#aurë entuluva!

[queenlucythevaliant]

I. Many waters

When Eärendil was a child—a hína ?—either, both— his father would take him to the edge of the water at Sirion and ask him, “What do you see?”

“I see waves,” Eärendil would reply. “Tall waves like the towers of Gondolin-that-was.”

“What more?”

Eärendil would scrunch his freckled face and gaze with a critical eye. “The current along the north jetty is strong today,” he might say, or else, “there will be good fishing this week.”

His father would smile back and clasp his son’s shoulders. “Do you know what I see?” he would ask, and though the answer was always the same, little Eärendil would always chorus, “What do you see, father?”

“I see the horizon,” Tuor would say. Even as a boy, Eärendil knew deep in his sinew that what Tuor really meant was, “I see my doom.”

For all his mother Idril’s fairness, Eärendil was a gangly, freckled child. He tanned leather-dark in the sun, his tow-colored hair bleached gold and his feet perpetually covered in sand. As a child, he spared little thought for the stars. It was the ocean, always the ocean that called to him as to his father, and with it the sun and the sand and the salt.

He played with toy boats in the river. They were roughly hewn by elvish standards and impossibly detailed by human ones. Eärendil would set them in the river and watch their small sails unfurl. Then he would race along the river banks as his boats were dragged, inevitably, inexorably, out towards Sirion’s open mouth.

Usually, Eärendil retrieved his toys before they were pulled out to sea. Supplies were stretched thin among the refugees at the Havens, and even a hína knew better than to waste. Yet sometimes, when the current was too strong or the waters too swift, Eärendil would watch as his little boats floated out to sea beyond sight. He would watch them disappear and he would wonder where they were going, and if he would ever follow them.

Years later, when he was a man grown and Tuor stooped and weary, Eärendil worked beside his father to build the ship Eärrámë, roughly hewn and finely detailed. Eärendil did not question his father’s need for a ship. He did not know then— and would not know for several months yet— that it was built to carry his father and mother to the horizon, to their doom.

-

Tuor and Idril set sail in the late afternoon, as the shadows were beginning to lengthen. The sun in the west was golden by the time Eärrámë finally passed beyond sight of Eärendil’s half-elven eyes. By that time, the party that had gathered to wish their lord and lady farewell had largely dispersed. Yet Eärendil remained at the water’s edge, watching as sunset faded to night and the stars began to appear in the sky. Only Elwing waited with him.

Eärendil had known Elwing since he was first brought to the Havens, nearly as long ago as he could recall. In appearance she was his opposite: petite and fair where he was rough and tanned. Yet in all other respects, Eärendil and Elwing were just alike. They were the only two peredhel at Sirion, perhaps in all the world. Their strides matched one another in growth and maturation as no one else’s ever could. They could not help loving one another; for they fit together as two halves of a clam shell.

Elwing waited beside Eärendil all night long after his parents passed beyond the horizon. She was quiet for a while, and then presently she began to name the stars.

“There’s Alcarinquë,” she whispered, pointing. “Ele! How bright it is. And there is Luinil, blue and steadfast. I think it would be impossible to lose one’s way on a night as bright as this.”

-

With Idril and Tuor gone, their son soon took up their mantle as leader of Sirion, with Elwing beside him. They married quietly, for to them it seemed as though they had always been of one body, one kind. As inexorable as the tide, their union; and perhaps also their doom.

Yet now that he was grown, Eärendil’s mariner-heart could not content itself with toy boats and river-mouths. The ocean called to him in the voice of many waters, and so, on another starlit night, Eärendil crept out of bed and to the shed where Tuor had hammered and sanded and built Eärrámë. It was there that Elwing found him come morning.

“You’re building another ship,” she murmured, coming up beside her husband where constellations of sawdust hung in the air. “Where are you going?”

Taking her hand, Eärendil led his second self out to the shore, where the first dawn light lapped gray on the water’s surface. “Tell me, Elwing,” he murmured. “What do you see?”

-

In the late nights that followed, Eärendil showed his wife how to lob off the edges of the wood; how to cut and sand and shape the it into something that resembled a roughly hewn ship. He took her small hand in his own large, freckled ones and guided the tools along the wood. Elwing helped her husband build his ship; but in the wee dawn hours when they returned to bed together, she would clutch his arms tightly, leaving tiny, crescent-moon divots when she released him.

-

A fingernail moon was etched against the western sky when Vingilot made its first voyage. In truth, Eärendil was not thinking of Valinor when he left, nor even of his mother and father: all he could hear was the echoing sound of deep crying out to deep.

At sea, his heart was calm. Eärendil navigated by the stars, charting an all but arbitrary course across the waters. He came back to Elwing a week later, a little more tanned and freckled, his hair a little more sun-bleached. He tasted like salt when Elwing kissed him. She tasted like starlight, like home.

She found him at the dock several nights later, tending to Vingilot’s rigging. “You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” she murmured, and gripped his arms with her fingernails.

-

At sea, Eärendil dreamed of light far off in the west. He dreamed of rivers opening their mouths to the sea, of monsters roving through the deep, but always there was the strange light that shone off in the distance. Night by night, it grew nearer. He would wake with a fierce, frenzied look in his eyes that frightened his three shipmates. Eärendil wondered, sometimes, if this was how his father felt when Ulmo first spoke to him.

-

“Where are you going?” Elwing asked him again.

“There’s a light in the West,” said Eärendil. “I am going to find it.”

“Valinor?”

“Not Valinor. A star.”

-

II. Fingernail divots 

Elwing was sister to twin brothers and mother to twin sons. She knew about loving helplessly; about holding on and letting go. 

“Mariner’s wives are always widows,” a human woman warned. “Their husbands go where they cannot follow.”

“I know it,” said Elwing.

Her husband left, and he returned. At home, Elwing sank her fingernails into his arms, his shoulders, his back. She left crescent divots wherever she touched him. Sometimes, she drew blood.

Eärendil never complained. He knew that Elwing had to hold on tight, in order to let him go again.

-

She bore their sons while Eärendil was away on one of his voyages. Because Elwing and her husband were both peredhel, their children would be something new. They came too soon for elves and too late for men. How could their father have known that they were being born, but that he had not strayed from Sirion? 

The pain of childbirth was greater for Elwing than it had been for her Sindarin midwife, or either of her full-blooded elvish handmaids. Human women suffered in childbirth, doubly so when they bore twins. It was the silmaril that carried her through all the long, painful hours of her labor. 

The sacred jewel for which Elwings parents had died never left her person. She clutched it as a man clutches a war-prize, knowing it has been paid for in blood. On the childbed, she held it so tight it left its imprint on her hand. She gazed at the bloodstained jewel and saw only sacred starlight. 

Her pain lessoned a little. Beauty was an anesthetic, of a kind. Elwing’s heart swelled with supernatural hope, and soon she was holding two little sons in her arms. She had paid for them in blood too. 

-

Eärendil came home late at night a week later, when the moon was eggshell-large in the sky. Elwing was holding the twins in her arms when he opened the door. She looked up when she heard the latch. 

"Your children are born," said Elwing. "Elros. Elrond."

"The sea and the stars," her husband answered. He studied them, with love and fear of loss all writ across his face. 

"The sea and the stars," Elwing echoed back. The two great lovers with which she would always share her husband. 

The babes were holding each other tight in her arms: mindless, instinctual, because they had never been apart. It was ironic, in the end. The stars endure forever. The waves roll in, and then they go back to the sea. Her babies would let each other go, in time; just as their mother would let them both go one bloody day, very soon

-

"You're going to run," Elwing said, gentle and firm as she knelt in the the nursery before her two little boys with her hands on their shoulders.

“Ama, you’re hurting me,” Elros whispered. She looked down. She was gripping him tight, so tight. There were fingernail divots on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, beloved,” Elwing said. With effort, she released both boys’ shoulders. "You're going to run, and you're going to hold hands. Tight as you can, do you understand? You're not to release one another for anything in the world."

Her sons nodded: Elrond solemn, Elros stubborn. Elwing wrapped her arms around their small bodies one more time and squeezed them, not too tight. She released them. They ran. 

Outside, Elwing clutched the silmaril until it hurt; until her hand bled where its facets had cut her. All her family before her had died for that jewel, to keep it from other hands. It was obsession, and beauty, and hope. It was the star that Eärendil searched for on his far-flung sea voyages. It would save Middle Earth one day, when a little hobbit named Frodo would raise a phial of its captured light and shout her husbands name. 

Elwing knew about holding on, and about letting go. 

She made for the cliffs. 

-

III. The speed of light in a vacuum

The ocean of the heavens was like the oceans of the earth, except in all the ways in which it was not. Vingilot rocked smooth and rhythmic on cosmic waves and occasionally it rolled from side to side as though tossed by storms. Eärendil navigated by the stars, and by the light of the silmaril studied his maps and charts. The ocean of the heavens was always different, for all that the stars stayed the same.

-

When he’d first landed in Valinor, Eärendil had been all but certain that the Valar would destroy him. He’d been sailing west a long time by then, seeking after that elusive star; yet he knew, like his father before him, that the horizon was also his doom. It was only that last, desperate hope that carried him to Valinor’s shore: that perhaps, before they struck him dead, Ulmo or Nienna or Varda would at least hear his pleas and understand.

Eärendil did not want Elwing to follow him to shore. He wanted his wife to live, live and find their sons, if by some grace they had survived. But Elwing had been letting him go for as long as the ocean had gripped him. Only at the last, at the forbidden shore of the sacred isle, did she finally leap into the shallow water and go running after her husband, reaching for his hand.

-

The silmaril should have been blinding, set between his eyes as it was. When Eärendil took it from his head and studied it, its brightness put all of heaven’s stars to shame. Yet when he looked out from his little ship, his eyes were clear. On the ocean of the heavens, Eärendil half-elven leaned over Vingilot’s rail and glimpsed interstellar clouds that billowed with color and brightness. Towering and fae they were, and his were the only eyes born of Arda ever to have seen them up close.

-

Eönwë had greeted him, “Hail Eärendil, the longed for that cometh beyond hope, bearer of light before the Sun and Moon.” It was a greeting unlike anything Eärendil could have expected. It changed him utterly.

In the dreams that followed, the voice of the sea was quiet; a lilting lullaby rather than the fierce, inevitable call it had been for so many years. Now, now it was starlight that ran through his heart like lightning. Now the sky, not the sea, became his doom.

-

When Vingilot passed through the Door of Night each morn, Elwing’s birds were always the first creatures to greet him. Gulls and osprey, albatrosses and terns circled round his mast and cried out in high, fair voices, Good morning! Welcome home! in the language of birds. Then, at last, Eärendil would catch sight of his wife’s feathered wings, white and silver-gray. She was only a speck at first, but his eyes were elven-strong. When Elwing came into sight, Eärendil would cry “Utúlie'n aurë!” “Day has come!” as he rushed to the prow of the ship. Elwing would reply in clear, glorious birdsong, and then she would alight on the deck and fall at once into Eärendil’s arms.

When at last they broke their embrace, Eärendil was always covered in bits of feather and Elwing in glittering stardust. They would both laugh the way only exiles do as Eärendil steered his hallowed ship into the waters of day. Elwing would run her hands over Vingilot’s paint, which she herself had long ago brushed onto its beams. She would look at her husband, so much less tan and freckled than he was in their youth, and he would kiss her tasting of plasma, with lightning in his eyes.

-

When Manwë had summoned them to Valimar, Eärendil told Elwing, “Choose thou.” She chose the Eldar, and for that choice, Eärendil was given a hundred thousand million nights of sailing through the heavens’ ocean. The stars sang to him, burning at Eärendil’s heart with a kind of beautiful, terrible fire that scorched as much as it overwhelmed him with joyous longing. They carried him away from Elwing, for all that she gripped him tight.

Before he set sail, Eärendil spent one last night with his wife in his arms. “Our parting will not be long,” he whispered, holding her tight to his freckled shoulder. “The Lady Elbereth told me. Light traveling through the void is the fastest thing in all Eä.”

-

IV. High Hope

Hobbits were simpler folk than elves. When Frodo’s heart pulled him away from the Shire, there was no obsession in it. It was only love for his uncle, his cousins, his friends that made him go; only duty; only courage. Only that.

Galadriel gave him a phial of starlight, and it was a gentle, desperate thing. She didn’t tell him that the star which had cast it had been the cause of more bloodshed than any other bright and beautiful thing in their world. She only called it hope.

More than anything, Frodo longed for hope.

He could feel himself coming unraveled, drawing close to Mordor. He was stripped bare and hollowed out, and all his longings turned ill by the bit of metal that hung around his neck. Yet in his cloak, cradled close to his heart: starlight.

-

In the depths of the earth, Frodo pulled the star-glass from his bosom, and the Star of High Hope—Eärendil’s star—shone about the pit. The longed for that cometh beyond hope, Eönwë had said. Frodo did not know those words, but he felt them deep in his sinews.

Eärendil stepped down from his high sunset paths with the last silmaril upon his brow. He stood beside Frodo in that cave where nothing lovely ever came, casting rays of lightning into the dark till it was as sun-soaked as the Havens of Sirion. Hope, he murmured in Frodo’s ear, the stars. The sea.

Frodo gasped, and with a voice that came from somewhere beyond him he cried out, “Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima!” The very darkness trembled at his words. Eärendil smiled.

Yet from close by, Sam watched helpless as Shelob came and snatched Frodo away. Sam would have dug crescent moons into Frodo’s arms, had they been within reach. As it was, he could only pick up the star-glass where his master had dropped it and go running after him.

[krautjunker]

Aurë entuluva! – Der Tag soll wieder kommen. J.R.R. Tolkien zum 50. Todestag

Buchvorstellung Der Herr der Ringe ist ein einzigartiges und langlebiges Buch. Viel mehr als das, was man sich gemeinhin als einen Unterhaltungsroman vorstellt. Der vielschichtige Roman ist nur ein kleiner Teil von J.R.R. Tolkiens Schöpfung Mittelerde samt ihrer Geschichte und Sprachen. Der Leser folgt der Handlung seiner Protagonisten wie einem Boot, welches über einen See fährt. So sieht man…

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

I deeply love all of the little echoes between the Silmarillion and LOTR, but this is one of my faves:

Last of all Húrin stood alone. Then he cast aside his shield, and wielded an axe two-handed; and it is sung that the axe smoked in the black blood of the troll-guard of Gothmog until it withered, and each time that he slew Húrin cried: ‘Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again!’

-Húrin at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears (C. 20, the Silmarillion)

"Hail, Lord of the Mark," said Éomer. "The dark night has passed, and day has come again."

-Éomer at the Battle of Helm's Deep (C. 6, Two Towers)

Naturally, I adore the fact that Éomer is the echo of Húrin, almost definitely the single most badass human of the entire First Age (and arguably of the first two ages!). What an honor for our horse boy! The echoing quote could easily have gone instead to Aragorn or an elf, both of whom are descendants of traditions that go all the way back to those First Age events where Húrin did his thing. But instead, the line went to the heir of a newer, younger people—a people who are, in many ways, more representative of the future of Middle Earth than the old, historical communities that have been in decline or fading for some time. So I love that choice of pairing. Húrin and Éomer feels less expected but more fitting to me.

Of course, the outcomes for these two are starkly different. Húrin is facing a crushing defeat and is about to be subjected to the wrath and punishment of Morgoth himself, which leaves him permanently destroyed emotionally. Éomer has just come out of an unexpected victory and is headed for another, at the end of which he can rebuild a happy life and even come to carry the royal title of Éomer Éadig, the Blessed. But I think that's the point of the echo.

Húrin did all that was possible (and arguably more!) for a human to do in the circumstances he faced, and in the end it wasn't enough. He never gets to enjoy a new morning. But that doesn’t mean he was wrong. Day does come again. It comes for Éomer. Because if there is one thing Tolkien wants us to know, it’s that you never give in to despair. You keep going and you try again, because eventually someone will find that sunrise and live to enjoy its warmth and brightness.

[ramoth13]

A Message of Hope: Aurë entuluva

For absolutely no particular reason, I felt compelled today,- November 6th of 2024, to write about hope.

There are days when Hope feels foolish; when you have just watched in horror as things that once seemed sturdy and unbreakable, crumble and burn. Whether it is an elvish city or a chosen path, when that happens, Hope feels naive. It feels like that's what lead you here to begin with. It feels like, if you had been more realistic and pessimistic, you wouldn't be so hurt.

For all of the things that Tolkien wrote about, his message of hope was perhaps the most resilient, poignant, and enduring. Few can forget Sam's hopeful message to Frodo:

Yet, today, for many people it may not feel that this is true. I know I often struggle with hope, but today does feel exceptionally difficult (for no particular reason, of course).

Tolkien's most hopeful message, for me, comes from his bleakest story. Húrin's story is one of defeat. Courage sprang alive when high King Fingon and the elves and men fought together against the blackness of Morgoth's reign. The Nirnaeth Arnoediad, or Unnumbered Tears, was a day when victory was close and Turgon, brother of the king, arrived with a mighty host,

"Then When Fingon heard afar the great trumpet of Turgon, the shadow passed and his heart was uplifted, and he shouted aloud: 'Utúlie'n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatarni, utúlie'n aurë! The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!' And all those who heard his great voice echo in the hills answered crying: 'Auta i lómë! The night is passing!' "

They believed that their courage and steadfastness had saved them, that daybreak was soon at hand. Tolkien understood, perhaps better than most, that there was a difference between courage and hope. For courage is what spurs action, brings change, and inspires duty. Courage is what makes the difference when the time has come, just as they continued to fight on against orcish hordes. It was courage that led them into the heart of Angband where the Dark Lord himself sat shaking on his throne. Courage carried them past the gates, but betrayal can cut through courage like a hot-knife through butter. The hill men betrayed the men and elves and the dawning light turned into a simmering dusk.

Darkness had returned.

So, where was the hope?

With the elves slain or fleeing, Húrin, leader of his people fought valiantly to let his people and what was left of his elvish allies escape. Courage did survive the betrayal of the wild men, but only just. And with each swing of his axe he cried out, "Aurë entuluva!" And with each felled enemy, he cried out again, "Aurë entuluva!" Even as his enemies surrounded him, overtook him, and even when taken by the enemy into the dark halls, he cried out for any allies that might hear him, "Aurë entuluva!" It was a promise of hope.

~ "Day will come again!"

Hope is not what makes us act, it is not what leads us to change: hope is what sustains us, what keeps us going when courage has faded and the dark night envelopes us. Húrin held fast to hope when courage and Valor had failed, when the efforts of good people fell short. I do not know what the future holds, bleak as it may seem, but I keep those words near me with every passing hour and in those moments where I feel as though I have been dragged into a dark lord's dungeon, I say those words:

Aurë entuluva!

Day will come again!

-

Courage will be needed when the day arrives, but until then, I will cling to hope.

I wish everyone peace and hope. It is the dearest thing I can wish. And remember, Aurë entuluva!

Namárië,

~ Ramoth13

[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

"By ill chance, at that place in the outworks stood Gwindor of Nargothrond, the brother of Gelmir. Now his wrath was kindled to madness, and he leapt forth on horseback, and many riders with him; and they pursued the heralds and slew them, and drove on deep into the main host. . . [T]hey burst through the Gate and slew the guards upon the very stairs of Angband, and Morgoth trembled upon his deep throne, hearing them beat upon his doors. But they were trapped there, and all were slain save Gwindor only, whom they took alive; for Fingon could not come to their aid. . . Then in the plain of Anfauglith, on the fourth day of the war, there began Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Unnumbered Tears, for no song or tale can contain all its grief." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, "Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad"

@tolkienhorrorweek day 1 ⇢ angband + captivity || THE FATE OF GELMIR

[ID: four posters in shades of black and grey, with red and white accents.

1: An image in the lower right corner shows a dark-skinned person with curly hair standing against a wall. A blindfold is tied across their face and one hand is raised to their chest. Three dashed red lines frame the image; one is vertical and overlaps the image on the left side, while the other two are horizontal and cross the figure in the image at their wrist and neck. White vertical text along the first red line reads "Gelmir," while white text in the upper left corner reads "With them they brought Gelmir son of Guilin, that lord of Nargothrond whom they had captured in the Bragollach; and they had blinded him." All text is italicized / 2: Three lengths of chain hanging in the dark. A red rectangle at the bottom of the image contains white italicized text reading "Then the heralds of Angband showed him forth, crying: ‘We have many more such at home," and is connected to the top of the image by a red dashed line on the right side / 3: A tall, long-limbed figure standing in the shadows among stone columns. Same format as Image 2, but the rectangle is at the top, and the dashed line descends from the left side. Text reads "but you must make haste if you would find them; for we shall deal with them all when we return even so.’ / 4: Same format as Image 1, but the orientation is reversed, with image is in the upper left corner showing a curly-haired person silhouetted against bright light coming through a circular window. They are looking over their shoulder at the viewer, but none of their features are discernible. Red lines cut through them at the wrist, neck, and eyes. White text along the vertical line reads "Gelmir," and at the bottom right corner, "And they hewed off Gelmir’s hands and feet, and his head last, within sight of the Elves, and left him." //End ID]

[eri-pl]

Announcement: Silm Advent calendar

OK, so you know how Advent calendars work, right? I imagine it's a known thing, not only for Christians, because every chocholate making company makes them and supermarkets shove them in people's faces.

Anyway in case you don't: You have a box with 24 (or whatever amount of days depending on the year) slots, and each day you open the one with the day's date and there's a small treat in there.

So I'll be posting something like this. Every day there'll be a scheduled post (not all on the same hour) with a title "Silm Advent calendar [day]" and a "read more". And under the "read more" there'll be a small treat for y'all.

They are all already scheduled.

All treats are entirely SFW: The images are mostly kid-appropriate (some have too much fire for small kids, also: quality may vary). The texts are… if you're old enough to use Tumblr, they're age-appropriate four you. Not all would beappropriate for, say, a 7yo because sometimes there's a little violence or cursing. Some are very fluffy, some are sad or somewhat ominous. Also, they are related to the Silm, so the implications/context are sometimes much, much darker (or lighter). All potential triggers are hopefully tagged and listed, please let me know if I missed something. The quality may vary too (but hey, they're proofread, we die like Men!)(well ok they aren't proofread that well obviously. But they are proofread) which is still something.

They aren't necessarily 100% consistent with each other or other stuff I wrote, but there are some connections.

So:

Silm Advent calendar 1: Day

Warnings: teenager PoV in late Númenor and he's not even Faithful. No triggering details, but it's late Númenor.

Too young.

Too young to sail with everyone. (They really meant "not good enough", didn't they? Not good enough with the ship, with the ropes, with the sword, with the lessons, with anything. It's not like there's an age limit after all.)

The air is thick, too hot for the season and the street is black. The soot stains Zâinathôr's new shoes.

Too young to sail, not good enough to sail and to return with the glory of immortal lands. (Will they all be immortal when they come back, or just the important ones? Or just the ones who fought best against the jealous, lying "lords" who claim those lands?)

Not enough and now they're probably fighting already and Zâinathôr has to wash a damned wall like a peasant, because some traitor had vandalized it—again—with strange, wicked letters. Is it a threat? Is it a curse? Hopefully even if it is, it will befall on the broom, or on the wet cloth on it, not on Zâinathôr. He mutters luck-bringing proverbs just in case.

His life is cursed enough already. The younger son, and also the less gifted one. Too young to sail.

They'd been gone for over a month and yesterday the abandoned island shook without its king. Will they ever return home? Or will they bask in the immortal glory and leave the weak ones waiting forever?

Zigûr has stayed, but the island doesn't seem to care. Or maybe he does not care. The black smoke rises into the sky, but it changes nothing, except the state of walls and streets. Apparently the rebels don't care either.

Zâinathôr smears the watered down paint in all directions, now it's dark from the soot, but the hourglass and the curse are still visible below the black. Why do those people want everyone to die? What has anyone even do to them? Well, except killing then, but, damn, they started it! They tried to usurp the king. Zâinathôr curses them quietly, unsure if he's more angry about the murder plots or about the stubborn unreadable vandalism.

It's been over five weeks already, maybe five and a half. Hopefully when the King defeats the cowards who live in the west, the traitors would finally understand that they can't win and go away or... something. And leave Zâinathôr and his friends alone.

The street beneath his feet vibrates with a low murmur again, and he continues washing. His thoughts are already at next week's play. What should he wear?

It gets darker. Why do those damned clouds always have to appear when he needs to see clearly? Even in the dimmed light, the paint on the wall is still visible, despite all the washing. The only difference is that now large part of the wall is black.

For a moment Zâinathôr wonders again what those words mean. Something nasty, that's for sure. Better no not think about it. (The air smells of fire.)

He'll wear the sea-blue tunic. It will look better in this weather.

[cuthalions]

“Blind you are Morgoth Bauglir, and blind shall ever be, seeing only the dark. You know not what rules the hearts of Men, and if you knew you could not give it. But a fool is he who accepts what Morgoth offers. [...] Do you forget to whom you speak? Such things you spoke long ago to our fathers; but we escaped from your shadow. And now we have knowledge of you, for we have looked upon the faces that have seen the light, and heard the voices that have spoken with Manwë. Before Arda you were, but others also; and you did not make it. Neither are you the most mighty; for you spent your strength upon yourself and wasted it in your own emptiness. No more are you now than an escaped thrall of the Valar. And their chain still awaits you.” — THE CHILDREN OF HÚRIN, CHAPTER III: THE WORDS OF HÚRIN AND MORGOTH

[millenariumhappinesstheorem]

On the night before the US election, the Democrats were so hopeful that I was suddenly, viscerally reminded of Fingon shouting "Utúlie'n aurë! The day has come!" right before he got pulverized at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

[irrealisms]

you can tell ive got lifesteal brainrot rn bc earlier i was going through my tgcf ebook for highlights/notes and i was like whoa... xie lian stone sword mentality ..... which is . posts for an audience of One. wait i just remembered that i made wolffy watch a few zam videos. posts for an audience of Two. in my defense

Xie Lian slowly straightened up. “Whether I can, I won’t know until I’ve tried. Even if the heavens say I must die, if that sword doesn’t pierce my heart and nail me dead on the ground, then I am still alive, and ‘til my last breath I will struggle to the end!”

Xie Lian thought inwardly, what he said was probably true. He couldn’t win. But, even if he couldn’t win, he had to fight!

xie lian stone sword mentality.

[nelyo-finwe]

TBR fanfic

Just found a huge fanfic series I want to start on ao3(Aurë entuluva by ScribeofArda aka theheirofashandfire) that I soooo desperately want to start but it is 1:45 am and while i do have the week off for regents testing…. I do like sleep despite what my nonexistent sleep schedule shows and I’d like to wake up before noon tmrw, so I won’t start the seventeen part series, but I just am posting to remind myself to start, otherwise it will stay in y bookmarks forever cuz I got distracted

[queenlucythevaliant]

The Silmarillion // The Last Battle

[anghraine]

I was looking for a different old post on my blog and found your art for the Túrin/Tuor/Niënor AU! I hadn't thought about that AU in a long time, but this is still so cool <3

anghraine: hadorian OT3 

[r2b2grady]

Probably one of the Devil's greatest lies is the image of hope as something fleeting and ephemeral. It ties into the lie that you have to effortlessly feel something for that feeling to be real. Just because I don't feel like there's gravity, or just because I can't see the movement of the floor as the world whirls endlessly through space, doesn't mean that those things aren't there, and the same can be said for things like hope.

Hope isn't just some flighty butterfly, something fragile and wispy. Hope is the woman praying daily at her husband's side in the hospital, waiting for him to wake and wondering if he'll remember her after his head injury.

Hope is the sailor clinging to the helm in the teeth of a gale, riding it out because he hopes and knows that the storm cannot last forever.

Hope is Samwise storming the tower of Cirith Ungol, not knowing whether he can truly overcome the orcs in the tower, but hoping that he can help his Master Frodo in some way at least.

Hope is the last stand of Húrin the Steadfast: holding the gap against the forces of Morgoth in Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, swinging his axe as he and his kinsmen fight to the death to protect the retreat of Turgon and the elves of Gondolin, shouting with each swing, "Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again!"

Hope is not something fleeting, something ephemeral. It can become such, because like any other emotion or feeling, it needs cultivation. But if you cling to it, if you hold it tight, then it will grow. If you let it, hope is a fighter, a shieldwarden, a warrior. Hope is not simple platitudes, but a knowledge that whatever things might feel like, the truth of the matter is different—no matter how hopeless things seem, things will not stay that way.

[tolkienosaurus]

If you have a different favourite quote, choose your favourite one of these and then comment yours down below. Only dialogue quotes.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 24: Reprise

No warnings, just attempts at translating Latin terms into Sindarin purely because I can. (Not the kind of Latin terms you would most expect in the context).

Laughter and lanterns filled the hall, one echoing, others split by gems and glad into rainbows and reflections. Despite the night outside, Finrod felt almost as if he was back in the happier times. Or at least in a memory of them.

The feast seemed successful: every major group had sent some representatives, even Thingol (though it had required some diplomacy), and only the two most level-headed sons of Feanor came. So far, everything went smoothly.

So far.

It would take long before the idea of a feast would not fill him with apprehension. And yet, his uncle — his High King— had organized one and it worked. So far.

Finrod passed through the crowd, snippets of conversations floated around him: not exactly noise, but still a form of chaos.

“Like athradil, is it not?” Daeron came closer, and Maglor with him. Those two looked as if they were having an argument, but they were only upset, not angry. Good.

Maglor made an expression that for a Sinda may have been nothing, but for a Noldo he could as well have rolled his eyes.

Finrod tried diplomacy. “I see that you have been discussing musical concepts of both our cultures?”

“Musical?” Maglor asked. “They don't even use proper chords.”

“They just think about them differently, but—”

Daeron spoke at the same time. “Maybe you can explain to him—”

They both paused and apologized to each other for the interruption, and then Finrod spoke again. “The athradil is a Sindarin form of polyphony. There is a base melody, the lindog — taglinn, if you prefer to use the usual word order, I'm sorry, I've learned much of the words from Lúthien — it has to be a complete melody in itself, begin and end on the origin, plus some more detailed rules, irrelevant for now. One person sings — or plays — the taglinn, and another joins and sings… you would say: harmonizes to it.

"But again, it must work well as its own melody. This, and the further lines, if you add more, is called the athradil. It does result in chords, but the Sindar like to emphasize the particular melodies being beautiful on their own.”

Maglor looked at him with forced patience. “And how would thinking in chords make it any worse, except the fact that the Sindar would have to learn mathematics?”

Finrod forced himself not to sigh. “It would lessen the focus on individual melodies, but yes, the result is similar. When you hear it, it's often impossible to tell in which way it was composed. The Sindar even use the same rules for allowed and disallowed intervals that you stated in your book.”

“Of course they do, those are simply the rules of music! They're universal.”

“I'm certain that in a proper context, with wide enough voicing, some of those rules could be, how to phrase it... That even a tone apart could work.”

Now both Maglor and Daeron looked at him with indignation. Finrod smiled in his mind, because improving the relationship between the Feanorians and the Sindar mattered more than the details of music theory. He always sang from his heart anyway — like the Teleri — and the results, while not great, were good enough.

“Well, maybe one day you shall manage to do that and invent a whole new kind of music. Then I'll change my mind.” Maglor looked at Finrod with a challenge. Daeron nodded.

“I didn't say that I'll do it, only that it maybe could be done. Maybe. I'm trying to stay open to possibilities.” Finrod smiled widely, feeling mischievous. “Now, of you excuse me, I'll leave you two to your craft.”

He kept circling among the guests. It was late in the night, close to the morning, and he hadn't rested in a few days. There were people to talk, diplomacy to do, and Finrod was effectively the lord of his father's people here… But he was also tired.

The voices around him mixed with memories. Like athradil, indeed.

“...it's getting late, if we want to have a good look at the Sickle, we better hurry. Soon it'll be dawn.”

“...one day, I wish to build a kingdom like her, my own home, reminding of the beauty…”

Maybe Maglor had been right, maybe he should be more serious? More like a proper Noldo, and less like his mother. Maybe. But Finrod had had enough seriousness on the ice. Every moment he could spare for a whimsy felt like a treasure.

“...the Khazad are mining it, they work it into intricate…”

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Turgon approached him from behind, carrying a glass of wine, almost orange in the lamplight. It felt wonderful to see him smiling again.

All the people, all the voices, mixing, mingling, all the lights… Finrod needed a rest. “Beautiful, indeed.”

And yet, he kept glancing through the window, at the graying sky. The guards were all at their places. Good.

Why couldn't he trust in happiness? Should he?

Even after twenty years, each morning he felt relief when the sky brightened. Nobody stole the sun yet. Good.

Fingolfin discussed something with Mablung and a few others over a map. Logistics… Finrod would have to go and have an opinion about it. Later.

He was so tired. He slumped in a chair and remembered home, so far West, but his mind went to the cloaked figure and his words. Would they really never return home? They did want to leave, but not forever…

…the green lands of Aman, never fading, never withering…

…but the figure — Finrod didn't want to admit that it had been Lord Námo himself — had said that the Valar would not listen to the prayers of the Noldor, and yet— He looked again at the hall, seeking the patch of copper, and there he was, talking with Fingon, eating an insanely sweet Vanyarin dessert made of caramelized milk, so very alive.

So, if this prophecy had proved untrue in part, maybe— maybe.

Maybe one day they will come back home, triumphant. Maybe one day the spider-infested wasteland will become green again. Maybe. May it be…

…He should have gone back with his father. But who would lead the people then? They surely wouldn't all come back too. And yet, it felt like father had been right. Father didn't have to deal with the Feanorians. Father didn't have to go through the ice. Father didn't have to lie to Thingol — well, not really lie, but the omissions felt bad enough.

Well, there was no point in thinking about that now. Maybe only to think more the next time he would decide to follow an insane plan, and not do it. Or at least make sure what he really wanted to do.

He remembered the crowd with torches in the darkness, the passion… Feanáro… A spirit of fire he'd been indeed. And now he was dead, consumed by flames.

Did Nerdanel even know that she was a widow? How much did anyone back in the West know nowadays? She'd always been so kind to all the family… it must have been very hard on her when they left…

…and yet, Finrod could not regret it. Maybe it was just the Telerin unwillingness to regret what could not be changed, maybe it was more. They had left, for better or for worse, and what would come of it? He doubted he would live to see most of it.

Would he even live to see the Men? They have allegedly awakened — but the information came from the least trustworthy of sources — and Finrod was curious. The Valar said they would not win this war, but maybe with new, unpredictable allies… who knew?

He drifted deeper into dreams and memories.

…his mother, on the ship, barely aware of all the political turmoil among the Noldor…

…Taniquetil, bright in the Treelight…

…Amarië in the garden, laughing, waiting…

On the outside, Maglor and Daeron came near him, still discussing chords and melodies, and which of those was the proper way of looking at music… stupid question. Music was not to be looked at, but to be listened to. And sung. And was older than books anyway.

The sun rose and the sudden warmth felt like fire.

And yet, in his dream he was in a starless forest full of snow and wolves. The ice howled at him, and its laughter sounded like swords and chains.

“It's going to be a long night,” Finrod said into the darkness. “But eventually, the day will come.”

A single star appeared in the sky.

[anghraine]

#túrin turambar#tuor#nienor níniel#coh#<3 (via @bretwalda-lamnguin)

Oh, thank you! This is an old and niche fic, haha, so I'm really glad people are still enjoying it!

aurë entuluva

my contribution to House of Hador week!

I’ve posted bits and pieces before, but here’s the whole fic–Hadorian happily ever after fluff, improbably starring Túrin, Niënor, and Tuor!

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