRAINED; I, ALSO, FORGOT THAT ELVES ALL HAVE MULTIPLE NAMES! Yes, "Valiant Woman" Indis [Bride], and maybe the meanings just got conflated at some point by some well-meaning Númenorean scholar... We can have our cake and eat it too. Love does change the fate of the world.

I love your world building! Your name ideas are awesome. Love the idea of Indis being a true prophetic mother name

-@outofangband

Belated thank you! Also, sharing my thought process on that one because it's a very classic Silmarillion headcanon origin: it bothers me that Indis's name means "bride." I hate how it reduces her to a feminine trope - at "best", only here to have a troubled marriage; if you're a staunch Fëanorian, a femme fatale homewrecker. I immensely dislike how this is, in fact, an fairly accurate description of her role in the story...

Which is deliberate on Tolkien's part! The "canonically correct" way to ameliorate this misogyny (though neither erase nor excuse it) is to remember that this whole text is a mixture of history, legend and myth passed through multiple storytellers over thousands of years, translated and re-translated and interpreted through the eyes of elves and men and hobbits and men again, until even if this person ever actually existed in the history of Middle Earth - IF! - "Indis" probably wasn't even her epessë, much less her commonly used name. Probably her name got ink blotted on it at some point, or mixed up with someone else's name, and the next Númenorean scholar to rewrite the text followed the Archetypal School of historical interpretation and decided to name her "Indis" because of her role in the story...

But this, too, bothers me. Because I love the framing device of these various books, I love the historian-given dubious canonicity of literally every detail of The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, and especially of The Silmarillion. But! We need some solid canon upon which to hang all our headcanons, so it's imperative to retain a delicate mental balance of knowing everything could be made up (more than it already is by being fiction!) while also adhering to as much as possible as something that Really Did Happen - and names are pretty solidly in the latter category. I mean, everyone has multiple and for those who don't, we tend to make more up, but a belief in the basic premise of the text is necessary in order to function in any fandom, and "names of characters" is pretty "basic premise."

So it's impossible to ignore that her name is Indis; and it's impossible to ignore that the name "Indis" is closely connected to her place in the narrative, more than most characters, and that said place is uncomfortably non-feminist - you can round out her character all you like, but you have to admit that her role in the story is to be the Second Wife and Mother whose acts of being a wife and mother cause trouble! That's a fact! And it's not great! And the name "Indis" isn't helping because if she was named anything but her literal narrative role, that would be characterization! She could be noble like Artanis, she could be of the sea like Eärwen, but she's not! She's just "bride"!

...so, I redeem this by making this definition of her life deliberate within the text - and not just by a future Númenorean scholar, but by Indis's mother. (Female! O! Cs!) Furthermore, names of prophecy are implicitly grand (even if they're not necessarily either good or bad). It makes being a bride itself feel more active - and why not! Do Indis's acts of love and marriage not change the fate of the world just as much as Lúthien's? Consider that Indis's act of marriage is so important that it echoes back through the Great Music to be known by her mother as she held the future bride as a babe in arms. Consider a mother holding her child under stars beside a lake and going, "damn, this kid is gonna have ripple effects. I should add a bragging warning label."

Also, if you accept the headcanons that

a) most Elvish languages treat "sex" (physical) and "marriage" (soul-bonding) as basically synonymous; and

b) Indis spends thousands of years in the Second/Third ages patiently and stubbornly figuring out how to Make It Work between herself, Finwë and Miriel, such that all three of them can marry with genuine all-around mutual love unto the end of days, for peace among the still-troubled Noldor but mostly for happiness for herself and those she loves most (also an act of bride-ship worthy of prophecy, note) -

then you can with a straight face imagine Indis saying, "I fucked my way into this mess and I'm going to fuck my way out of it."

Feminist critique + consideration of canonical historicity + elaborate headcanon web = sex joke! Now that's good fandom!

[anarinya]

Anarion’s compatriots had learned not to clap his back in moments of victory or praise, cautious of the way he would stiffen against hard treatment. A grim and sensitive young man he was but they accepted him as such, as much for fondness’ sake as for the dedication and skill he brought to their cause. Instead, once they had sailed up the winding coast and were reaching the jutting cliff that marked the mouth of Andunie’s bay, the five of them would each urge him down from his towering height and kiss his brow in the Faithful fashion of farewell. 

Usually Anarion would then jump overboard and take advantage of the bay’s sheltered and calmer waters to swim up to the cliffside and climb it’s black slate. The walk back to the city was long and trackless but Anarion knew the miles, even in the dark, and it was no great toil when compared to the boon of secrecy if offered. 

Still, tonight he was glad when the bright moonlight fell upon the familiar prow of his grandfather’s sloop anchored just a little off the cape’s end. As were his fellows, who all regularly told him that watching him scale the sheer cliffs was more nerve wracking than any of their usual escapades. 

Anarion approached the railing easier with the promise of a blanket and a swift sail home. The black water lapped gently at their hull and the stars were brighter than ever with no ship’s lamp to dim them. Isildur would have lured me to a roof, were he here, Anarion thought to himself, in order to avoid thinking of his father. 

He finally gave over the canvas bag he had slung over his shoulder to their relic-keeper, tied the blackcloth tighter about his torso, nodded to all of them and elegantly dived from deck into the water. Cold shock greeted him with it’s familiar rush of sensation but he had trained away the need to gasp in childhood and it took no time at all for him to begin cleaving through the waves towards the blue and silver hull beyond. 

He found no hemp rope hanging over the side, but it was easy enough to assume Amandil had forgotten or fallen asleep before he thought to arrange it. It was no hinderance anyway, Anarion’s strong fingers and corded, elegant arms found purchase on the beaten metal ribbing to push himself high enough out of the water to catch the taffrail. All it took then was hauling his sodden bulk from the sea, slinging first one leg over and then another before twisting back around to sit dripping on the rail. 

Leaning over his knees, Anarion breathed deeply for a moment before dragging a hand through his dense wet hair and pushing it back away from his eyes, searching for-

Ah.

His father’s gaze was piercing enough even in the dark. He stood, the only man Anarion knew that looked down at him, unmistakably here, where he should not have been. Anarion himself was struck still, cast in black and white, his clothes clinging to his lank frame as he held that gaze with round eyes. In the silence his mind visibly worked and quickly it came back to him, Amandil’s informing him of Elendil’s arrival, his father’s love of night sailing, the clear night... he should have guessed. 

This all deduced, Anarion finally blinked. His shoulders unstiffened minutely and he released the breath he had been holding in a long sigh. His hands clasped and gently wrung one another before, finally, he spoke in a low brassy lilt, “Mára vinyë, Atarinya.” 

Starter for (@elendzir​) Father

[aadmelioraa]

Hi, You said it was ok to come back to your ask box to discuss more the show, and since you've been so nice and friendly (despite being an expert of the lore), i'm here again :)

As we talked about it I'm really curious to know your reaction on the conversation between Galadriel and Elendil about his wife and the circumstances of her death. I feel stupid now to have thought my show would abandon this hug chunk of character development for Elendil, but i also have mixed feelings on the fact this revelation happened during a scene with Galadriel. I love them and ship them with all my heart, but it's something that belongs in my opinion to his family, and should have been used first and foremost to expand on Isildur and Eärien's education/life, feelings and relationships between them and with their parents.

Also it didn't look good for my ship: Galadriel asked so brutally, and Elendil freezed and had to take it upon himself to stay polite for the 1st time with her. And i take his answer as a clear message that they won't discuss this subject, they'll stay focused on what's coming (the darkness) because he clearly has not overcome the trauma that was the death of his wife, before he dropped coldly the brutal fact that she drowned and finally turned his back on Galadriel. The worst part is that she was so happy to meet Isildur (her all face brightened), she even said that he had the same look as his father, and now she's "competing" with a ghost who was so amazing in every way that she also taught Elendil how to approach and communicate with horses (though it's not all bad: it helped him too to remember that Isildur had only him as parent and needed him, and thus they got an amazing conversation and the most soft and tender hug later).

Am i too pessimistic? What did you feel on both points? (Sorry for the length!)

Omg you're so sweet, I'm so glad you're back!! I am really not an expert at all, trust me, but I am very flattered you think so.

I think the revelation (re his wife's death) to Galadriel makes sense for Elendil, actually! He's doing so much to protect his children in the way he thinks is best, and that seems to involve not discussing their mother with them—I think this is in large part due to his own pain. He's still reeling from her loss, and I think it's been more manageable for him to suppress than to process. The scene at the end of the ep where he and Isildur finally connect emotionally is a big moment for both of them and indicates they don't talk about her and their feelings about her (until now!! they are healing!!).

I really love Elendil x Galadriel as a dynamic, you are making me want to write some fic for them (I was already looking for an excuse lol). Even though the dynamic will stay platonic between them in the show (I mean, I assume, I don't know for sure), they clearly have an important connection and I think they actually have a lot in common specifically when it comes to dealing with their trauma. That's another reason why Elendil mentioning his wife's death to Galadriel worked for me. It's not just that he can't talk about it with the kids, he can (to some extent) talk about it with Galadriel. She has also lost someone close to her in a traumatic way, and it's driven her life in a different direction similar to the way Elendil has been affected. I'm not sure where the story between them will go from here on an interpersonal level but they definitely have a lot of parallels (and also…I def ship them too, all their little moments speaking Quenya to each other…be still my heart!!).

I hope I addressed your questions, let me know if not! Always happy to chat about the show <3

[starlitwinter]

Holy Crap

Hello. I'm Sunny. And today I offer you my version of "Modern Girl in Middle Earth". But with what I would have done if I was in Valinor during the Silmarillion. I'm not from an English speaking country so sorry if there are mistakes. Being proud of my language and culture, I will put words in French and references to the French culture. I will give the translations and explanations at the end of the chapter!Little help: italics are for quenya

My updates will be when I've written something so uh... sorry in advance. Have a good read!

(Of course, everything you recognize belongs to our dear Tolkien!)

"Holy crap, why is Manwë in front of me?"

The man, or rather the Vala, stepped back and looked at me warily, surely thinking I was a servant of Satan. I mean, of our dear Melkor. Morgoth. Melkor. Anyway.

"How do you know my name, stranger? What are you?"

Oh fuck. Just why? I should have listened to Paul and learned Quenya. Also, isn't it a rule in fanfics that Y/N has a great integrated translator or is such a fan of Tolkien that they are fluent in Quenya? God-no Eru dammit! Help me with this!

"Answer." "You know what, I don't understand anything you're saying okay. I'm going to tell you about my last day on Earth, even if you don't get it. Well, it all 'started' on a beautiful summer evening."

And here we go for a ride! Start the flashback music!  ~~ " We eat! It's on the table!"

My brother got up from the couch, grabbing my phone before I could react.

"Luke. Give me my phone back." "Boo-hoo, I'm scared." 

He mimed crying before glancing at my screen and letting out an exaggerated sigh.

"ao3 again? And what are you looking for now?" "Fanfiction ducon."

He rolled his eyes.

"I'm not dumb sœurette. About who?" "The twins." "Which ones? Weasley? Skywalker?" "Not the Skywalkers! What do you take me for? That's seriously shady with... you know." "Well, I never know with you... And may I remind you that your name is Leya with a y and not an i? Thanks Maman."

Yes, you heard me right. Or read. My brother, a twin at that, is named Luke. And I'm Leya. Thanks Papa who is more than a Star Wars fan and thought it was funny to convince our mother to name us after the Skywalker twins. But our mother made a mistake when we registered with the Civil Registry. And now we are Luke and Leya Owes.

"Are you done staring into the void? There's no camera and this isn't a 'To All the Boys I've Loved Before' type show."

A sharp and brutal return to reality. Thanks frérot. He waved my phone in front of my eyes and snapped his fingers (with his other hand of course).

"What twins? And then we can go downstairs to eat and avoid Maman's wrath." "Fëanor's twins. Ambarussa. Amrod and Amras. Telufinwë and Pityafinwë." "Ah okay. I see who it is. Here. Take your phone back."

He tossed me my phone while turning to go open the door to our room. I retrieved my phone on the fly (thanks to my reflexes) and followed him to join our parents.

"What took you so long!"

Our mother was waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs, hands on hips.

"Sorry Maman, Leya thought she was in a soap opera and was staring at an invisible camera. I tried to get her to react but she wouldn't stop until she finished telling her story.

As I went to sit down, I kicked him in the shin and smiled at our parents.

"Let's eat, I'm starving." "Be careful or you'll sink tonight."

As I kicked him in the shin again and handed my plate to my father to serve me.

"Don't say that Luke, I'm sure your sister is going to do great tonight."

Thanks for the support Papa. 

"But speaking of which, isn't it better that you don't eat before the race, chérie?"

I nodded as I watched my dad put some peas on my plate.

"Luce said I could eat a little beforehand just to. But nothing too big. Besides, it's in four hours..."

My mother nodded to support my words and everyone resumed eating. Three hours later, I was in the 'lodges' near the lake where I was going to do my first night race of the year. Despite the fact that the race was an hour away, I was already dressed in my wetsuit and my hair was already tucked under my swimming cap. The stress was starting to build. Still. Two kilometers in the dark is always extremely long. My coach, Luce, had her hands on my knees to stop them from shaking and was gently answering my questions.

"What if I miss my roll? Or get a false start!" "You keep going. You're fighting for the gold, Leya." "Even with a cramp? Can we really not go test the water? Imagine it's freezing and I'm getting hypothermia!" "That's what your suit is for. And then we are in summer, the water can't be like in winter. And you can't test the water. That's the point of this race, to get into unknown water. Every year, a new lake." "What about the cramp?" "Leya... How many times have you participated?" "Fifth. So yes. I know what to do if you get a cramp. The thing Benoit explains every year. The tab on the side and boom light. Sorry I'm stressed." "I saw that! But Leya. You've already brought us three silver medals and one bronze. That's already great. But this year is the last." "I know. After that I'll be too old. Well, in a manner of speaking. 17 is still young." "Leya. This year you're going for the gold. More than ever okay? Gold." "Yeah. Gold. Got it." "I'll give you your last hour with your family and friends. Then you jump in the water and bring back?" "The gold medal. Thank you, Luce. "Thank you instead."

She winked at me before walking out of the tent and my family and best friend walked in. My brother was the first to break the silence.

"Ready for the gold, Princesse?" "I think so. This year is my year. I can feel it."

Paul, my best friend since kindergarten came over to pat me on the shoulder. 

"You shouldn't have put on your swimming cap right away. You're keeping me from ruffling your hair Tomate."

Tomate is my nickname because when I was little and even now, when I get angry I turn as scarlet as a tomato. And therefore lose all my credibility according to Paul. 

"Let's make a bet Leya."

Him and his bets. How much is he going to talk me into learning Quenya?

"The conditions are? Because if I accept without knowing, I'm pretty sure I'll get screwed."

He looked at me with a fake outraged look before dramatically putting a hand on his chest.

"I am outraged by this attitude, jeune fille. And to answer your question, if you win the gold, I'll stop talking to you about learning Quenya. But if you win something else... You will take quenya lessons with me." "To please you I will accept. But be prepared for me to win!"

Afterwards, the atmosphere was lighter and we talked until Luce arrived.

"It's time."

I stood up and gave a small smile to my family and Paul before leaving the tent. A small breeze caressed my skin and made me shiver. We walked until we reached the edge of the lake, where the race would begin.

"Ready?" "Ready." "You're going to make it kid, and don't forget..." "We're taking the gold home." "That's good."

She left, probably to join the other coaches. Almost all the participants had arrived. Focus. Speed. I am speed. One winner, fourty two losers. I eat losers for breakfeast. Speed.  Faster than fast. Quicker than quick. Wait. Am I doing the beginning of Cars 1?  The first shout of the referee sounds and without having understood what he said, I automatically put on my glasses and get in position to jump. I can do it. The start is launched and I jump to make a great dive. Great start. Ready to feel the water wrap around me and start swimming. But. This is the ground I encounter. Grass. Grass? Bruh. Where's the water? 

"What the hell is this?"

I took off my glasses and my head spun from the bright light my retina perceived. After a few seconds, I could see the beautiful plain that had replaced the lake and the forest.

"Where the fuck am I?"

I stood up before I heard someone speaking to me in an unknown language. 

"Is everything okay?"

I turned around to face a guy. Tall. Handsome. With long white hair. His clothes were strange, but so were mine. Being in a wetsuit in the middle of a plain is suspicious. But what shocked me the most was behind him. Two gigantic trees. And they were shining. One gold, the other silver. Telperion and Silpion. I believe. So that means... the guy. That's Manwë. 

"Holy crap, why is Manwë in front of me?"

And there it is. You know everything.

[ring-smith]

Second Age Week Day 1 - Elves

@secondageweek

The Titles of Celebrimbor

The life of Celembrimbor through the titles and names he has borne. Not technically all in the second age, but the bulk of them are and it was inspired by this competition, so I'll keep it as such.

Gets rather long and a little abstract at times, so if you re on mobile be aware of that.

Crossposted on ao3 titled "The Titles of Celebrimbor" as TheScarletWarrior.

Telperinquar

A father name was quickly given, and so it was in the case of Curufin's son. Staring down at the child in his arms, Curufin considered carefully for a moment.

"Feanaro would undoubtedly call you Curufinwe little one." Curufin murmured quietly. They were alone, the doctor and midwives with his wife, so there was no shame to be had in talking to his son. "The heir of our house should of course have such a name. Like I do."

Yet he hesitated. Curufin had few complaints with his childhood - son of the greatest of the Noldor, why should he? And yet, there was a weight to his name, a pressure to be as great and greater than his father that he rarely liked to admit to. It was not of course, only in his name. "And yet so much of it was, wasn't it." Curufin pondered, staring into the eyes of his child. "Should you too bear that weight?"

He could, of course. No Feanorian would not rise to any weight placed on them. But looking into the babe's eyes, Curufin was struck with the thought that maybe just because he could, does not mean he should.

His father entered then, the midwives finally unable to hamper his entrance any longer. The molten gaze swept to Curufin's son, and a grin the likes of which Curufin had never seen swept across his face.

"Well, my son?" Feanaro was always shining, but happiness made him glow brighter than ever. "Have you got a name?"

"Yes." Replied Curufin. "His name shall be Telperinquar."

Let this be his own when so little else will be.

Hand of Silver

"What does my name mean?" It was an innocent enough question, one Tyelpe did not think should have earned the amused guffaw it did from Uncle Tyelkormo. His father glared at the particular Uncle before replying.

"It means Silver-fisted, or Hand of Silver. Depends on how you translate it to that barbaric Sindarin." Staring at Tyelpe, his father asked roughly "Why do you want to know?"

"Well, Maitimo said that we need to obey the Quenya ban. I'm trying to make up my new name." Pausing for a moment, Tyelpe continued before his father could interrupt like he so often did. "So it would Celebrimbor in Sindar, correct."

Anger coloured his father's expression, but it cooled minutely at Tyelkormo's warning glare. "It would be. I suppose you cannot just shorten your name like mine, so this will have to do for diplomatic reasons only. Outside of them, you're still Telperinquar, still a Noldor, still a Feanorian. Understand?"

"Yes, Father." He replied dutifully. Bowing and taking his leave, Tyelpe pondered on the name. His father clearly didn't like it. But he kinda did. "Celebrimbor. I think I could get used to that."

Heir of Feanor

"You are my heir, you are your Grandfather's heir! You would forsake the line of Feanaro? The greatest of our kind? In his legacy, you would perhaps achieve even a tiny fraction of his glory. Without it, you are no more than a murderer and traitor!"

"I am all those things whether I am of Curfinwe or not! An heir to blood and fire, glory in that there may be, but I see no good here. You know no kindness, give no mercy. And in this madness, I refuse to remain consigned."

"You would disown your own family?!"

"I do. I renounce Feanor, I renounce my blood, and I renounce you. From this point forth, your deeds have no bearing on me."

"Then you are no son and no heir of mine."

Lord of Eregion

The sparkling city shone like the moon on the water below him. A careful construction of several decades, at last Eregion had been finished. Allowing a smile to come through, Celebrimbor stood oblivious to the shocked looks he was getting from the fellow smiths for that.

"Does it meet what you wanted, Lord Celebrimbor?" One of them spoke up, a Nolofinwean Noldor he did not know.

"Well, I would hope it would, given I helped build it." He replied glibly. "It is better than I had believed we could make in such a time."

Before they replied, the voice of Erenion floated up. "Now that you've finally got a bloody home beyond Wherever you fancy, maybe you shall deign to visit once in a while, O'Lord of Eregion?"

Celebrimbor laughed.

Dwarf Friend

Narvi examined the door carefully, taking it in. He shot Celebrimbor a critical look, and he merely raised an eyebrow in response, fighting down the urge to laugh. "Does it match what you envisioned my friend?"

"It supersedes anything I thought could be done with your latest obsession." He admitted, still eyeing the door. In the moonlight the mithril engravings were clearly visible, done in Sindar out of respect for it being the most common language out here that both dwarf and elf were likely to know. "Your work with the mithril is astounding. But..."

"Yes?"

"Why exactly have you put the password on the door? It's not very safe, is it?"

"Quite the contrary." Walking forward, Celebrimbor laid a hand against the cool, fine stone, facing away from his friend. "Not everyone enjoys riddles as much as your dwarves do, or my elves. The word requires one think if you do not already know the password, offering a chance for this door to be used by even people who do not know the password, if only they stop to consider."

Narvi frowned. "But why would anyone other than ours need to use it? Any travellers in Eregion or Khazad-dum can just gain permission and the password from officials."

Still facing away, Celebrimbor was ignorant to the quieter and more grieved tone his voice took. "I have lived through much and more Narvi, and all it has shown me is that nothing lasts forever. Creations of my family even more so. I know that someday, somehow, Eregion will disappear. In peace or war, it will happen. After that time has come and gone, I do not want this friendship between our races to end with us. It should endure, so long as we try to maintain it."

Softening, Narvi walked over and placed a hand against the elf's wrist. "And so it shall, my dearest friend. You have shown me the true strength of character of the elves, and that shall long be treasured after we are gone. You are dwarf friend, and that is taken lightly by none of us."

Head of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain

A rhythmic clang of hammers and the bellow of forge fires vibrated throughout the forge, a swirling confusion of heat and noise. Celebrimbor blocked it out as he focused on the ring in his hands. The sixteenith and final ring, Celebrimbor was applying the layer of script for the last time.

He trusted his people, and for that encouraged them to be the ones to make the rings under Annatar's instruction. The process had been a long and hard way, more mentally exhausting than any project most of them had undergone before. But even Annatar had been surprised by Celebrimbor's ability with mithril, his skill at writing with it, embedding it with the correct spells to make the effect desired. Annatar had taught him what to use and written the words, but Celebrimbor alone applied them to the rings.

And at last it appeared his job was done. Holding it up to the light, Celebrimbor judged it be of matching intensity and nature to its eight companions. He could feel its song, a melody of dark sun and bright night, even while not wearing it. The rings were at last completed.

Turning, he faced the waiting Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Holding the ring aloft, he turned to announce their deepest pride completed, oblivious to the golden eyes watching from the corner.

The Gwaith-i-Mírdain had created work beyond measure, and Celebrimbor had lead them there - fey and fell as that was to be, for now it felt like a triumph.

Ringmaker

"Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky, Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone, Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie."

The Ringmaker's song, though few knew it as such. Elrond himself had only known of all but the last three lines being Celebrimbor's thanks to their proximity to Eregion allowing him to send a final mental message. All the army had heard it, yet most assumed it from Sauron. Elrond knew otherwise, for no one felt quite like Celebrimbor.

He supposed, in his own way, Celebrimbor had been almost staking a claim. A final, defiant proclamation that he was the Ringmaker, if not the Ring Lord. A cry in the dark, that all the rings were not Sauron's, but the elves.

Staring at Vilya on his finger, Elrond swore there and then that his cousin will be right in his faith, in his trust, and in his final absolution.

[absynthe--minded]

Just letting you know that if you ever write the filet about hour and Hurin you can already count one one (1) enthusiastic reader!

(Well, when you put it like that...)

“Who’s your pick?”

“Hm?”

“Your pick,” Húrin repeated, swallowing the last of the salted pork folded between halves of the Bëorian flatbread his wife had made for the both of them. “Or were you too busy dreaming of your eventual marriage-bed to recall that we were having a conversation?”

Huor snatched up a pebble that had lain by his boot and threw it hard at his younger brother, laughing when his response hit home and was met with a curse.

“Even if I were,” he said, “it would certainly be none of your business.”

“That’s as good as a ‘yes’.”

“It is not, and you know it.”

“So you mean to tell me she’s absolutely not on your mind, even a little.”

“I - !”

“You tell me ‘no’ and I’ll know you’re a liar, you’re shit at lying to me.”

A long silence, and then Huor muttered a few curses of his own while Húrin took his own turn to laugh at his brother.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine! Yes, I am thinking about her, but can you blame me?”

“I can blame you if it means you’re lost in a cloud while I’m trying to have an important conversation.”

Huor scoffed, but there was warmth in his words when he answered. “As if debating the marital prospects of our High King counts as important.”

“On the contrary,” Húrin answered, “what if the contract was not in his favor? What if the stability of the realm is threatened? What if there is a succession crisis?”

“What if you shut up and let me finish my damn food?”

Húrin laughed again, this time joined by his brother. They were sitting on the edge of a terrace in Barad Eithel, perched on a rail in a manner most improper for the high lords that their bloodline made them, watching as below them the High King and his retinue sat and shared a few pots of tea and a tray of scones. They had declined the offer to join in, instead electing to eat what was left from that morning’s meal out of their packs, and rather than press them to be social, Findekáno had commended them for not letting food go to waste.

They had been summoned to the capital along with many others, both Eldar and Edain, to hear a proposal from their monarch regarding the war. The fires had faded into memory, and the High King seemed to think that Angband was yet assailable. It was the first time that either man had laid eyes on the determined, dark-eyed nér since their stay in Gondolin, and now that they had met his younger brother, they were gladdened by his easy manner and his open smile.

Though that had not been the first thing they had noticed.

“Him,” Huor said through a mouthful of cheese and bread, lifting one hand and pointing at a tall, subtly dressed elf sitting a little behind the High King. “That fellow. Faelion.”

“Faelion?” Húrin asked, grateful he hadn’t had any pork to choke on.

“What? It’s as good a choice as any!”

“A better choice than that - what’s his face, that captain of the guard - !”

“Lindaer.”

“Lindaer. Yes. That one.”

“You think he’s married to Lindaer?”

“You think he’s married to Faelion!”

“It’s a decent guess!” Huor protested. “That sort of thing - it happens! Remember Great-aunt Inzilbêth? Didn’t she have a lady’s maid or a chambermaid or someone like that?”

“That’s different! He’s High King! How much time do you think he can spend with his valet?”

“If amount of time spent with someone is the likeliest indicator of marriage, brother, what does that tell you about us?”

“It tells me I ought to throw you off the terrace, and that we’re lucky to be speaking Haletha and not Hadora,” Húrin said, referring to the dialect of Taliska they’d learned while fostering with their mother’s folk in Brethil. “Otherwise they’d all have overheard us by now.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Huor answered with a bright smile, “but they think we’re eccentric anyway, and I’m rather enjoying it.”

Before Gondolin, before the fires, they might have supposed that High King Findekáno was no different from any of the other Eldar - he’d known their grandfather very well, and their father well enough, and they’d heard many a tale of his bravery and nobility, and that was as much as could be said of any of the Noldor in Hithlum. But they had been to Gondolin, had befriended Aegthel and Laurëfindil and Tuilindo and Aegamloth and Pendelot and Aldaron, had learnt the subtle signs and cues and tells that indicated when a nér or ellon was inclined to the company of other néri or ellyn. And the High King was drowning in them.

Thus, the question of the hour: who, if anyone, was the object of Findekáno’s affections?

“All right,” Húrin said, “I’ll concede that Lindaer isn’t the best choice - !”

“More like he isn’t a choice at all!”

“He isn’t the best choice,” Húrin continued, “but you won’t convince me that it’s Faelion.”

“If not Faelion,” Huor said, “then who?”

Suddenly, the conversation below fell silent. Every elvish eye was turned toward the doors on the ground level, and the small paved courtyard below the terrace that the pair of men were seated on.

“Shush,” Húrin muttered, cutting off his brother’s questions with one hand. Beneath them, they could hear quiet Quenya in an accent they didn’t recognize, and the scrape and sigh of leather boots on paving-stones. A pair of Eldar in plate armor that looked as if it had seen better days stepped into view, their backs to the terrace. Their cloaks were scarlet and emblazoned with a large golden eight-pointed star that gleamed in the light, and unlike the other elves in the garden below, they bore swords at their hips and knives in their vambraces, and stood like battle-hardened warriors watching for spies in the trees.

“The delegation from Himring,” Huor murmured, only for Húrin to wave him silent again.

A third figure emerged from under the terrace, standing between the first two Eldar, and when he drew back his hood with one gloved hand, what few murmurs had survived fell silent. He was tall, even for one of the Eldar, standing head and shoulders above many of the lords and courtiers who were in the garden; he would have towered over Húrin and even Huor was shorter than he. His hair was a brilliant, blood-drenched red, just different enough from his cloak to set the eyes of all who saw him on edge.

He said nothing, but strode into the garden, and as he moved both brothers could see his right arm ended in empty air.

“Oh, damn,” Húrin said, watching as he made his way into the midst of the other Eldar. “I’ve heard of this one.”

“That’s - that’s him, isn’t it,” Huor said, looking between the High King and this newcomer. “The Lord of the Eastern Marches. Maedhros.”

Húrin didn’t answer - his eyes were drawn to Findekáno, who was staring at the newcomers almost as if he were shocked and astonished. For a moment, so quickly it almost didn’t exist, something crossed his face - a wide-eyed, warm look, something deep and tender and private, glimpsed only because all other eyes were on the other Elda. And then it was gone, replaced with a bright, welcoming smile, and something in his eyes that was torn between joy and pain.

“Hail, and well-met!” he cried, rising to his feet; his retinue stood with him. He launched into a long and formal greeting, and Húrin and Huor turned to look at one another. They knew the expression that had flashed across Findekáno’s face well - they had seen it in their own mirrors, and the faces of the women they loved, often enough.

“Damn,” Húrin said. “Damn, how were we supposed to know he was in Himring?”

“We weren’t!” Huor answered, dropping his voice down. “That’s - shit, that’s nearly cheating.”

“Nearly cheating,” Húrin said, shaking his head. “He marries who he likes and we call it cheating.”

“It is cheating, if you win by holding out the gamepiece until the end,” Huor replied, getting to his feet and brushing the crumbs from his tunic. “All right, I’m going down to the garden.”

“What? Why? What for?”

“Because,” Huor said, “we’ve half a day of council left, and I’m not missing a second of their scintillating intellectual exchange.”

The look on his face revealed exactly what sort of intellect he was referring to, and Húrin found himself unable to hold back his laughter any longer.

Whatever the rest of the day would hold, it was certainly not going to be boring.

[jengajives]

So I know canonically Barahir and Finrod probably never met again after the Bragollach but I just WANT THEM TO

(My personal hc for Barahir and Emeldir is that they’re Gay Besties and her sweetheart died years ago and he never found the man for him but they both really wanted a child so they had Beren and raised him together as friends, and all the people of Dorthonion totally knew what was up but played along anyway.)

Also excuse my Sindarin, i am awful at languages

“My lord.”

The voice seemed deafening in the chamber of Finrod- the quiet space he sulked in when all of Nargothrond’s riches seemed empty and lifeless to him. When the company of his brother, his niece, and all his people just wasn’t enough.

He turned from his tapestry slowly, almost unwilling. If Celegorm and Curufin wanted another counsel, he had run out of excuses to deny them. All he wanted to do was stand around looking at the tapestry of Tirion he kept on the wall to substitute for a proper window.

“What is it?” he asked tiredly, unable even to muster the energy for a proper hello. The attendant bowed anyway.

“It’s the border wardens, your Highness. They’ve apprehended a trespasser on the eastern marches- a Man. He carries your ring, sir. He’s requested an audience.”

It seemed as if everything went utterly still and for several long moments Finrod could not speak.

He had to rub his eyes to ensure he was awake and hearing correctly. This wasn’t just the dream that had haunted him more years now than he could count.

“By all means,” Finrod said in a strangled voice, “bring him before me.”

It isn’t. It can’t be. He’s dead.

The attendant bowed again, all low and respectful. “I’ll let you know as soon as they reach the city, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Finrod wasn’t paying attention properly anymore; he was suddenly very worried about what he was wearing, how he looked. The way he dressed around Nargothrond was very different than his war attire, and it was very concerning when he worried whether Barahir would even be able to recognize him.

No, no. Barahir was dead five winters now. It didn’t matter whether he looked familiar or not, he was dead.

Still, though. There was a chance.

Finrod threw open his wardrobe with something akin to panic.

The woods of Dorthonion were dense and dark, with occasional beams of golden sunlight filtering through the high pine trees and turning the bed of needles to luminous white. There wasn’t too much undergrowth, which made it easy to ride through, and Finrod did so with as much speed as his mare could manage, flying over falling trees and secret glens that few among the Elves had ever looked on, thundering across rushing mountain creeks with all the speed of the Valar. He held his arms out to the wind and let his golden braids flow loose behind him.

When he at last came to the little green valley he’d been directed to, he slowed his mare to a stop and stood there a moment on the ridge. The people of Bëor lived in small homesteads spotted over the highlands, and here a number of them gathered together alongside a cool, fresh creek to graze their animals on its fair grasses. The largest of the wooden homes was nestled just beneath the rolling, forested hills, sheltered by the river’s curve and somewhat apart from the others. It was here Finrod rode, galloping eagerly across the meadows of the basin.

A handful of sturdy horses grazed on the green pasture in front of the house, along with a pair of cows and one freshly-sheared sheep. Finrod rode along the tree-lined lane until he came to the house itself.

It was single-storied, made of finely hewn logs painted with red and gold, and a thatched ceiling that looked freshly lain. On one side stood a small barn for the animals, and on the other a woodshed that had seen better days. Finrod dismounted took a moment to take it all in. A warm smile crossed his face.

At once, the worn blue door opened, and a Man came hurrying out. He was dressed in simple work trousers and a maroon shirt that wasn’t tied all the way and showed off the warm brown hair of his chest, but he was hastily throwing a fur coat over the top of it all as he stumbled down his stairs.

“King Felagund!” he choked, obviously out of breath. Finrod noticed a gleam of gold on his middle finger. “We- I- This is most unexpected!”

“I must apologize for the intrusion, Barahir,” he said with pity. “I was riding back from Hithlum and I became… sidetracked.” Then he smiled again. “I hope it’s not too much trouble?”

“Trouble!” Barahir shook his head a little too energetically. “No trouble at all! It’s just… “ He motioned helplessly to the house behind him. “t’s not much. Certainly nothing like a prince like yourself would-“

“Barahir,” Finrod said, bold enough now to take the Man’s hand in his own. “Your home is beautiful.”

Barahir visibly relaxed. His face went soft.

“It is… very good to see you again, Your Majesty.”

“To you, it’s Finrod.” He gave the hand a squeeze. “You have more than earned that right.”

Barahir’s tawny cheeks went red.

Finrod thought he would have kissed him then, if it had been for the little voice that interrupted them.

“Papa!”

Immediately Finrod straightened up and looked over Barahir’s shoulder to the doorway.

A small, brown face peeked out from inside. Just a beam of light caught on dark curls and turned them shining auburn.

Finrod’s expression went slack for only a moment before the corners of his mouth began to peak upward.

“Who’s this?” he asked eagerly. The child stuck his head out further to show two gleaming dark eyes.

“Are you one of the Valar?” he called, somewhat shyly.

Finrod smiled.

“No, child. Why do you think so?”

The little one gave a sheepish shrug. “You’re glowing.”

“Am I?” Finrod looked down. His tunic was indeed embroidered with gold and there were jewels in his hair. The thought of this innocent child mistaking him for a Vala was a very fond one, though.

“Beren,” Barahir called. “This is King Felagund. He’s a very powerful and noble Elf. Come over here and give a him a nice bow.”

Beren slowly moved onto the steps and made his way over, still cautious. He was wearing a green shirt that was too big for him and clutched a stuffed hound in one hand. Immediately Finrod saw the likeness with Barahir; other than the boy’s darker shade of hair, the two were nearly identical.

Finrod glanced at Barahir as the child approached.

“Yours?”

“Yes, he is.”

When Beren reached his father’s side, he shut his eyes tight and performed a bow so deep he nearly toppled. “At your service, King Felagund, sir!”

Finrod laughed and dropped to one knee so he could look the boy in the eyes. “An honor, Beren, prince of Dorthonion. I could not ask for more steadfast a Man!”

Beren cracked one eye, then the other. He gave a cursory glance to his father, then pointed at the great palomino mare waiting patiently on the lane.

“What’s your horse’s name?”

Barahir clicked his tongue. “Beren, be polite.” Finrod chose to ignore him.

“She is Glânhen, Brighteyes,” he said to Beren, as if he were sharing a secret. “She very much likes to eat. I think she might let you ride her if you find space for her in your pasture.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I can do that, sir!” He squinted up at the horse. “Where’s her bridle?”

“She’ll follow you,” Finrod said. He told the horse something in Quenya and she nickered, and then he straightened to let the bouncing little boy hurry past, motioning to the mare eagerly.

“Follow me, Glânhen! I’ll find you the best grass we’ve got!”

The pair of them trotted off together- the massive steed of Valinor, and the little woodsman’s boy leading her like an obedient pup. Finrod got distracted a moment just smiling at the sight, until Barahir chuckled behind him.

“Well, I… I didn’t know you were fond of children.” He paused, obviously bashful, before he slipped out the name like he thought it might bite him. “Finrod.”

“Very fond. He’s a wonderful boy, Barahir. How old?”

“Five this spring.”

“My.” A wistful smile crossed Finrod’s face. “You must be very proud.”

“I am.” A silence passed, but it was broken when Barahir reached out and took his hand. “Will you come in?”

Finrod turned and the joy he felt looking at that gentle face was unlike anything he’d felt for countless years.

“I would love to.”

Felagund paced his throne room, back and forth, an anxious rhythm like the thudding of his own heartbeat. The tapestries and jewels felt suddenly profane. Would Barahir know him here? Surrounded by wealth and finery and all the glory of the princes of the Noldor?

Of course he would. Barahir would know him anywhere.

But it wasn’t going to be Barahir who walked through his doors. Dead five years at least, cut down in the highlands of Dorthonion all alone and friendless.

Finrod’s fault. He had tried to send help, tried to send forces through to reinforce the outlaws or bring them back, but no one had been able to brave the Haunted Wood. No one could get through. And Barahir had died alone in the mud, because Finrod’s strength had failed.

No. It could be him. He could have escaped. None of the Eldar were there to see him fall. It could be a mistake.

The golden doors swung open.

Finrod turned, suddenly frozen, as a company of his march wardens stepped inside with a Man held between them like some lesser prisoner. He was so thoroughly surrounded that Finrod couldn’t get a good look at him.

“Leave him,” he called, irritation wearing his voice thin. “He is no trespasser here if what I am told is true.”

The wardens bowed, and moved aside, and there in the center of the room stood Barahir son of Bregor with the cares of many lifetimes etched across his face.

The air left Felagund’s lungs.

He looked just as he had the very last time they had seen each other.

Tears blurred his vision, and when he wiped them away, he saw through new eyes, and the Man he saw was not the one he had dreamed of.

The curls were too dark. The build too tall. The face alike in almost every way, but there was something there now that made it painfully obvious Felagund had been mistaken. He deflated at once and collapsed back into his throne, face in his hands, floundering just a moment in defeat.

“King Felagund, sir,” called the Man. “I thank you for your hospitality. I wouldn’t have come if there was any other way, but I need-“ Abruptly, the trembling voice broke on a sob and trailed into tearfulness. “I- I need your help. Please.”

Finrod looked up again and his eyes softened, recognizing the sensitivity behind those eyes. He rose and stepped slowly down until he stood before the Man with pity in his heart and tears running down his face.

He put a hand on the rough-clothed shoulder.

“Beren,” he said softly, as fervent as he could manage. “I will do anything within my power to help you, no matter the cost.”

When Beren at last looked up to meet his eye, it was the same face of the shy woodsman’s son he had met all those years ago, and Finrod decided then that he would go gladly to his death if it would bring Barahir’s son to the fulfillment of his errand.

[arofili]

Also, if i am allowed more than one: kidnap fam with 50? Please and thank you!!

50. Platonic Cuddling

“Atar?” one of the twins asked.

Maglor looked up from the letter he was writing and turned to face him, unable to help the smile spreading across his lips at the name. It never failed to warm his heart, no matter his guilt as to why they’d begun to call him that. He raised an eyebrow as—it was...Elrond, yes—looked at him curiously. “Hm?”

Elrond glanced back to where Maedhros had collapsed into a snoring heap on his armchair. He rarely let himself be vulnerable, but after a day of chasing the peredhil around the practice court and trying to make sure they didn’t stab each other with their newly-gifted swords (at least, not fatally; Elros was in the infirmary getting his arm patched up where Elrond had nicked him), he was exhausted enough to pass out in this semi-public living space. Servants eyed his sleeping form with curiosity; Maglor wondered if any of them had seen his brother in such a position before.

Elrond certainly hadn’t. “Why is he so tense all the time?” he asked. “I’ve never seen him...like this.”

“He’s always been uptight,” Maglor said carefully. “Even when he was only my older brother Nelyo, looking out for me as a child. And—you know about Angband.”

Elrond nodded, eyes downcast. “But...”

“He can only relax like this when he feels safe around people,” Maglor murmured. “Don’t tell him I said that—he’ll deny it—but it’s true. And now that it’s just me, and you, and your brother...”

“He doesn’t feel safe anymore?” Elrond guessed.

Maglor shook his head. “It was worst after the Nírnaeth. He didn’t sleep unless I Sang him there for...years. And then, after Doriath, after losing—” He broke off. He had not been about to say “our brothers�� but “the twins”—Nimloth’s sons—but that was too close to these twins’ lives to bring up. Especially after he and Maedhros had lost another set of twins, the Ambarussat, at Sirion...

“Well,” Maglor said quietly, “this is the first time he feels safe enough to relax around...you.”

“Elros wants to call him Atar, too,” Elrond confessed. “We...he’s scarier than you, but now...we feel safe around him, too.”

Maglor’s throat closed up, and he pulled Elrond—his son—into his arms. “He would love that,” he rasped. “Truly. He feels like he’s not good enough for you, but he is, he’s—he’s always been the best of us—” (oh how it hurt to use Tyelko’s words like that, but it was true—) “and you...can prove it.”

“I don’t think he should be Atar,” Elrond said, and Maglor froze. Had he spoken too soon...?

“I mean, you’re Atar,” Elrond reasoned, “we should call him something else. But ‘Ada’ is...our other father...”

Relief washed over Maglor. Oh, this was a linguistic issue—how very Fëanorian!

“Atya?” he suggested. “Or Atto? Those are both Quenya words for ‘father,’ like Atar.”

“Atya,” Elrond mused, snuggling closer to him, eyes drifting shut. “I like that. Atar and Atya.”

Gently, Maglor pried his son off of himself. “I’m busy,” he chided. “I’ve got to finish this letter. Go cuddle your Atya instead—he’ll appreciate it.”

Elrond hummed in agreement and dragged his feet over to Maedhros. He clambered into the chair and his Atya’s arms.

When Elros returned from the infirmary, he joined them; when Maedhros woke to the twins curled up in his lap he froze, glancing to his brother.

“What...?” he whispered, vaguely panicked.

“They’re cuddling with their Atya,” Maglor murmured. “Don’t disturb them, Nelyo, or we’ll never hear the end of it...”

Tears shining bright in his eyes, mouthing the word “Atya” (only now did Maglor remember that had been what Fingon’s son had called him, also), Maedhros settled back into sleep, pulling his sons even closer.

Maglor smiled, his own eyes misty. This was more than they deserved, he knew, but he loved the twins so, and he could not begrudge them or poor, tormented Maedhros this moment of peace and comfort.

Perhaps when he finished his letter, he would join them, completing this strange little family portrait of Atya, Atar, and sons; he, his brother and the twins they called their own.

[yellow-faerie]

I would very much like to hear about your head canons for Findis and co! (if you're not busy, no pressure!) have a great day :)

Oh yes! Would love to! Sorry it took so long - I have exams and I had to go back through all my many, many notes I have accumulated over the last six months of headcanons and things and the post kept getting bigger!

OK, so, while I sometimes go by other people as Findis’ wife/husband, my personal favourite is Rilyanixë and together they have four children: two daughters and two sons. Of these children, they have six grandchildren (3 granddaughters and 3 grandsons) and (as far as I know so far) no great-grandchildren.

(I’ll put the full post under the cut)

So Findis is the eldest daughter of Finwë and Indis called Laurinalma by her mother (meaning Golden Flower) and Lintafinwë by her father (meaning Soothing Finwë) (and maybe Finwë is a male name but I believe -wë is a gender neutral name ending and I like the idea of different families keeping a naming tradition of sorts). The name Findis is actually her Cilmessë.

She dislikes Tirion immensely because of their general attitude to remarriage and everything really.

I have this headcanon that the children of Finwë were all very close until they really got into society and rumours and other people’s opinions really tore them apart - Fëanor to Formenos or Aulë’s halls; Lalwen to the wilds where she spends most of her time with her Maia girlfriend/wife (they aren’t sure which); Fingolfin to the isolation of court; and Finarfin to Alqualondë.

And Findis goes to Valmar and the Vanyar.

She takes on a healers apprenticeship there, returning only a few times a year to her family home where tensions are rising between Fëanor and literally everyone else - not yet about anything important, more about really insignificant things. (I think this post sums up my thoughts on Fëanor and the way I see his relationships with his half-family quite well)

And for her graduation, she goes to the Tirion library before returning to Valmar (this is as much to cool down after arguing with Fëanor over something inconsequential as it is to find resources for her theory exam/essay/things) and meets Rilyanixë.

Rilyanixë (a name meaning Sparkling Ice) is the quiet, middle child of the chief archivist of Tirion Archive. His father is a Vanya hunter (because, really, Findis isn’t going to marry someone who isn’t at least a little Vanya) and his older sister takes after him. His younger sister went down to Alqualondë to learn sailing because she refuses to take after either of her parents, but that’s another story.

They meet because he too is looking to get away because his mother - a staunch supporter of the crown and it’s ability to make sound decisions (thus trusting Indis) - threw someone from the archive for making snide comments about the royal family and Rilyanixë rather disliked the raised voices. It is technically his day off but he came here to put books away because that’s what calms him.

So they meet and get on well: Rilyanixë quite likes this slightly scatter-brained healer and Findis likes the quiet librarian with a small smile and brown hair that shines gold when the light hits it just right.

She agrees to meet him again when she returns the books in a month or two when she comes back to town.

And they go out for coffee and learn that they are both half-Ñoldo, half-Vanya. And they sort-of fall into each other, meeting up in Valmar and in Tirion and eventually they are courting and then betrothed and then they are married, three years after first meeting.

(The marriage does cause tensions to rise between Rilyanixë and his Vanya family who see Findis as too Ñoldor and have issues with that so they don’t end up spending much time with them - there’s a reason Rilyanixë’s parents don’t live together anymore)

Now, Rilyanixë married into this family so he is as veritably crazy as all of they are - except no-one notices until he tells Fëanor that his latest creation was ‘passable, he supposes’ because Fëanor insulted Findis and you just don’t do that. Basically, Rilyanixë is very uncrazy unless provoked at which point he will just provoke whoever’s closest, however ill-advised that is (if that makes any sense).

Anyway, they get a house halfway between Tirion and Valmar (because they can’t be completely separate from politics but...they don’t want to be anywhere near it at the same time) and live fairly peacefully, with occasional siblings just appearing or nephews and nieces and the like (from Rilyanixë’s side too it should be noted).

Everyone is beginning to think that they are not going to have children as Arafinwë is already married and with a baby when Findis declares that she is pregnant. A year(ish) later, she gives birth to a girl that Findis calls Findecurë (Tress of Skill - weird name, but I was trying to come up with a translation for Finvain) and Rilyanixë calls Nofernë (Under Beech Tree). Of the two of them, Rilyanixë’s naming is actually a bit more prophetic than his wife’s (because I find it odd that only women have prophetic visions and while I still think that women are almost always the parent (if either parent does have prophetic name-giving), I thought that men must even just a little).

Before Fëanor pulls the sword and everything finally collapses in on itself, they have three more children. A boy who she calls Findelaurë (I’m using this variation on Glorfindel’s Quenya name for the sake of familial consistency) and who Rilyanixë calls Indiltur (Lily Lord). Another girl that Findis calls Fanyanel (Daughter of the Clouds) and Rilyanixë calls Iþilmolótë (Flower of Starlight - and apparently the Vanyar still used the letter thorn? I might be wrong). And finally another son that Findis calls Finróna (Hair of the East) and Rilyanixë calls Aþumolor (Good Companion in Dreams). In order of birth, their Sindarin names (and the names I shall be referring to them by) are Glorfindel, Finvain, Faniel and Finrun.

At the darkening, Glorfindel follows Turgon (with whom he is close), Faniel follows Glorfindel (with whom she is close), Finrun follows his elder siblings and the other Finwean babies (Galadriel, Argon and Ambarussa), and Finvain follows her siblings.

When her children and family leave, Findis disappears into the wilds (very good fic about this here) and Rilyanixë, with no family, returns to his mother’s house in Tirion.

So Glorfindel we all know goes to Gondolin and dies and gets re-embodied, etc. I would like to add a bit to his story to say I am a big Glorestor shipper and they definitely end up married and they adopt Lindir and his sister Lindis (because no-one can stop me).

As of Erestor, he’s an Avar in my mind who ends up with Gondolin because the Avari keep being pushed from their homes and he knows he would be safe there. (He does initially say he’s a Sindar to try and avoid the general distaste everyone seems to have for the Avari and only tells those he really trusts). Also, he would get on so well with Rilyanixë and it’s such a pity that they don’t meet until the fourth age.

Finvain leaves ME because her brothers and sisters are going, not from any particualr desire of hers to go. She is protective at heart - even if she seems very cold - and loves her brothers and sisters a lot. She does a lot of what she does only grudgingly and eventually swears off killing even orcs as her actions at Alqualondë haunt her that much (she acts as a behind the lines medical assistant due to her knowledge of plants and herbs and is killed because of her oath when the camp is overrun).

She loves gardening. If she’s sitting in a patch of flowers, she’s happy (she would really love hobbits if she had lived). She had a garden in her family home between Valmar and Tirion but when she left it got overgrown, despite Finrun’s best attempts to keep it cared for (he’s busy and the garden reminds him too painfully of his absent sister). She can’t keep a garden in ME (she’s a messenger for Fingolfin, moving around a lot) but she does have a habit of planting flowers in odd places wherever she travels.

She does fall in love, if that is what you would call it. She and Morwen (and I have this headcanon that Morwen and Húrin were really good friends who were both hella gay and both really wanted children so got married for that while agreeing that they could see other people) spend time together and it would have developed further if Finvain wasn’t always being called away and she hadn’t died at Nirnaeth.

Finvain holds guilt over her brother’s death as Finrun died at Alqualondë and Finvain saw him die, still confused as to what was actually going on; and Lalaith’s death (who she thought she could save with her medicine but who died anyway).

When she is re-embodied - before her sister but after both her brothers, she returns to her family home - left abandoned by her mother who had vanished soon after the Darkening; her father, who had returned to his mother in Tirion; and her brother, who was now living almost permanently on the outskirts of Alqualondë. She fixes it up the best she can and tends to her garden as slowly, one by one, her family returns.

Faniel is the sort of person who has everyone wrapped around her little finger but doesn’t seem to know. Hella strong, hella kind, hella oblivious - a summary of Faniel’s character.

Faniel and Ecthelion are both bi (when Ecthelion was younger, there was a time he and Glorfindel were courting before they decided they were better as friends). She and Ecthelion have three children: a son, Elemmakil; a daughter, Meleth; and a child, Enerdhil. Meleth ends up as Eärendil’s nurse and marries Elwing’s nurse Evranin which is all I really have for her and I have next to nothing for the other two. But they exist.

Anyway, Faniel fights with a spear and actually lives to escape to the havens but she dies in the Third Kinslaying.

She is the last of her siblings to be reborn and ends up being the one to initiate the search for their mother.

And finally, Finrun. He dies at Alqualondë when he and a few others go into the city to see what the confusion is all about and gets caught up in the crossfire before he can really tell what’s going on. With no blood on his hands and practically no trauma, he gets re-embodied within a few years but everything is really different: all his family has either gone to ME, gone and secluded themselves somewhere, are exceptionally busy or Finrun thinks they hate him. As someone who thrived off of the familial love of his family (being Aro/Ace, this is one of the main forms of love that he experiences), it’s a jarring experience to say the least and ends up with him being really, really lonely.

He decides to deal with this crippling loneliness by throwing himself into his work. The only family who really talks to him is Finarfin but they mainly talk about work and he’s like, if it makes him happy then it’ll make me happy. (It is making neither of them happy, they’re just avoiding the problem). So he ends up in Alqualondë working towards restoring relations. No-one here particularly likes him (Maglor’s wife, Cantasië, does occasionally come and keep him company to be honest to her).

He is here he meets Elwing, singing and miserable who he promptly adopts. (It is not only the Fëanorians with adopting people on the spot issues). The rest of the Teleri are a bit sceptical of this girl however much they like her and she’s uncomfortable in palace having lived nearly her whole life in near poverty despite being a princess. And Eärendil, when he appears, reminds him of his cousins due to being Turgon’s grandson. There’s a bit more nuance to it, I guess, but basically he sees these two children with no family anymore and as he knows how they feel, he decides to give them that family.

It’s at the end of the First Age that Finrun realises that the Valar intend to keep the Ñoldor in Mandos and he basically becomes the advocate for their release. In his house by the sea, he is slowly collecting war orphans who lost parents far too young and came to these shores to try to heal hurts of their souls and Finrun houses them and loves them and tries to get the Valar to release the families they have lost (not realising that in the process he has become part of that family and the loneliness he has been feeling is lessened somewhat - not gone completely because his family is a different entity entirely but lessened).

Eventually, he convinces them and one-by-one, his family and the others trapped in Mandos are released upon their healing, rather than being kept there forever.

(When Glorfindel is reborn, Finrun is not told and meets him on the docks by pure chance before he must go to Middle Earth. And before he can really get over the shock and bundle of emotions, Glorfindel is gone again. Finrun genuinely thinks that this was a hallucination for a long time.)

It is one sunny day soon after Glorfindel has returned to Valinor that Faniel gets them together to go after their mother, who, despite everyone coming back and a tentative happiness and peace beginning, has not returned from wherever she ran to. During their search, they get to catch up for the first time really since they were all reborn.

Findis has just sort of made camp in a cave, not hiding but decided that society sucked and she didn’t want to go back. Her children convince her otherwise and they return and everything is good and happy.

Umm, so yep, these are my vague thoughts on this family. I hope you liked it!

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Vice and Virtue in Tolkien’s Works

I’ve been rereading Dante’s Purgatorio (easily my favourite of the three sections, both for having a very satisfying structure and for its themes of repentance and reform), and the structure inspired this post. Each level of purgatory has images, words, or both, associated with the vice being reformed and its corresponding virtue (the examples being drawn both from the Bible and Greco-Roman history and mythology) and it gave me ideas for a discussion of similar themes in Tolkien’s works.

The structure is: 1) Pride/Humility; 2) Envy/Generosity of Spirit; 3) Wrath/Charity; 4) Sloth/Zeal); 5) Avarice/Simplicity; 6) Gluttony/Abstinence; 7) Lust/Romantic Love.

1) Pride/Humility

Saruman: Our time is at hand: the world of Men, which we must rule. But we must have power, power to order all things as we will, for that good which only the Wise can see.

Frodo: I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way.

This is easily the primary emphasis in Tolkien’s works. The fall of all his main villains (Morgoth, Sauron, Fëanor, the Númenoreans, Saruman) and as well as other non-villainous tragic characters (Túrin, Thingol, Turgon, Thorin, Denethor) is characterized by pride - the desire to be the one calling the shots, the desire for greatness and others’ recognition of that greatness, the refusal to listen to the advice or views of others.

It’s there in Melkor’s desire for his theme to be the only one heard in the Music; in Sauron’s desire to rule the world and arrange everything as he thinks best; in Fëanor’s determination to take any advice, correction, or disagreement as a personal attack, his desire for rulership in Middle-earth, and his attitude that the Silmarils are more important than anything anyone else has done or created; the late-stage Númenoreans’ campaign of imperialist conquest. It’s there in Túrin’s, Thingol’s, and Turgon’s rejection of good advice; in Thingol’s attitude towards other peoples, whether it’s Beren or the dwarves; in Denethor’s conviction that Gondor is the only place and people of any account in the war against Sauron.

Humility, in contrast, is mainly seen in the form of hobbits. None of them have any idea what they’re doing when they leave Rivendell (Sam and Pippin don’t even know where Mordor is), and they know they’ve got no idea. They’re not going because they see themselves as specially skilled or qualified, but because it needs to be done. And that’s the very reason Frodo can resist the Ring so long, and Sam can resist it, because they don’t have any grand ideas of themselves.

The ability to say I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll try to do what’s right is pretty crucial to humility; even members of the Fellowship who are far more experienced, skilled and knowledgeable than the hobbits show it. Aragorn says it, in the search for Merry and Pippin when they’re captured by orcs. Pride could easily say I need to go with the Ring-bearer, that’s the most important task or I need to go to Gondor and lead the war against Sauron as their King. But Aragorn lets himself trust in other people doing their parts, and focuses on rescuing his companions - the thing that no one else is a available to do - even as the chase seems increasingly hopeless. It’s also seen in Gandalf, who openly admitted he was scared to go when the Valar first sent him, and wandered around as an old man in a battered cloak and hat, talking with everyone, rather than setting himself up as a Respectable Dignified Authority Figure the way Saruman did.

The Silmarillion has fewer examples of humility than LOTR (perhaps why things turn out so much worse there) but there are a few in the Leithian. Lúthien is another case of saying I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll do it because no one else will when she sets off to rescue Beren. Finrod walks away from his crown and realm to help a friend.

2) Envy/Generosity of Spirit

Denethor: I will not step down to be the dotatd chamberlain of an upstart.

Faramir: My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?

Envy is akin to pride, but I’m characterizing it as being specifically the resentment of being surpassed (or even equalled) by another.

Fëanor is again a major example of this, specifically in his resentment of Fingolfin and of the descendents of Indis more generally. Peoples of Middle-earth notes that he resented the name Nolofinwë (Fingolfin’s Quenya name, roughly means ‘wise-Finwë or ‘learned-Finwë’) due to regarding himself as not only the most skilled of the Noldor at craftwork (which he was), but also the most skilled at lore/scholarship (which he wasn’t), and likewise resented the name Arafinwë (Finarfin’s Quenya name). He’s in a mental place of resenting anything positive that can be said about his brothers as if it inherently detracts from him. And he takes the same attitude towards Men (‘No other race shall oust us!’), treating their very existence as a threat to the Eldar. Losgar is the peak of this: he’s willing to sabotage his own war effort to prevent Fingolfin from participating. This is contasted with Maedhros’ attitude after being rescued by Fingon, when he willingly gives up the crown and, later, moves across Beleriand to the most exposed section of the northern border to avoid conflict. His own status isn’t his priority; peace with his family and the best interests of the war against Morgoth are his priorities.

Denethor is another major example, seeing both Aragorn’s return and Faramir’s respect for Gandalf as personal affronts to himself. (Gandalf points out that the literal job description of a steward is to be in charge until the king returns. When the king comes back, that means you’ve done your job, not that you’re being demoted. Denethor is not interested in hearing this.) He’s also mentioned in the Appendices to have resented the respect and admiration recieved by Thorongil [i.e. Aragorn in disguise] during the days of their youth. In very similar ways, Saruman resented the high regard that some (like Galadriel) had for Gandalf, and saw Gandalf as a rival. Thorongil and Gandalf were not interested in rivalry; they were more interested in what was achieved than in who was achieving it. Faramir is the contrast here - he is interested in the good of Gondor, not his own status, and has no jealousy of Aragorn.

3. Wrath/Charity

Fëanor: See, half-brother! This is sharper than thy tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls.

Gandalf: It was Pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand; Pity, and Mercy, not to strike without need.

I would say that this is the third-most-emphasized of the vices in Tolkien’s works, after pride and avarice. And, of course, another Fëanor example: both his threat on Fingolfin’s life and his actions during the Return of the Noldor, the latter being driven by wrath primarily against Morgoth and secondarily against everyone else in his vicinity (Valar! Teleri! Fingolfin and anyone who supports him!). It’s the spillover that’s the problem, and the self-centredness; hating Morgoth isn’t a problem in and of itself, but Fëanor’s taking the fight against evil and turning it into a personal vendetta, with disastrous consequences.

Túrin is another example, most particularly in three events: causing the death of Saeros, burning the hall of Brodda in Dor-lómin, and killing Brandir. The former two are provoked, the latter isn’t, but all of them are sudden deeds of anger that only serve to make matters worse.

The contrasting virtue is charity, mercy shown to people that you have good reason to be hostile towards. Fingon’s rescue of Maedhros. Lúthien’s sparing of Curufin when he and Celegorm attacked her and Beren. Frodo sparing Gollum and treating him with kindness and compassion.

4. Sloth/Zeal

Guard Hobbit: It won’t do no good talking that way. He’ll get to hear of it. And if you make so much noise, you’ll wake the Chief’s Big Man.

Merry: Shire-folk have been so comfortable so long they don’t know what to do. They just want a match, though, and they’ll go up in fire.

This is comparatively less of an emphasis in Tolkien’s works than some of the other pairings, but I can think of some examples. The best one is Saruman’s takeover of the Shire and the subsequent liberation. Sloth is the characteristic hobbit vice (not gluttony; I’ll get to that); they tend towards being comfortable and complacent and don’t like being bestirred. Even Frodo dawdled around for half a year after learning about the Ring, mostly because he was reluctant to go. And under first Lotho and then Saruman, everyone (except Tooks) more or less puts up with an abuses because they don’t want the trouble or danger of standing up against them. It’s the return of Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Frodo, who have experience fighting evil on a much larger scale (and who can organize things) that spurs them to stand up for themselves and their home.

5. Avarice/Simplicity

Celegorm: For the Silmarils we alone claim, until the world ends.

Gandalf: I wonder what has become of [the mithril-shirt]? Gathering dust still in Michel Delving Mathom-house, I suppose.

Avarice is, I would say, the second-most-emphasized vice in Tolkien’s works, after pride. The central conflicts in both The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings are objects (they’re in the titles!): the Silmarils and the Ring. The Oath is almost the strongest possible expression of avarice, the most extreme statement of this is mine that a person can make; The Ring is an even more extreme expression, as Sauron makes an object that is literally part of himself. And both conflicts are resolved through the renunciation of claim on these objects, in Eärendil’s journey to Valinor (and the Silmaril becoming a star that is seen by everyone and owned by no one) and Frodo and Sam’s mission to destroy the Ring.

The Silmarils themselves are not evil; they are good and hallowed objects, and fights between elves, dwarves, and men are the result of the Oath (the kinslayings) and the connection with the dragon-contaminated and Mîm-cursed treasure of Nargothrond (Thingol and the dwarves of Nogrod). The Ring is evil, and inducing avarice is its most basic power, even among people like Sméagol and Déagol who could never actually wield it; letting it go is incredibly difficult, and Bilbo and Sam are the only people in the history of the Ring ever to do it.

Avarice is also a central theme in The Hobbit, and dragon-treasure is specifically noted as provoking avarice in people who are in any way inclined towards that vice. Smaug is practically a physical manifestation of avarice in his rage over losing one small cup that he has no use for from an immense hoard, and both Thorin and the master of Lake-town fall prey to the dragon-sickness.

I’ve given ‘simplicity’ as the antonym, and I thought of ‘generosity’ as well, but neither of those is quite right. The opposite of avarice is holding lightly to things, and it’s a particular virtue of hobbits. This is seen both in their birthday parties (the tradition of giving away possessions) and the Michel Delving Mathom-house, a museum for old heirlooms that people feel they don’t need to have around. The most beautiful example is Bilbo’s mithril-shirt (worth more than the entire Shire!) spending some time sitting around there.

It’s worth nothing that the vice of avarice in Tolkien’s works isn’t associated with having stuff, just with holding to stuff. Bag End being comfortable isn’t a problem. The Noldor having piles of jewels isn’t a problem provided that they’re sharing them and letting them go, as in the Noontide of Valinor (gemstones scattered on the seashore!) or Finrod giving them away in Middle-earth. The issue comes when the owning becomes what a person values; the signal that Fëanor is becoming too tied to the Silmarils is when he prefers to lock them away so no one else can see them.

6. Gluttony/Abstinence

Gollum: He’ll eat us all, if he gets it, eat all the world!

The lembas had a virtue without which they would long ago have laid down to die. It did not satisfy desire...and yet this waybread of the Elves had a potency that increased as travellers relied on it alone and did not mingle it with other foods. It fed the will, and gave strength to endure...

Gluttony is distinguished from avarice as the desire to consume things, not merely accumulate them. This is an interesting one, because Tolkien has no issue with the consuption of large amounts of food for enjoyment (which hobbits do frequently and enthusiastically!). As with possessions, enjoyment of physical things isn’t seen as problematic. The enjoyment of everyday pleasures is specifically discussed as morally desirable in a way that contrasts with avaricious accumulation (“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”)

However, there is one large (very, very large) example of the concept of gluttony as unlimited consumption and appetite: Ungoliant. Ungoliant represents not the hoarding of things, but their destruction, and is continually described with very physical terms of appetite and devouring. Shelob and the spiders of Mirkwood are lesser versions of the same concept. There are other mosters in the same vein: Sauron’s werewolves and Carcharoth. On of the names for Carcharoth is Anfauglir, the Jaws of Thirst, specifically invoking the idea of insatiable consumption.

And gluttony can be described more broadly as an form of overconsumption which uses up or destroys things; pollution could be a modern-day example. Looked at in that way, gluttony can be considered the end-stage of all evil in Tolkien, in the same way that pride is its beginning-stage. The ruin of the Anfauglith, the Desolation of the Morannon, the trees of Fangorn used to feed the fires of Isengard or hacked down for no purpose (and even Losgar, if you like) are all its work. Gollum (heavily driven by mundane hunger) grasps this when he fears Sauron regaining the Ring: “He’ll eat us all, if he gets it, eat all the world!” Ungoliant is the final stage of all evil.

In the same way that hobbits enjoying ample meals isn’t treated as a moral flaw, abstinence isn’t particularly notable as a virtue. However, it does come up in forms like Sam noting that lembas provides more endurance as the hobbits rely on it solely in their final journey to Mordor. This indicates that Tolkien regards the ability to go without physical pleasures when necessary as a virtue (also symbolized by Sam’s heartrending decision to give up his cooking gear!) but doesn’t place value on ascetism for its own sake.

If we want to expand on the metaphorical idea of gluttony as overconsumption/destruction, then we can also see healing/restoration as its opposing virtue, in forms like the box of soil that Galadriel gives Sam, which he uses to restore the trees of the Shire.

7. Lust/Romantic Love

Celegorm became enamoured of [Lúthien]...they purposed to let the King perish, and to keep Lúthien, and force Thingol to give her hand to Celegorm.

Beren: Though all to ruin fell the world, and were dissolved and backward hurled, unmade into the old abyss, yet were its making good, for this - the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea - that Lúthien for a time should be.

Lust is often regarded simply as a term for physical attraction, and its condemnation as a type of prudishness, but I’m going to present a different take, one that draws on its connection with the two preceding vices (the three are consistently grouped together by Dante). Lust is when the two previous desires, of ownership and consumption/use, are applied not to objects but to a person.

It’s an extremely rare vice among elves, with only a few examples in Elvish history: Celegorm, Eöl, Maeglin. In all cases, there is sexual desire combined with the desire for control, turning to violence when that control is thwarted: Celegorm’s imprisonment of Lúthien in the attempt to force her to marry him, and the later assault on her and Beren; Eöl’s restrictions on Aredhel and murder of her when she leaves him; Maeglin’s attempt to kidnap Idril during the Fall of Gondolin.

In contrast, the examples of romantic love, which are primarily the elf-human couples and especially Beren and Lúthien, combine desire with value for the freedom and identity of the beloved, and with self-sacrifice (or willingness to take on risks) for their sake. Beren’s song before setting out for Angband is a celebration of Lúthien’s existence, irrespective of what may happen to him. Lúthien counters with the expression that she does not want to exist apart from him, and purpose of lovers is to act together and to guard and support each other. Elwing runs through the waves to Eärendil on the shores of Valinor because she would rather face the same risks he does than be safe apart from him. Eärendil accepts immortality for love of Elwing. Arwen accepts death for love of Aragorn.

[lendmyboyfriendahand]

Dior woke up after the Feanorian attack, much to his own surprise. He was in a bed somewhere in Doriath, though he didn’t recognize exactly where. His feet were tied together and his left arm was in a sling. His arm had been bandaged,  with more bandages wound tight around his torso – where he remembered a sword slicing open just before he lost consciousness.

An armored guard – obviously Noldorin in features even if the context didn’t make it obvious – was standing at the end of the bed. The guard called out something in Quenya as soon as he noticed Dior’s eyes were open.

Dior asked, “What’s going on?” but without much hope of an answer. The guard, as expected, said nothing in reply.

After a few minutes, Celegorm the Cruel entered the room. He had apparently washed since the battle—he was no longer covered in Nimloth’s blood—and was wearing an outfit that, if not for the colors, would not be surprising on an Iathrim scout.

“Good, you’re alive. Where is it?”

Dior didn’t see a point in playing dumb. “You tried pretty hard to kill me, for someone who wants me alive. And I have no desire to work with my wife’s murderer.”

“She killed my brother; I have no guilt over her death.”

“Why are you here? I heard that your brothers forbid you from acting alone after you humiliated yourself over my mother.”

“Your people slew both Maglor and Maedhros. I am the leader of the house of Feanor.” Celegorm bared his teeth in a grin. “Now tell me where the Silmaril is.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“I am the King of Beleriand, you have no right to order me.”

“You are tied up surrounded by my soldiers. Where is my father’s Silmaril?”

“I don’t fear you.”

“You’re lying. But even if you don’t care on your own behalf, I expect you wish to protect your children.”

“My children?”

“Yes. We haven’t found the girl, but the twins are in the next room.”

“You would torture children?  Coward!  Orc-kin!”

“They are alive and unharmed, though terrified. If you give me the Silmaril, you and they can go free.”

Dior wanted to consider things carefully, but there seemed little point. The Iathrim had fought bravely, but they had lost. If he refused, Celegorm could burn the city and sift through the ashes at his leisure. “Fine. I can show you where it’s hidden, though I don’t know if I can walk. And I want to see my sons first.”

Celegorm said, “Sicilir, carry the man-elf.” The armored guard from before did so, legs over one arm and back over the other; easy enough as he was nearly a head taller than Dior. Dior wondered for a moment how he would survive being ‘set free’ with two small children in his conditions, but one problem at a time.

The next room was a store room. There was one guard outside, but the elf inside had taken his armor off and was sitting on the floor. Elured and Elurin were huddled on a mattress in the far corner, looking out warily from under a heap of blankets.

“Ada!” Elurin cried out, but didn’t come any closer to the intimidating figures at the door.

“Please set me down, I think I can sit against the wall.” Dior said when Sicilir seemed inclined to walk right up to the twins.

Sicilir looked at Celegorm for direction. “I said you could see them, not have a family picnic.”

“I can hardly know how they’re doing when they’re too terrified of your soldiers to come within twenty feet of me.”

Celegorm sighed. “Fine. Sicilir, set him down and go out in the hall. Talmon, you as well. I’ll call you back when I need you.” He added in Quenya, “Lord Carnistir knows the plan if Dior proves unexpectedly skilled.”

Dior considered asking Celegorm to leave too, but it was would likely do nothing but anger the Feanorian.

Dior checked over his sons, and they indeed seemed unharmed, in the strictest sense of the word. When he asked they had apparently been offered food a few hours ago, but not eaten it because they were afraid the evil elves would poison them, and were now very hungry. They had been ordered to turn out their pockets and patted roughly, but no worse in the search for the Silmaril. Elured had tripped and skinned his knee at some point, either in the attempted evacuation or when being brought to the current cell. Someone had bandaged it, but Elured’s pants were still bloody. Elurin’s shirt was bloody as well, though it was quite obviously not his blood.

No one had bothered to tell them anything other than their mother was dead, and their father and sister were ‘not available’.

Dior wanted to reassure them that all would be well. He wanted to hod them as they cried, to mourn their mother and their friends and their nurse who had been trusted with getting them out. But he couldn’t be sure that his sons were safe as long as they were prisoners, and in any case he didn’t think Celegorm would tolerate delays.

Indeed, Celegorm approached Dior after scarcely ten minutes. “You’ve seen them. Nothing worse will happen to them in the next few hours. The Silmaril, and then you can reassure them that daddy didn’t mean to get mommy killed because he wouldn’t return stolen property.”

Dior really wanted to argue, but the risk of provoking Celegorm while his children were within easy reach. Instead he leaned forward and hugged them, saying “I will be back soon. I love you very much.”

Then the guard grabbed Dior again and carried him away.

[watch-grok-brainrot]

ah hey! snowbunny again, and this time it's 6am where i live so yeah. i'd probably pick mandarin? it would make watching cdramas so much easier i think, and just in general? a year or so back i probably would've picked russian, my father had to learn russian when he was a kid and he still speaks it partly, one of my close friends family is from russia too, so i could speak it with her too. but rn? mandarin would probably the one i'd like to be fluent in.

the cql ost is currently 80% of my comfort playlist, though one of my mutuals and i (more like me and she just has to suffer through it and i enjoy making her cry) are making a wangxian playlist! it wasn't meant to be as angsty as everything turned out to be so far, but i'm not complaining. except for like one song everything is in english, the other song is in german actually and we're not sure if it categories as angst or happy. the acoustic version makes the song sound incredibly sad, the lyrics is somewhere between sad and happy, basically between "you make me happy" and "why did it have to be this way in the first place?". if you want to be specific, the song talks about the other person lifting a burden from your heart "freed it, revived it" is one of the lines, and.... it's a great song but 🤧🤧🤧 then there are these lines "[i] was stuck and didn't know what to do / and you took hammer and chisel / made an artwork* out of my cold heart" (ig to make it flow better you could say "made a masterpiece out of my cold heart" but he says "Kunstwerk" eng. artwork). idk the whole lyrics flows better in german but if you want to listen to it (i prefer the acoustic) it's Betonherz by Wincent Weiss (Cement-heart).

Today idk what to ask so: what are your favorite mutuals/the ones you interact with the most? was there anything you wanted to do this year but couldn't? a random fun fact over tea maybe? (btw i drunk tea this week and it was uhmmm mint tea? i think? and black tea but i can't say more about that tbh)

ahhh wait!!! if we include fantasy languages i'd like to speak quenya 😌😌 or sindarin, that would be okay too - ❄🐇

You did send me asks! Sorry i’m bad at responding. 

mandarin is pretty handy. i will vouch for that. i listened to erha audiodrama on maoer FM today while i was cooking. it was delightful. i had to google the languages you sent in. i know nothing of lotr. but @phoenixrisesoncemore is good with lotr. does neat art. loves untamed. great tea friend. so i would probably reach out to her! :D

cql ost is a lot of what i’ve listened to this year too. i’m really digging teh “I will take you life” song from Ever Night though. It’s so perfectly chipper. I come from so and so place, i’m here to take you life. I just giggle every time i hear it. a little morbid, but alas. Also, the end theme of ever night is cute and chipper too. and the words are really nice. I also LOVE the opening theme of love and redemption. it makes me think of some 80s rock ballad or something. and the words “Even if i drank the waters of wangchuan, I will not fail to meet you again” is really romantic. 

Uh... in case you don’t know what wangchuan is, it’s the river that make you forget your past life before reincarnation. so it’s a pretty intense promise IMO. I really dig that idea... maybe it’s because i read erha and wife is first back to back and now i’m all on board with the idea of “if i get a second chance i won’t fuck it up”. 

oh god. the two mutuals I talk to the most are definitely @needtherapy and @merelhyn. if i go more than 24 hrs without hearing from them i feel weird. I really wanna go on a trip post pandemic to visit merelhyn and spend a day drinking tea with her. and i really want needtherapy to visit me so i can make her crawl through the bowels of the place where i got married -- it’s a weird modern art, industrial playground space filled with mosaics and concrete and ironwork sculptures. it is actually that cool. but you can’t really wear nice clothes there. i’ve ripped holes in shirts before. AND it has a circus school inside. it’s the place of litte haoppo’s dreams. I also talk to lots of other people i didn’t mention (e.g. members of mdzsnet and other friends of mine) but that’s just because i am an extrovert and i talk to people. i like talking to people. and there are SO MANY AMAZING PEOPLE on tumblr. but the two i listed are people who i swapped irl phone numbers with so they get listed as special. i’m drawing my line here or i would probably end up writing a page of people who i adore and that might get annoying :/

random fun fact over tea snowbunny says. random fun fact over tea... uh... i saw @yumingyesfairy‘s previous url and asked if “duchess of orange” was a reference to “duke of orange” which is where we get the tea grading “orange pekoe”. i was correct! and made a tea friend! :D

you are by no means obligated to know tea or even care about tea. i just love it and love sharing about it. because someone isn’t actually good at compartmentalizing. 

how is your week going? <3