#Yaule the Cat

[astral-aromance]

MolSirMags time! Just some elves living in Polyamorous bliss!

The wonderful Molinde (and Yaule the cat) belongs to @starsofarda and Siryawë belongs to me! To read more about the lore of this throuple I direct you Here ! and to bother Molinde with questions or love letters, I direct you to @sewing-elven-maid

[starsofarda]

So, I was doubting myself for a hot second, and then I remembered "my blog my rules". So. Have a fic about Molinde finding Beach Cryptid Maglor on his eternal hike and bringing him back to Imladris.

I have nothing else to say. Thanks to @starshadeemilyart and @astral-aromance for the encouragement

And when Molinde found once again Lord Elrond staring pensively at the portrait of Lord Maglor as last seen before he disappeared, she decided that she had had enough.

Lord Maedhros had been confirmed dead, but Lord Maglor never was. And she had been following Feanorians and their deeds since the beginning of time, so she probably was the only one keen enough to recognize them, save Lord Elrond, who had been raised by them, but again it was not like the Lord of Imladris had all that free time, or resources, especially with Sauron still around.

But she had.

She had all the time she wanted - she had not been taking up a lot of jobs either, as she had started planning on sailing back to Aman.

If she could bring back Lord Maglor too, at least he could have a chance of healing too.

Therefore she packed a few things with her, asked one of her students to take good care of her cat Yaule whilst she was away and rode off, following rumours of a spirit lamenting their grievances to the ocean - to be completely fair, those rumours were just making her life easier, that truly sounded like the kind of dramatic action any of the sons of Feanor would do.

And so she headed to the Grey Havens through Bree and the Shire, where she met Old Cirdan. "Are you here to sail?" She was asked. "Not yet. I am not ready yet. I am heading towards shores where a grave spirit laments its grief."

And Old Cirdan frowned. "Child, you should not go and bother a grieving one." "I have reason to believe I can show them the way towards healing." "You should not dwell on those who have renounced hope." "Hope sometimes is the only thing we have. I have learned to wield it like a weapon, and like a shield I will use it now." "Then head North, child, towards the shores facing Tol Himling. May you find what you are looking for."

And with those last words she left, heading in the direction Old Cirdan told her to go, stopping by only to gather a few more blankets - if Lord Maglor was that far up north, then she would need any extra layer.

When she finally arrived, she was nearly swept away by the strong winds. She had to make sure her horse was safe and sound and that her baggage was well secured, before heading towards the shores battered by wind and sea.

The silence was unreal, the cold was making her freeze even though she was heavily covered - no one in their sane mind would linger in this place, but thinking again neither Feanorian had been completely sound for the longest of time. She came as close as she could to the shores, but saw nothing.

Only silence and the muffled sound of waves crashing on the sand could be felt.

Molinde felt her hopes wane - maybe Lord Maglor was dead, just like his brother.

She felt sadness washing over her, as a couple of tiny tears started falling down.

And it was then that she heard a mighty voice - a voice sweeping over the sound of the wind and the waves, full of sadness and regret. Like a cursed siren, that voice was singing.

She paid more attention on that song, trying to figure out where it was coming from and who it belonged to. And the moment she could discern a passage from the lost poem of the "Noldolante", she knew she had found who she was looking for.

She followed the voice and found him atop of a cliff, ragged clothes and hair swept by the cold wind. She nearly burst into tears there and then. She took in a deep breath and went closer, hoping that her voice could be heard.

"Lord Maglor!" She called out to him. "Lord Makalaure Kanafinwe Feanorion, Lord of the Gap."

The voice stopped singing abruptly, turning slowly towards Molinde. "No one has called these names in millennia. Who calls an Elf as such?" "My Lord. You may remember me as one of the seamstresses who crafted all clothing and regalia. My name is Molinde. I am perhaps one of the very few still alive since we first put foot on Middle Earth. I come on behalf of one who is as dear to you as a child."

Silence fell after these words, as if Maglor was still mulling over a response. And the response came. "He does not need me, or my council. I am but a shadow of a cursed past." "And yet, he misses you, my Lord, as a child misses his parent." "I can't come back, Molinde, seamstress of the Noldor. I have not yet paid enough for what I did."

Molinde sighed. A son of Feanor indeed. Stubborn to a fault. She held out a warm cape made of the finest wool and walked straight until she stopped in front of Maglor. With the carefulness she had as a seamstress, she placed the cape on Maglor. "I hope you can forgive my straightforwardness, my Lord. The world has changed since then. No one remembers the past. No one cares anymore. On behalf of the one who loves you like a father, please come home."

And Maglor and Molinde locked eyes for a moment, both pleading for different things. "Molinde, let me be here." "My Lord, you need and deserve healing. We all do." "I do not deserve grace." "And yet I will give up gladly what is left of mine, if there is any hope left."

And then, as if all tiredness had come all at once, Maglor slumped down, held up only by Molinde. She sighed softly, trying her best to hold him. "My Lord, I have clothes and food and a horse to bring us back, but we need to arrive there."

Slowly, Maglor started to stand up and whilst holding on Molinde, they both started walking away from the cliff and towards the repaired place where Molinde had left everything.

"Molinde, why did you follow us?" Maglor's voice came out a bit uncertain. "Because your actions and words swayed me." She replied gently. "Do you regret it?" "Sometimes. But that is why we have hope. We can't regret something forever."

The rest of the journey was made in near silence. She clothed properly Lord Maglor, she gave him warm food and let him rest until they both were ready to go back. Imladris would be a perfect place for Lord Maglor to start recovering.

When Molinde arrived to Imladris, she was not surprised to see Lord Elrond and his entourage looking at her as if she had appeared straight from the Halls of Mandos. She slowly dismounted from the horse. "Molinde Mudriel, have you not got a single thought in your head? We thought Orcs had taken you!" She heard and nodded. "I apologize and I will await for my punishment, my Lords, but before you deal with my actions, I have a guest for Lord Elrond."

And lo and behold. When Elrond saw Maglor, his heart skipped a few beats. "Atto." He softly whispered.

He looked at Molinde. "You…" "He needs healing, my Lord. The cold and the wind in front of Tol Himling has not been kind."

And Elrond left the situation as it was, instead having Maglor being carried to the infirmary for urgent healing.

Molinde was escorted back to her dwelling, where she was greeted by her cat purring like a storm. She was aware that she would not be leaving her house anytime soon, judging by the guard planted in front of her house.

And days passed.

Weeks even.

The guard was lifted from their duty afer the fourth day by order of Elrond himself, so she had gone back to her usual routine, and yet she had not heard anthing about lord Maglor.

But as if her thoughts had taken a shape, she heard a knock. "Molinde, sewing Lady of the Noldor. May I come in?" And she ran to open the door, and there she saw Maglor - still quite emaciated, but definitely better than when she found him.

His hair had been properly braided and he was wearing clothing in Imladris fashion.

She let him pass and before she could do anything, he took her hand. "Before anything, I would like to thank you. For everything." And Molinde's heart stopped for a moment. "Oh, my Lord, I have done nothing, really." "Maglor. Please call me Maglor. I am no lord here."

Molinde slowly nodded, as Maglor kept speaking. "I have been filled in on what happened, during these weeks here. Whilst it saddens me, I am most glad that you found me. I hope I am allowed to grasp the thin thread of hope you too are holding." "My L- I mean, Maglor. Truly, I just-" "I am most grateful. Thank you for not giving up. I do not know if anything good is left in me, but if I lose myself may I hold onto your hand?" "My L- Maglor, I would be most honored."

She hoped her red ears would not be noticed. She took in a deep breath. "Shall… Eh, shall I make some tea, my L- Maglor?" "Yes, I would appreciate it very much. I would like to know more details of this Third Age."

And in the yellow afternoon sun, as she brought a silver tray with tea and biscuits, and they both sat down by the window, she started recalling, and Maglor's gaze was soft and her voice gentle, and time stopped long enough for a new tale to unfold.

[mersinia]

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[sewing-elven-maid]

Mun Speaks: Molinde and cats

So, I have some time for myself whilst my dad talks to my partner, hence I can write something more about my girl.

Molinde and cats

First Age

Molinde loves cats. She originally did not use to, as she never grew up in Aman around pets, so she never originally thought she would be able to take care of a pet. Heck, she followed Feanor and sons, and whilst she did not directly participate in crimes of arson and murder, she did very much sail on the stolen ships. Therefore she didn't have energy or time to take care of anything.

Once she did settle in ME, though, and she gradually lost hope in finding love, she was gifted her first cat. Granted, the original message was something on the lines of "haha, you'll never find anyone, much less a prince, you might as well direct your energies on a cat, you forever spinster!"

Well, she grew to love the little creature. Her first cat was a tiny white one that she called "Losse" (Snow). This cat followed her for about 15 years and unfortunately died by Morgoth's wolves' teeth.

Molinde decapitated that wolf, but it could not bring back her beloved Losse. The Cat Distribution System decided to act in form of a gift from her small army embroiderers and seamstresses, who wanted Molinde to be back to her quiet and soft self. Her second cat was then called Yavan (Autumn).

Second Age

Since her first cat, she has had several ones. During the Second Age her most notable one was called Tixe (Dot) and she had this cat during her permanence in Eregion. The cat survived the fall, but it fell ill a few months later and unfortunately did not survive.

The Cat Distribution System acted again by letting her find a scrawny stray cat without an eye that had survived the sack of Eregion and was wandering aimlessly and meowing pitifully. She took it in and called it Vanima (Beautiful One). (Yes, she also gave it a cat-sized eyepatch with a tiny Feanorian star embroidered on top).

Third Age/Fourth Age

Her most recent cat is called Yaule the 14th (Cat the 14th), not because of the countless generations of cats, at least not only for that, but also because it seems that having a number after a name gives some sort of gravitas to the bearer of the name. Yaule is a tuxedo cat.

Through the centuries she has sewn/embroidered/stitched/knitted/crocheted a ton of cat-themed trinkets and tchotchkes. She loves any cat-related gift. She still hopes she will find a prince (actual or metaphorical) and that her prince will love cats as much as she does.

[claireelizabethwhite]

8th July 2018

DA FATEFUL TALE O MARION PARDONE

This is the story of a Shetland witch. I first encountered Marion Pardone in October 2016 when Mum heard an interview about her on BBC Radio Shetland. I listened and was intrigued. This woman was executed in 1644 for capsizing a boat and drowning its passengers whilst disguised as a porpoise. How did this happen?

My search for clues began at Shetland Archives. Brian Smith and Angus Johnson led me swiftly to trial papers. Here, in seventeenth century language, Marion’s misdeeds were detailed over ten pages. They described a Hillswick woman with an evil tongue who cursed those whom she wished ill. Her human and animal targets became victims of sickness, harm and death. She ‘took away the profit’ from produce by spoiling brewing and filling the udders of cows with blood and fetid water. Two ravens, agents of the devil, were seen accompanying her on a three quarter mile walk. Marion failed to learn The Lord’s Prayer or say it in her lifetime. Her fateful act, though, was consorting with another witch to drown a fishing boat’s passengers one fair Hillswick morning in a safe spot by the shore.

Marion and her husband, Swene, were brought to see two of the boat’s corpses and lay their hands on them days after death, when ‘all their blood was vanished and dissolved from any natural course’. One bled at the collar bone whilst blood gushed from the hands and fingers of the other ‘to the great admiration of the beholders, and revelation of the judgement of the almighty.’ Marion was, by this proof, brought to judgement, convicted and condemned. She was taken to the west hill of Berrie in Scalloway (pictured at the top of this blog post), strangled and burned in ashes.

In December 2017 the Shetland Archives team directed me towards Samuel Hibbert’s A Description of the Shetland Islands (1822) for further information on Marion Pardone and witchcraft more generally. In this book I was interested to read that ‘It was usual with the Shetland dealers in sorcery, like the ancient magicians of Scandinavia, to use incantations.’ Hibbert gives this example:

About fifty years ago, a woman, of the parish of Dunrossness, known to have a deadly enmity against a boat's crew that had set off for the Haaf, took a wooden bason, named a cap, and allowed it to float on the surface of a tub of water; then, to avoid exciting a suspicion of her devilry, she went on with her usual domestic labours, and, as if to lighten the burden of them, sang an old Norse ditty. After a verse or two had been recited, she sent a child to the tub, and bade him tell her if the cap was whummilled, or turned upside down. Her orders were obeyed, and intelligence were soon brought to her, that the water was beginning to be agitated, but that the bowl was afloat. She then continued her incantation, and once more broke it off, by requesting the child to go again to the tub, and let her know if the cap was whummilled. The little messenger soon returned with the news that there was a strange swell in the water, which caused the bowl to be sadly tossed about. The witch then sang still more loudly, and, for the third time, sent the child to the tub to report the state of the bason, who immediately hastened back with the information that the water was frightfully troubled, and that the cap was whummilled. The enchantress, with an air of malignant satisfaction, then ceased her song, and said, “The Turn is done.” On the same day, news came that a fishing yaul had been lost in the Roust, and that the whole of the crew had been drowned.

Given the historic link between witchcraft and music, a song telling Marion’s story felt necessary, and the difficult process of selecting an angle began. In the trial papers I was struck by a recurring phrase amongst the witchcraft claims, namely ‘which you cannot deny.’ This statement appeared at the end of eight indictments against Marion. It seemed appropriate that my song’s lyrics be written from the perspective of community members, those who furnished this trial with accepted evidence of the day.

To return to the beginning, to that Radio Shetland interview, the reporter (Daniel Lawson) asked local historian, John Shaw, what was going on; was this a case of nasty neighbours? John replied that three things are needed for such a situation to arise. Firstly, neighbourhood disputes are required. Whether Marion was a difficult neighbour or whether others were picking on her is difficult to determine. Secondly, a state is needed which is willing to prosecute the case, and in this case the state executes. Thirdly, an ideology is needed to provide an intellectual and moral framework. In this case, there was a widespread and growing belief in the Devil as an agent in the world using witches as conspirators to destroy God’s order on earth.

I’ll leave you with your own thoughts on this story. You can listen to a rough recording of the song here. Below is a photo of a black cat which crossed my path as I drove to the site of Marion’s execution today.

Da Fateful Tale o Marion Pardone

Du felled neebour fock wi seekness

Wir baess dey lost der life 

A ston du lowsed aneath a man

Dan saved him for his wife

Du took awa da profit

Fae bear an milk an kye

Udders filled wi blöd an water

Göd malt wis marred forby

Da curses rain, da charges fly

Dat you, rank witch, cannot deny

Da curses rain, da charges fly

Dat you, rank witch, cannot deny

Du cast madness on dy servant

Becis shö widna bide

She drew blöd fae your twa fingers

An eence again cam richt

Du killed able working horses

Kept corbie company

Consortit wi anidder witch

Shunned God fir aa to see

CHORUS

Dy taste for wicked witchcraft

At last sealed dy demise

Fir a fishing boat du capsized

A neesick dy disguise

Du droondit four aboard her

Ee flat calm Hillsook day

Dy man an dee wis brocht ta see

Der wis a price ta pay

CHORUS

Dy haands wis placed on twa dry crangs

A craig-bane bled ageen

Fae anidder’s finger blöd gushed

Göd’s judgement it wis seen

Dy guilt wis worthy o dy death 

In 1644

Apo da Berrie wast hill

Du wis strangled dat voar

CHORUS

Dy burnin freed wis o dy curse

Dy evil tongue an eye

Göd’s justice done, da Deil slain

Nae mair sal du deny

[sewing-elven-maid]

Molinde had been absorbed by her work - she had now several pieces of fabric neatly divided in two piles - lining and cover. As soon as she heard steps, she stretched out and smiled. She greeted Prince Faramir. "Good evening, my Lord. I gather that you have rested well."

She noticed that he had seen her cat and let out a chuckle. "This one, my Lord, is my cat, Yaule. He is a little helper, especially when it comes to unraveling yarn and thread, but mostly focused on being fussed over."

The cat let out a little "mrrp" and gently started sniffing Faramir's hand. "And he is probably after some treats too."

She made a small pause. "May I offer you some tea, my Lord?" She offered him a seat in front of the chimney, where there was a small table with some crockery on. "I feel you might have further questions. I shall be happy to answer them."

@faramir-princeofithilien

Molinde raised her eyes from her work, and that was when she saw a Man - a rare vision, but not an unwelcome one.

Judging by the garb he was wearing she could guess he was a prince, or at least nobility of some sort.

She smiled softly. "Good day, my Lord. Welcome to my workshop." It had been a while since she last spoke Westron, so her words came out slowly.

"My name is Molinde, I am but a seamstress. How can I be of service?"

She was indeed curious about this visit.

[pippin-fool-of-a-took]

“I definitely will! And if anyone asks about my coat, I won’t hesitate to point them your way.” He leaned over and pet the cat again. “You and Yaule are great company I would say. I might come back just to chat now and then!”

@pippin-fool-of-a-took

Molinde smiled, lifting her eyes from her work. A half Ling was indeed a unique sight. "And who might you be, young one?"

[not-in-the-bible]

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Cult of the lamb masterlist

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FOR EVERYONE IN THIS LIST I WILL DRAW ANSWERS TO ASKS YOU SEND ME FOR THEM

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Magnus (lamb)

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[pippin-fool-of-a-took]

He laughed and pet him. “Well, you’re a very handsome cat aren’t you, Yaule?” He said, scratching his chin.

@pippin-fool-of-a-took

Molinde smiled, lifting her eyes from her work. A half Ling was indeed a unique sight. "And who might you be, young one?"

[sewing-elven-maid]

As Molinde started working through the mending, she replied. "Oh, his name is Yaule the 14th." She let out a small laugh. "At the beginning I didn't want a cat, they grew on me."

She quickly added fabric to close holes and cuts, smoothing every crease and fold. "He is now a very happy and spoiled house cat, who unravels all my yarn and threads."

She soon started on the embroidery part.

@pippin-fool-of-a-took

Molinde smiled, lifting her eyes from her work. A half Ling was indeed a unique sight. "And who might you be, young one?"