#aman ever after

[tanoraqui]

[some time in the Fifth Age, in Aman...]

"A living language changes, you blithering idiot." A familiar, heated voice rose unprompted from across the room, over the genial hubbub and burble of the fountain show gala. "If it does not, then it must be dead indeed, for it cannot be being sustained by the breath of speakers! The only 'uncertainty' in this 'debate' is how you can call yourself a linguist if you do not understand this basic principle!"

Fingolfin barely processed the words, not in that voice. If he had, he would not have believed his own ears. If he had somehow believed his own ears, he would have suspected mockery, or a ploy, or perhaps necromantic possession.

Fortunately, his reflexes for winning arguments were faster than any other working of his mind.

"I knew it!" he shouted, rounding on his brother from across the wide hall. He abandoned his conversation partner entirely in order to advance on Fëanor, alight with righteous victory. "I knew you agreed with the basic principle! You stubborn, contrary, illogical—"

"Oh, shut up, Nolofinwë." Fëanor likewise dismissed entirely the upstart linguistics professor he'd been haranguing, in favor of his older foe. A corridor had opened between them, as party-goers scrambled out of the crossfire or backed up to get a better view. "You've never met a principle of study nor logic that you didn't wish to twist to suit—"

"'A living language changes!'" Fingolfin quoted back over him, too elated to rise to any other bait. He drained his entire wine glass, slapped it down on the lip of a fountain in passing, and advanced enough to jab Fëanor in the chest with one finger. He grinned. "I knew it. You knew it. I was right."

Fëanor's face had, over the course of this exchange, made a very rapid shift from his original proud irritation to the embarrassment of being caught out to a familiar fiery sneer. It now settled into an even more familiar murderous glower.

"I have reconsidered my past positions in the face of new evidence and argument," he hissed. "It is the sign of an intelligent, ever-developing mind at work. I only wish you could say the same—"

Hands pushed them apart, followed by arms, followed by an entire Lalwen, aided by the stylish circumference of her skirts.

"Sweet Erudition, neither of you has changed a whit," she muttered.

Gripping the front of both their robes in a way that suggested that she could be choking them if she wanted to, she said more loudly, "My dear brothers! Joyous though I am at our collective ongoing reconciliation—" (she discreetly twisted Fëanor's robe in an ever so slightly choking manner, to remind him that she, too, had been entirely correct the entire time about the stupid thorn) —"perhaps we should take any further discussion outside? This is, after all, a debut of liquid forms, not a forum of linguistic debate!"

[butch-rem]

"You just ship it because it's sapphic!"

Kronk voice: Well, you got me there.

[tyrannosaurustai]

My kins !! (I am mentally ill)

[hanako-san]

as kid

as adlut

[tanoraqui]

Elrond offering to pay gives Finwë the chance to loudly and firmly insist that he is paying, because it’s his birthday and he wants to celebrate by making a nice evening for all his favorite people. The warning hint of distress in his voice + Nerdanel grinding her heel down on Fëanor’s foot (she was already stepping on it) while Miriel gently clasps his arm + Indis making a discreet violent gesture at Elu (he’s seen her wield a quarterstaff) = Finwë pays with no more argument.

Maedhros, Curufin, Turgon, Aredhel and Aegnor make money betting that Finwë would win, and Caranthir, Curufin, Fingon, Turgon, Finrod and Galadriel make money betting that it would take more than 1 hour but less than 3. Maglor tries to argue his bet DID come true, that Elrond would step in and save the day, but everyone else shuts him down. Amras makes money betting that Nerdanel would break the heel of her shoe on Fëanor’s foot.

The scene:

We are, perhaps, in Arda Reborn. It is Finwë's birthday begetting day. He has brought many dear friends and relatives out for a festive meal at his favorite restaurant. Finwë said he was treating everyone, but after the server brings the check, both Fëanor and Elwë reach for it.

They each have a hand on the check.

They cannot turn to violence or use any other kind of force or even be openly hostile. Finwë is right there. He would be Sad. And on his birthday begetting day!

The grandkid generation has mostly left the table to watch the live entertainment. Fëanor could still theoretically call upon his sons to do… something, but depending on the assistance of his children to get a check away from Thingol is not something Fëanor is willing to do when Fingolfin is also right there.

Also that might cause a fuss which would make Finwë Sad.

Most of those still at the table are neutral, as in they aren't thrilled with the idea of Fëanor or Thingol making the evening 'from them'.

Nothing is at stake but pride.

And doing something nice for Finwë which he didn't ask for and doesn't need.

[randomidiocyncrazies]

Honestly... milgram project is fun bc you get to analyze the characters (and try to work out their "murder" + the circumstances surrounding it) AND you get to analyze the fandom as a bonus too

[tathrin]

Hey. Hey, do you ever think about the fact that if Legolas hadn't been stricken by the Sea-Longing, if he had still had "peace under beech [and] elm," he would almost surely not have gone to the Undying Lands until many, many years later, long after all his mortal friends were dead?

Do you ever think about the fact that if he hadn't heard those gulls, if he hadn't spent the whole length of Aragorn's reign plagued by the ache in his heart ever pulling him West, he wouldn't have gone until long after Gimli was dead, too? And Gimli would have surely never even thought about asking to go with him, if Legolas's heart wasn't being ever drawn away by that call; it simply wouldn't have been a thing that would have ever occurred to either of them, without the weight of the Sea-Longing hanging over them both for so many years.

Do you ever think about how the only reason they get to have their forever-ever-after happy ending on the other side of the Sundering Sea is because of the wound that the cry of those gulls lanced through his heart?

Because I do.

[kuromewos]

(100% based on my opinion) - Which MILGRAM characters would be royal or rebel

PS: I am bad with english and words, but I hope you guys still enjoying this shit

PS: Maybe it seems very stereotyped but keep in mind that it is how I see MILGRAM characters

Haruka Sakurai - Royal

Imo he seems to accept his destiny as somebody, according to himself, weak and pitful

Yuno Kashiki - Rebel

She is against of her naive girl "destiny"

Fuuta Kajiyama - Rebel

He would try to be a hero even though it is against his "destiny", tbh I just feel strong rebel vibes from him lol

Muu Kusunoki - Royal

This girl is 100% imo, maybe because she gives me super princess vibe and because of all this "queen bee" stuff

Like, she accept hers destiny of being the queen bee even though deep inside she feels like a crap

Shidou Kirisaki - Rebel

Even though he gimme major royal vibes, he didn't accept the destiny of his family dying and tried to go against it, even if it means taking away other people's lifes

Mahiru Shiina - Royal

Sorry, but I can't imagine her being a rebel, the strong desire of following the love tradition gimme royal vibes

Kazui Mukuhara - Rebel

He goes against what the others expected of him about his marriage

(Sorry my bad english again lol)

Amane Momose - Royal

She follows her destiny so bad by following hers family tradition even though it hurts her

Mikoto Kayano - Rebel (?)

Going against his destiny of stress because of his job, he tried to change it

Tbh this one is very hard because while I think Mikoto might be a royal, John and Midokoto gimme rebel vibes

Kotoko Yuzuriha - Rebel

Hmm... maybe she would goes against hers destiny by giving punishment to the criminals?

Ik she is 100% rebel, but I am not sure how to explain it sorry lol xD

[tanoraqui]

I've never heard of that "elves lose language in Mandos and have to re-learn it when they re-embody" before and I'm insane about it now. "Re-embody" i usually say, but this does make it "rebirth" in a big way. As discussed, language shapes the way you think, the person you are - to return to life without it, even in an adult body with all your memories, is to be born anew! And Elves would be so aware of this. I know studies about how language literally affects the way people think are overall more recent, but between the importance the characters and the text places on things like the Shibboleth of Fëanor and the Quenya ban, the fact that elves define themselves as "speaking people" ("Quendi"), and Tolkien's whole...everything...I think we can safely say that elves overall consciously consider language to be a key part cultural and personal identity, in a way we modern humans usually don't think about.

Which makes death so much more real for them, too, in a way men would recognize. If they lose language in Mandos and must regain it later, yes their essential spirit survives, their experiences and the self shaped by it...but how they relate to those experiences, how they define them, how they define themselves, can all be utterly changed when they re-enter the world. Is that not something like death as we know it? The best an elf could do to remain fully "themselves" is to seek out someone who spoke the same tongue they used to, same dialect, preferably similar lived experiences, but who never died and so has retained it purely; and re-learn language from that person. Does such a person even exist for every dialect of Elvish in Arda? I doubt it. And it's still not language as you knew it, but rather as Eldon from the woods next door knows it. On the opposite end, I'm sure there are elves who seek personal re-invention with their rebirth, who throw themselves gladly into the chance to relearn and redefine their experiences, grateful to not be quite the same person they once were.

And it would affect so much of how you treat people just returned from Mandos...

my friend, who listens to my constant speeches about the Silmarillion, just asked what language is spoken in Halls of Mandos, and I'm absolutely bewildered

[tanoraqui]

drunk Ecthelion, standing in a fountain at the Fall of Gondolin 7000th Anniversary party, soaking wet: I AM THE FOUNTAIN GUARDIAN, GUARDIAN OF THE FOUNTAIN!

Glorfindel, also drunk as a skunk: GOTHMOG QUIVERS BEFORE HIM!

Ecthelion: [points magnificently at a giant paper mache balrog] FUCK OFF!

[transselkie]

I am the only one who is right about Misa Amane.

[tanoraqui]

This almost certainly doesn’t make sense for my timeline, idk about yours, but…

“Celebrimbor, there you are! I’ve been looking for you all evening!”

Celebrimbor suppressed an urge to fight or flee at Fingon’s aggressively cheerful voice and the sudden hand on his arm. Unfortunately, this meant he froze instead, giving the former High King all the chance he needed to trap him between the parlor wall and a potted plant. Fingon was on the lithe side for a warrior of legend, but his sheer strength of presence more than made up for it.

It was many years since Celebrimbor flinched at a sudden touch, and many more since he…regularly…hid in a back room at house parties (was it his fault if people’s libraries were often more interesting than their guests?). But there was a glint in Fingon’s gaze which Celebrimbor associated with burning cities and wild, deadly charges, or at least with palace coups, and he had, in fact, been avoiding it all evening.

“I’m sorry to have missed you, then,” he said politely. “What can I do for you, Uncle?” It was an easier address than usual, with that fire in Fingon’s eyes. No, no, be forgiving; be optimistic: “Do you need a new blade for the upcoming Trials of Tulkas, or armor? I’ve been experimenting with a new alloy…”

“No—well, if you’re offering, please count me as a ready test subject,” Fingon allowed.

His hand tightened on Celebrimbor’s arm and he leaned in, lowering his voice. “But I’m more interested in discussing a treatise of yours which I recently read, in the Things The Valar Don’t Want Us To Know section of the University library…”

“If you wish to know of ring-craft, you must visit me in Caras Maenais,” he said, and feeling cornered, his heart beat doubly for a breath (I won’t tell you, I won’t!). He spoke smoothly over it. “No offense, but unless you’ve made a great study of jewelcrafting in secret, I fear that you’d need several practical demonstrations ere you understood—”

“Not that one,” Fingon interrupted and tugged him more fully behind the potted plant, out of view of anyone passing by in the hallway. “The other one. I have a question—”

“I don’t answer questions about the other one,” Celebrimbor said flatly. “I said in the foreword that I won’t answer questions about it.”

“Yes, but—”

“No.”

“I just need—”

“No.” Celebrimbor yanked his arm free and strode toward the door.

“Carnimírë’s haunted!” Fingon burst out.

Celebrimbor paused in the doorway, against his better judgement. He turned his head back.

“What?”

“Carnimírë’s haunted,” Fingon repeated, and began to pace like any anxious father. “At least, I’m almost entirely certain that’s what it is—I thought it was an imaginary friend, but then she pointed to one of Nerdanel’s statues and said, ‘That’s him, that’s my red elf’—that’s what she calls him, her ‘red elf’, red hair and red clothes—or armor—and red hands sometimes, or hand, except she only saw that once—the blood, not the hand, and Mirya says he said it was cloth dye—”

He turned to Celebrimbor with his own hands clasped in plea.

“It’s Russandol, Maedhros; Tyelpë, I swear it is. I’ve seen him too—in a crowd; I thought it was just grief playing tricks on me, but— But he won’t speak to me! He won’t even appear to me! I’m not sure he intends to appear to Carnimírë, but she’s too clever for him. And he stays… Is he trapped? Is he suffering? I’m sure he is, by his own thoughts if nothing else. Will you not help me summon him for good, and set him somehow straight?”

He trembled with distress for his loved ones, but still with that nearly-fell fire in his eyes, and a fierce hunger, and oh, Celebrimbor recognized all of that.

He’d been holding a wine glass this whole time, empty but for dregs. He placed it on a bookcase rather than break it.

“So you know of a spirit who it sounds like is doing no harm, despite a predilection for it, and you wish to entrap him and force him to speak to you? Words of weeping apology, of love? Do you wish to send him to Mandos against his will, or to bind him more permanently to your side?” He spread his hands in mocking offer. “I have more experience with the latter than the former, but I’m sure I can improvise if you insist, my lord!”

Fingon stepped back from the unexpectedly fierce reply. His fire faltered.

“It…sounds much worse when you put it like that.”

“Yes,” said Celebrimbor, flat once more.

“I would never bind Maedhros in any way he did not wish,” Fingon said vehemently. “Never again will I see him in chains, I have sworn it and I meant it.”

“Good start.”

“I just—” Fingon’s voice cracked on unshed tears—“want to see him again. Want to know that it’s him.”

Celebrimbor sighed, and shrugged, and re-collected his wine glass.

“I’m afraid I’m all out of advice for you, Uncle. Do whatever one usually does to summon wayward spouses—lay out some red meat and favored tools of his trade, and a work in progress which is obviously flawed but easily fixable? Or whatever usually works for you.”

Fingon laughed as though against his will.

“Thank you! I shall consider that most closely—it is the least I can do, for the trouble I’ve caused you this evening.”

It was no trouble at all, Celebrimbor did not say, lest he encourage more madness.

Reluctantly, driven by concern for his young cousin, he said, “If you ever have reason to think this spirit might be a danger to Carnimírë, you should seek aid from the Fëanturi.”

“No,” Fingon said with certainty. “It is Maedhros. I know it in my heart. He will not hurt her.” Then he shook his head, even in his furor too wise for such bald statements. “But if he does…yes, of course I shall, for he would wish it so as well.”

had the thought of Carnimírië Russingoniel with Maedhros's ghost. she can have a ghost dad. as a treat.

[ectoplasmer]

every time someone brings up how the yamis are supposed to be the “darker half” of their host and how they are meant to reflect/act on their deepest desires/thoughts/etc i think of monster world and just. crumble

[sweetteaanddragons]

Lauriel

When Lauriel is growing up, she knows her older sister is a better singer than her. This is not because she's heard her sister singing all that much; her sister is fully grown and moved halfway across Aman before Lauriel is even thought of. But it is a thing people tell her of, a little awkwardly, a little gently, whenever she mentions her ambition to be a bard. Her sister is a better singer than her, and her sister is a potter. Ergo . . .

Lauriel takes up the flute. Her sister did not play the flute as a child and her rare letters don't mention it now; her sister cannot be better than her at the flute.

Her mother tells her flatly that this does not mean her sister wouldn't have been better at it, had she ever tried.

"It takes a lot of dedication to your craft to be a bard," her father says, a little more gently. "It's a very competitive field."

Left unsaid, but very much heard, is that Lauriel, of course, is far too flighty to have that sort of dedication.

It is not the first time they have had this conversation.

It is the last, because Lauriel vows to all the Valar that she won't set foot on the farm again until she's the greatest bard the Noldor have ever seen.

It does not take her long at the university in Alqualonde to learn that she is almost certainly never going to be so much as one of the best ten bards the Noldor have ever seen. This does not, however, stop people from still enjoying her music - or, for that matter, from enjoying her dancing, her conversation, her skill at the competitions that are all the rage at parties, and so she never lacks invitations to just about any event in town.

She's friends with everyone, and she hasn't written a single letter back to the farm, and she tells herself she doesn't care that none have come from there for her.

She doesn't talk to any of her friends about that.

She does talk to the woman with the tense, tight shoulders at the current party, swooping in to rescue her from the circle of jabbing fools around her; she's not sure why the other woman needs rescuing from the discussion of the night's musical entertainment, but it doesn't matter; she doesn't need to understand to recruit her to make up the numbers at Lauriel's table for cards.

Aranel is laughing when Prince Makalaure, of all people, comes by their table, which is how Lauriel learns that the woman she rescued is Prince Makalaure's wife.

He sees her flute in its case beside her and asks to hear her play.

He compliments her when she's done. Invites her to another party the next week.

Lauriel, of course, says yes.

She's never political. She's never really bothered about any of it.

But she starts to fall into his circle; their music is so passionate, so innovative, and she likes the way they circle around each other. They're dedicated to each other in a way the endless sea of her other friends aren't.

So when she hears someone being rude about his father, of course she speaks up; for all she knows Prince Feanaro is crazy, but that doesn't give anyone the right to be cruel about it.

She gets offered a job at the university in Tirion, and she thinks Makalaure recommended her for it; she finds out later he praised her skill with people as well as her music when asked for his opinion on the posting.

She finds other people start assuming she's political, even though she still doesn't much care whether they're allowed to sail back to Beleriand or not. She does care, though, about people being rude to her friends, and apparently that is political now, so political she is.

One of her friends is shocked that she's gone this long without hearing Prince Feanaro speak, so even though she still doesn't really care, she laughs and lets them drag her along to his next one.

She gets it now.

Why half of Tirion follows him and why half of Tirion thinks he's crazy.

She still doesn't really care. Even after the Incident - well, that was wrong, of course, but she doesn't see why people have to be rude to Makalaure and Aranel about it.

When the darkness comes, she goes with Feanaro's camp, of course. Almost all of Makalaure's circle does.

Partially because at least Prince Feanaro has a plan. Partially because everyone else is doing it.

Mostly because she hears Makalaure swear the Oath, and -

And her oath is not so burdensome a thing. She cannot go back to the farm; she has accepted she will never be able to go back to the farm. But she could still see her parents if they would come to her, if they would meet her elsewhere, if either she or they would ever just send a letter.

She feels it, though. Always, she feels it.

She wishes she had told him. She hadn't, ever; she hadn't known how to look at the actual greatest bard the Noldor have ever produced and admit to her adolescent ambition. But if she had swallowed her pride and told him - if he'd been warned -

She follows him.

(It is four ages later that she tells him at last; when he asks her, as they prepare to sail with Elrond, what she thinks of at last returning home.

"Oh, home's not really a place," she says in surprise. Home has been people for the past four ages of the world, and she has no intention of leaving those people now. "I suppose I'll have to wait and see if my parents choose to visit; I can't go to them unless they've moved."

This catches his attention. "Whyever not?"

"Well," she says, studiously not looking at him. "I swore an oath.")

(It is midnight when Elrond finds a furious Maglor correcting a beleaguered Lauriel's pitch in the garden.

"Are you planning on making our plea to the Valar for your brothers in the form of a concert?" he asks in bemusement. There is precedent, he supposes, with Luthien, but he would have thought Lauriel would have had more patience with the fevered practice if it were the case.

"It is no true teacher who cannot guide a student to surpassing himself," Maglor says grimly. "And it is no true prince who does not return loyalty. Lauriel will be the greatest bard the Noldor have ever produced."

"I don't want to be," she says in some desperation. "I really don't. I don't care if I can't go back to the farm."

"You should have the option," Maglor says firmly. "Now try again.")

[venxomi]

The God of the Pit and "Happiness"

Today I started thinking about the Pit God and its goals. What we know is that the series is slowly heading towards the destruction of all Yorishiros. Hanako claims that once you destroy all of the Yorishiros, "God" will grant his wish.

That is why he was using the rumors being twisted as a pretext to destroy them. Sakura will also be freed once they're all destroyed. But what does the Pit God get out of this?

Sakura also claims that everything might all just cease to exist. That made me think and think...

In the new present, chapter 120 reveals that it uses captured souls to lure the living and eat them alive, and then trap and use their souls to lure even more people, always wanting more.

Then it hit me. This entity was linked with "happiness" since its introduction.

In chapter 68, Sumire described how the villagers would say that the sacrifices would be granted eternal happiness, and we know that their souls are even now trapped inside the Red House's belly.

In chapter 120 in the new timeline, the Pit God even describes itself this way: "You'll descend to the bottom of the pit, to the land of the gods. This is happiness." It claims that everyone that's eaten up by It is "happy".

This happened in 118 too, when it said through Amane through the other souls that they should be happy, now that 2 new friends will join them. Again in 120, Kou explains that they're all trapped inside the Red House's belly.

Now, what do we know that the Red House is capable of doing? Showing people what they wish for, and what they can obtain in exchange for a sacrifice. How everyone who ever came to the Red House is trapped even now inside it, at the cost of their wish being fulfilled.

In 119 & 120, we can see how Amane's soul is kept in a moment of peace, where he is minding his own business and doing his work. He doesn't seem aware of what's going on at all.

The Seven Mysteries, therefore the Yorishiros, serve to keep the balance between the far and near shores, something devised to replace the practice of sacrificing people to the Pit God, especially after it was sealed. So if they're all destroyed... What if that would mean there's nothing to restrict the Pit God anymore? Nothing to stop it from consuming everything.

That would make Hanako and Sakura's expected outcomes one and the same. Everything will cease to exist because everything will be eaten up by this God, and all the same, the entire world will become something akin to the Red House, fulfilling everyone's desires while forever imprisoned inside its belly, granting them eternal "happiness", just like it's claimed to do.

[tanoraqui]

Every building & etc structure in Tirion is elegantly and aesthetically matched to its surrounding buildings, and almost any view of the city is going to look beautiful and elegant...as a massive, ever-shifting gradient of style to style. Every time someone has a Brilliant New Idea for a design, they make sure it's flawlessly aesthetically compatible with whatever is immediately around it, because that's obviously part of the appearance. But that doesn't mean it has to be aesthetically compatible with an unseen building 2 blocks down and around a corner!

In this, the apex of every Elvish style of architecture and decorating is shown off.

On the one hand every description of or allusion to Tirion we have suggests something elegant and architecturally unified. On the other hand we're talking about Noldor here. More than that, we're talking about Noldor over a very long time span, at the start of which they'd suddenly been handed a whole slew of new building methods they didn't have before. I have a hard time imagining no one got overenthusiastic in a way that might come across as ungainly or silly to future observers.

But that doesn't mean it couldn't be elegant and architecturally unified. Maybe Finwë's vision overrode everything. Maybe buildings are regularly taken down and rebuilt to match new themes?