#silmarils but like one in the sky one in the sea and one in the earth (fire) (nerdanel) while standing in the statue. anyway.

[seaside-wanderer]

one thing that breaks me, absolutely shatters my heart and mind and soul, is how in the end all three silmarils return from whence they came. how one is in the sky, one in the sea, and one in a flaming abyss that closed on the earth.

it's like those who carried them gave them back to the valar and their dominions over elements.

and how the silmarils itself return to their elements... eärendil forever up in the sky, maglor burned, wandering the shores so only water can ease his scars, maedhros who would rather kill himself than live without the one thing he fought and suffered and was tortured for. it's like manwë blessed eärendil himself more than his ship, it's like ulmo reclaimed maglor and his love for poetry and gave him something to sing about once again, and maedhros saw how aulë created and created, and he also created and remade himself, and he would have rather destroy himself than let anybody else do it

[arofili]

The Silmaril melted away in the fires of the earth.

It is no longer there; its power diffused into the heart of Arda. The piece of its maker that was trapped within was released, and the soul of the one who bore it down into its unmaking was set free.

But the earth remembered.

Some of that power dissipated into the soil, and great flowers and trees grew up, up, into the sky, reaching for the Star of High Hope that was their kin.

Some of that power escaped into the air, and echoes of song floated along the breezes, guiding lost travelers always, always to the sea.

Some of that power vanished into the waters, and shone upon pearls brighter and more beautiful than any seen before.

And some of that power was carried down, down, down into the forges of the world itself, and with time and pressure and heat was reshaped into something resembling its former self.

The Silmaril was not found in the mines deep below the Lonely Mountain. But a spark of its power did travel there, and settled into an ordinary gem, and by the skilled hands of the dwarves who delved there was made into a jewel worthy of a king.

The Arkenstone, the heart of the mountain: it remembers what once it was, the blood that was spilled for it, the power it wielded. Its echoes linger, like mournful songs carried along by sea-breezes.

The Arkenstone is not the Silmaril. It is not the same jewel for which Oaths were sworn and kin were slain. But it remembers. And those who hold it feel that history in their hands, and some part of them remembers, too.

~

@funwithfanon fest day 2, fanon inversion

[flameunquenched]

@silmarillisms requested a drabble of sauron having dreams throughout season 1 of his death/disembodiment. i obliged.

spoilers for rings of power season 2 episode 1. loose tw for canon typical violence. if you ship angbang and squint a little, you'll see some angbang hints. if you ship saurondriel and squint a bit, you''ll see a few saurondriel hints.

THE RAFT

Against the raft, the ocean murmurs a gentle song, lulling those upon it towards the sweet escape that slumber offers. Beneath their wearied and thin bodies, the few planks that have offered them salvation amongst the waves rocks to and fro. Even the strongest would be hard pressed to avoid the call of sleep and none of them are at their strongest. Night had fallen with no amount of gentle serenity; rather, one moment it had been light, the Sun lazily swimming through the sky. Then, sudden as a thunderclap, the sea had simply swallowed it. One by one, those upon the raft had begun to doze, their heads drooping down to their chests or perhaps bodies slipping to the side until they found a comfortable position.

(Pain. He had felt that before. One did not work beneath Morgoth without learning the sweet piquant that was pain. Yet, this was a queer, new pain, radiating up his back, through his neck, over his shoulders. He reached for it, on his knees, staring up at the black-haired elf. The expression that marred his visage was befuddled, for his mind had yet to catch up to what had just occurred.)

He jolts into awareness with a gasp, a hand flying at once to the heraldry that encircles his neck now. Nearby, a woman’s hand is outstretched, her countenance contorted in an expression of uncertainty. Slowly, she withdraws the hand, ebony locks dancing against her wind-blasted cheeks.

“You were crying out,” she utters in that low, rough accent that he has learned flavors the speech of the Southlanders. It is becoming familiar to him; another piece of the armor that he adorns himself in. 

A heavy exhalation escapes and he sits up, waving her off. “Apologies,” he mutters in return, a grimace twisting his features. He, like she, is worn by the spray of salt and the Sun’s rays and the endless succession of day after day with nothing more than the company of one another. He turns from her, closing his eyes briefly to inhale deep the scent of salt and the odors of the other few survivors of the wreckage. 

For a second, Sauron thinks he scents blood as black as pitch. He shivers, fingers tightening on the sigil about his neck.

NÚMENOR

Sprawled upon the bench in a Númenorean cell, he supposes that perhaps allowing himself to be so baited into a fight (an alley fight, of all things) might have been a poor decision. Whether it was his most poor decision ever made, he cannot yet say but it certainly must be quite up there. Yet still, their laughter rankles; even now, hours later, he can still hear their gross mockery. 

Even now, it elicits a clenched fist and visions of drowning them in their own blood. 

Anger still remains upon his tongue, a foul taste. He had known better once. When he had worn a different skin, this surely would not have happened. Yet, here he is now, imprisoned for inciting a fight in an alley. 

Releasing a muted groan, he moves to lie upon the bench. The intent is not to slumber, for he yearns to resist that call whenever possible. Yet sleep creeps upon him all the same.

(Hands. They were everywhere. Claws entangled into his auburn tresses. Raking at his flesh, ripping at his clothing. There were hands and there were blades, biting into him, stabbing him over and over. He was on his knees, caught, trapped, helpless even as he struggled, fought for his feet, fought to rise. He could not let them do this. He who was their master! And so he rose, lashing out magically, savoring the shocked expressions upon their dumb faces.

It did little good. He was but one and one can be overwhelmed by many. Sauron knew that. He remembered well how Morgoth had fallen in the end. He would not fall. He would fight. They would not take him down.)

The gasp echoes as he sits up, teeth bared against enemies long dead. His gaze falls to his hand, which trembles. Did he not know better now than to allow for sleep? Sleep brings nothing but the threat of these torments unending. 

Rising, Sauron gives his head a hard shake. They are dead. He yet lives and will continue to live. The Moriondor is out there somewhere, a reminder of failure. Just the thought suffices to force a growl between clenched teeth and fingers close until they ache. 

There is time still. He of the Ainur and the Son of the Dark have all the time they need. They will meet again.

EREGION

(He was down. On his back, blood seeping from dozens of mortal wounds, he laid there, staring up into what little light seeped through the merciless faces of the Orcs. His army was slaughtering him and there was nothing now he could do to stop it. He had fought, killing many of them, but for each one he killed, four more seemed to swarm him. The light was fading. He had survived so much, accomplished so much, for this? For death at the hands of the mockery of Elves, twisted into ruination at the hands of his master?

He would be back. Sauron promised it even as he lay dying, his last breath gathering within his lungs and then escaping from his open, bloodied mouth. He would be back.)

“My lord!” The words are distorted, echoing down a long way. “My lord, wake up! It is but a dream, wake up!”

Eyes flutter open and up he finds himself gazing into a worried visage of a fair and radiant Elf. For half a moment, it is on his tongue to call her Galadriel, despite the fact that Galadriel is pale where this Elf is dark. He gazes at her with confusion; she gazes at him with concern. 

“Are you quite alright, my lord? Lady Galadriel brought you in very weak. You were very nearly lost.” She frets visibly, hands pressing together before she moves closer to further examine him. “Oh! You’re probably thirsty,” she murmurs, reaching for a cup of water and offering it to him.

“Thank you,” he mutters, voice hoarse and raw. The water helps and when he goes to sit up, the Elf tuts but does not attempt to stop him. 

“Where am I?” With effort, bare feet come to touch a cool floor. The sensation is oddly soothing and he allows a bit more weight to rest, simply to enjoy the feeling again. 

The Elf shifts uncomfortably, her brows furrowed to a worried expression that only emphasizes her natural beauty. “You are in the Elven city of Eregion, my lord. Home of Lord Celebrimbor.” After a moment, she moves forward to aid him in rising fully. “Lady Galadriel will want to know you have awoken. Stay here, my lord. I will return with her shortly.”

Her words bring forth a smile to his lips. “Where else would I go?” This he asks softly as she moves to the door.

I’m exactly where I want to be.

[cilil]

Lost Scenes Thursday! Get to know your favourite authors better. Show five scenes from either abandoned fics where you regret they will never see the light of day, or five scenes from WIPs where you are impatient to see them out there. Long, short, one-liner... it's all good reading. Tag five other authors where you are curious.

Thanks for the ask! Was late on this one so I waited for it to be Thursday again ;)

So I typically scrap very little that I write which is why most snippets you'll see here are from upcoming works. Enjoy!

"My hröa does not have the means." "I gave you what this form of mine can provide." Fëanáro hadn't thought that Ulmo's blessing would indeed take hold. He had assumed that, perhaps, the Lord of Waters was mistaken in his assumptions about the inner workings of the Elven body, being a mysterious and rather strange creature, but he had been wrong.

~ From: "The Making of Makalaurë", written for a dear reader on AO3, in which the sons of Fëanor are the result of Fëanor receiving blessings from various Valar

"I trust you can take it from here." Any listeners might have found his words condescending, but Amras took no offense. The look on his brother's face spoke volumes of his uncertainty, not knowing how to act. "You can." He kept facing the river, not turning even a little. It would be a useless diversion; his path lay ahead, not next to or behind him. "Alright." Caranthir blinked a few times. "And, Amras... I just..." He swallowed. "Stay safe and take care, will you?" After centuries of keeping up a facade of indifference, the vulnerability in his dark eyes was almost jarring. Amras reached out with his right hand, and Caranthir responded in kind. They held onto each other for a few seconds, squeezing, exchanging glances. "I promise I will," Amras said finally.

~ From: Chapter 2 of "Dead Heart, Still Beating", in which Amras embarks on his journey to infiltrate Doriath and steal the Silmaril from Dior

Tirion training grounds at sunset. Come alone and wear this.

~ From: "Netya Nurëa!", written for @curufiin, in which Curufin receives a strange message from Celegorm and wonders what his brother's latest brilliant idea is

At night, great tidal wave swept over the town, so sudden that nobody had seen it coming. A great number of houses were torn to shreds by the ferocious waters, yet miraculously those who were dragged into the sea within the wreckage washed up on the shore, alive and relatively unharmed. Only two men remained missing, a pleasure slave from the local brothel and a foreign merchant, but even as their absence was noticed and their deaths seemed certain, the townsfolk hardly had a tear to spare; after all they had been strangers, and the ships, wares, buildings and homes that now needed to be rebuilt seemed like the greater loss. Nobody paid heed to the Star Queen's frantic search in the sky, nor the soundless cries of the King of Arda being dragged into the depths of the sea.

~ From: "Shards of Divinity", written for @featheredmoonwings, in which Manwë's ëala was shattered after the Fall of Númenor and Ulmo finds a piece of him that he wishes to keep for himself

Every day, every night he prayed. Yet each time his faithless heart returned to that book and the demon he had summoned, and his mind was flooded with filthy fantasies that drowned his resolve until he gave in again. "Sancta Virgo, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus... nunc... et in hora... mortis nostrae." Eönwë faltered upon uttering the final words of the prayer. Time and time again a foolish part of him hoped to be released from his desires, yet purity and enlightenment not only eluded him, but slipped further and further from his grasp.

~ From: "Ora pro nobis peccatoribus", written for @i-did-not-mean-to, a cloister AU in which faithful novice Eönwë keeps accidentally (more or less) summoning the demon Gothmog to spice up his dull every day life

Now for the (no pressure as always) tags: @sauron-kraut @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @crackinthecup @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @fishing4stars as well as everyone else who would like to join! Show me what you've been up to, fellow authors🖤

[melestasflight]

Writing Year Wrapped (2023)

thanks for the tag @sallysavestheday

3 Favorite Fics You've Written This Year

Red - a return to my favorite relationship of all times, Fingon/Maedhros after a semi-hiatus. I let myself feel more than think while writing this, and let the words turn into a painting. Thanks to @helyannis for making that painting come true (see above).

What Lies Beyond the End - the giving up of the Silmaril by Maglor has been and still is one of the most impactful moments for me in the Silm. The writing of this ficlet was a gloriously cathartic music-high.

To Find a Home in the Twilight - Aredhel! All about Aredhel and her contagious sense of freedom. I went wild with the worldbuilding here and dug into characters that are blank slates in canon. Thanks to @toastedbuckwheat for supplying art inspiration.

3 Fics That Stretched You the Most

Against His Wisdom - this was a personal challenge to convince my brain to accept a topic I found extremely challenging for a long time. I also really got my hands dirty with elven psychology and dug into Fingon and Fingolfin's complicated characters. Thanks to @polutrope and @ettelene for the encouragment.

The Seven Trials of Fingon the Valiant - this was a sweet challenge in learning how to co-write with someone else. I am a chaotic writer, I feel as I go, I let stories write themselves. I learned a thing or two about planning ahead and writing in order with @polutrope.

Character Biography: Húrin Thalion and Part 2 - these are not fics but reference works, but putting them here because it was a long labor. A deep dive into canon to look at the evolution of Húrin's character and a critical analysis of the themes and symbology surrounding his character. (also: 11.5k words for this stingy writer!). Thanks to @dawnfelagund for the support.

3 Favorite Lines You've Written (loosely interpreting "lines")

I'm taking quotes from landscape writing because it was very enjoyable this year.

From Voices That Were Once Ours

The hills of Himring stay to the west, and the plains unfold. Lothlann makes an uncomfortable flatness, naked and exposed. The Iron Mountains rise in the far distance and interrupt the seemingly endless sky. In the light of day, they seem almost fair, and for a brief moment, Finrod believes they are not the work of violence.

From What Lies Beyond the End 

The jewel illuminates the liquid space around it, calling all life to itself. Sea creatures, enormous and minute, come to offer their welcome, spiraling in a meditative dance around its brilliant streaks. Even the seagrasses reach their slim fingers with such longing they all but detach themselves from the corral that nurtures them to grasp but a strand of light. It is a silent spectacle of marvel and dread, like the sight of an erupting mountain seen from a great distance. A convergence that perhaps should never be allowed to happen upon Arda, of Sea and Sky, of profound darkness and starlight. In that fleeting instant, Maglor comes to believe that for this alone, it was all worth it.

From Red 

On the rare occasions when Fingon allows himself to think of Beleriand, one image takes shape in his mind’s eye above all others. The last moments of sunset spilling down the prairies of Ard-galen.  If one was to wait for the exact hour and find just the right angle, its hue matched to perfection the color of Maedhros’ tresses under bright daylight. The dark reds coming alive with the gentle swaying of tall grasses in the breeze, Fingon would wade between them with his palms spread open and believe that a beloved braid was untangling between his fingers.

3 Characters You Enjoyed Writing (that surprised you)

Caranthir in The Seven Trials of Fingon the Valiant 

Galadriel in crowned with the Sun

Zimrahin Meldis in To Find a Home in the Twilight 

3 Unexpected Inspirations

The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula Le Guin. This book left me reeling. Thanks to @searchingforserendipity25 for convincing me to finally read it. The Helcaraxë will never be the same after this.

Age of Empires, yes, the game. Fantastic outlet to let me plan and imagine all my battle-writing, military formations, units, etc.

Paul M. Barford' The Early Slavs: Culture and Society in Early Medieval Eastern Europe. It helped me think deeply about the relationship between the Edain and the Elven lords in Beleriand.

3 WIPs You're Excited About in the Upcoming Year

Fingon's Kingship long fic - Fingon-centric exploration of the period between Galdor's death and the Union of Maedhros. Focused on Fingon's relationship with Círdan, Húrin, Maedhros, and Maglor.

One Thousand Days - a ficlet for Maedhros & Maglor week exploring their relationship with the Esterlings.

Scion of Kings - looking forward to finishing this Fin-galad story inspired by art pieces by @ruiniel @welcomingdisaster and @searchingforserendipity25

3 People Tagged to Share Theirs

no pressure tag to share if you'd like @searchingforserendipity25 @imakemywings @theghostinthemargins

[searchingforserendipity25]

something something maglor and maedhros being burned by the silmarils as equivalent to the divine judgement they might have faced in valinor (but with zero of the amelioration surrender might bring).

something something maedhros' torment under varda's hallowing being too much like morgoth's torture. being under the punishing power of one valar is not so different, in the end; the despair is very alike, and all the more final.

maglor lingering on and on in a state of celestial horror: closing his eyes and seeing the great expanses of the starkindler's dominion, darkness and numberless lights, and the burning fire of the heavenly bodies turned against him in loathing and revulsion.

on him is a sentient judgement that does not wane. older than the world, the oldest justice beyond the circles of the world. starlight burns him at night worse than the scorching sun at midday; and nothing can ever heal the wounds of the silmaril.

he clings to the laments and the regret, and repeats the same songs, with the same exact words, lest the terror of the hallowing on unworthy flesh and unworthy spirit claim him entirely.

he clings to the story of his life, which is the cause for his pain, and the only thing that keeps him from being swallowed entirely but the great expanses of the heavens, the tremendous heights that pried open his mind and revealed the filth of his self without ornamentation or ambiguity, and do not relent. truth, absolute and immense and foul - and in the end, the despair is very bad.

the eldar are not made for absolute truth. the eldar are made to sing, and wander, and -- not this.

maglor sings, and wanders as he sings. he loses words. names, verses, speech, the thing for which the elegy is sung, until only the voice remains, very like the sea. not all the solemn and linear and familiar songs of the eldar can stand forever as a shield between the hugeness of the starlit skies, and neither the sea nor the heavens care about his regret.

he does regret. he must. all that is left of his own history, in the great vastness of nebulas and suns that lingers always beneath his lids. his hands hurt constantly, and the flesh beneath his skin breaks and steams sometimes as if it were old wood with hidden embers. the bones themselves blackened, warming him always with a fever like the moment of epiphany at the end of a long fast.

if only he had not yielded to maedhros' will! but then, that is only another illusion so swiftly burned away as a veil of mist in the morrow at the touch of the silmaril. the jewels would never be given to those who had slain the blood of the kindred, were they the best behaved and most patient of penitents.

no unholy creature would be suffered to touch any hallowed thing, in valinor. even the valar were not so cruel. maglor yielded, and yielded, and yielded; he can only regret it, and never enough, though all the unbearable loveliness of the midnight sky be set to consume him with righteous wrath.

he does not return among elvenkind. maedhros is dead, and carcaroth is dead, and morgoth is cast out. there is not much left in arda that shares great kinship with the thing he is; and that, he knows - for the stars are keen and absolute teachers, judges with no pity - is a righteous and holy thing.

[kradogsrats]

I try not to dig into Tolkien's earliest mythology and cosmology because honestly I find it completely insane. Like the story of the Silmarils I can get behind because that's garden-variety pettiness, but when you get back to "Melkor was too proud to understand that even the disharmonies he introduced into the music of the universe were, in fact, a part of Eru Iluvatar's grand design in that they and the Ainur's melodies formed to counter them made the whole all the more beautiful" my eyes just kinda roll out of my head. BUT something from checking up on making sure I was remembering Laurelin correctly snagged my interest, and I wound up reading about the awakening and "sundering" of the elves.

My loose summary:

Before the sun and moon were created, the abandoned Middle-Earth was in darkness because the Two Trees only illuminate the paradise of Valinor. The elves come into being in the east of Middle-Earth not long after the stars are placed in the sky, so the first light they perceive is starlight.

The elves "awaken" in three groups, which form tribes according to the order in which they awoke, literally "Firsts," "Seconds," and "Thirds" (in that the names of the three who then awoke the others became the roots for the words "one," "two," and "three). Obviously, the First elves are the best.

For reasons that aren't entirely clear to me beyond "they just think elves are neat," the Valar invite the elves to come live in Valinor. The 2/3-ish of them who accept undertaking that journey are then called Eldar, literally "star-folk."

Not all of the Eldar complete the journey—some of them instead settling at various points across Middle-Earth, all the way up to the edge of the sea. These all develop their own cultures, a shared language, and dialects. (This, of course, was the whole point.)

Like I said, the First elves are obviously the best elves: 100% of the First elves agree to go to Valinor and 100% of them complete the journey. They also never leave except that one time they all fight Melkor, unlike the Second elves who made it to Valinor and were eventually exiled. We don't talk about the Third elves.

ANYWAY, the decline of the elves from their First elves peak goes on for thousands of years but eventually they all leave and the world enters the Age of Men.

So in short we've got:

Primacy of the stars over other celestial bodies and also literally everything else

A slow splitting and dispersal of the elves from a single people into many

The consistent through-line of the First elves to Eldar and then Vanyar (Fair/High elves who remained in Valinor), superior to other elves

For all that elves and men are largely allies, there is still a thematic thread of them being antithetical to each other—the rise of men corresponds with the decline of the elves, even if it's not coming at their direct expense, etc.

Valinor also gets its own "these men set their eyes on power they weren't meant to have (in this case immortality) thanks to the manipulative whispers of a malevolent entity (Sauron), so their great kingdom was left in ruins and Valinor was sealed away from the lands of men except by a path only elves can traverse" story, but to be honest that's an incredibly common narrative that Tolkien was already cribbing from Babel or Atlantis or Eden or any of the other "we got too proud/greedy/corrupted and now everything sucks" stories. There's also enough other crap surrounding it that you can't really say "ha ha look it's Elarion" except in the "same hat theme!" way. But I wanted to mention it.

BUT YEAH idk man it's just kinda interesting to me that there's the same kind of Stars/First Elves/Great Ones thing going on, particularly the way that in TDP there are elves, but the entities referred to as a Star/Stars also still exist, or Aaravos wouldn't be wanting to get back at them. It's just being handled in a very different way, because uh... yeah, if anyone wrote "the first elves all went to paradise and never left it, even while the mortal world suffered under the yoke of evil, except when the time came to defeat literal satan" now, those guys would rightfully be assholes.

[eri-pl]

Silm reread interlude: I read Lay of Leithian (1)

First: the title: a lot of times in the text something is freed and released and we get the text focusing on it, because of course that's why I gave it this title, look it's perfectly normal: of course Sauron's prisoners, but also Luthien from her imprisonment, Beren (and iirc others) many times from emotional paralysis + (in alternate text said clearly) the poor Silmaril from the crown of hatered and yet our Oath-bound blorbos are not maybe because their two brothers decided to be creeps.

Also putting something as your title and than mentioning it in relation to many things is totally normal and not funny and not because I am doing it myself sometimes.

OK, anyway, let's start.

TWs…. hmm. Suicidality, a lot of Morgoth and he is evil but in a cool way, wonky metaphysics of the early Silm.

Canto 1

Thinglo has a silver crown. And his armors are scale mail.

Again, Luthien with Elrond's poetic coloring. But in alternate version she had gold hair and blue eyes, Earendil-style.

Canto 2

Morgoth is called king! And the text respects him way more than in the Silm. Sure, he's evil. But also "stronger than the stone the world is built of, than the fire that burns within it more fierce and dire" – come one tell me that does not sound cool. Also "thoughts profound were in his heart". huh? Unless "profound" means something like "gloomy" here, not like "deep and wise".

Also he's evil and terrible and his army stinks.

And he is often referred to as "King Morgoth". With capital "K". He would like that.

Gorlim is much more intentional in his betrayal. And talks with Morgoth himself, not with Sauron.

Another line about Morgoth: "that cruel heart wherein no truth had ever part". So the profound thoughts are profound but untrue I guess.

And it's so dark: "Thus Gorlim died a bitter death, and cursed himself with dying breath[...] and all good deeds were made in vain". Who wrote that, Daeron?

Also, the hidout of Beren and his father and their band is referred to as "secret tryst". Tolkien, as often, uses words as he pleases.

Beren curses the name of Morgoth, thrice. In this story, we will see a lot of people cursing various things and people.

The orcs want to steal the ring of Barahir, ie not report it to Morgoth, just keep it.

Beren is suicidal: "he longed for knofe, or shaft, or sword, to end his pain[...] Danger he sought and death pursued" — huh. Very un-Silm-like. In the Silm only tragic characters are like this.

He befriends animals, and stone spirits(!), I prefer this early version where we have lesser Maiar(?)/spirits/whatever.

Big Dipper as named Burnng Briar, but still it's basicall a "Morgoth, we'll get you" sign from Varda.

Canto 3

Melian didn't go to Beleriand on a mission or purpose: "She had wayward wandered on a time from gardens of the Gods".

Also, the text is written as if Valinor did make its inhabitants immortal: "where earth and sky together flow, and none shall die". I guess Ar-Pharazon read this version. ;) (minus the parts that make Sauron look stupid)

Melian and Thingol. For him the years of looking in her eyes seem like an hour, which makes sense.

Aaand we get first (unless I missed something) title reference! And it's the oddest one possible: "when Morgoth first, fleeing the Gods, their bondage burst, and on the mortal lands set feet".

Also, all Men are his thralls (sans Bere&co obviously), no mention of the Edain.

It seems like elves are not immortal??? "Thingol and deathless Melian" + some more lines like that. maybe it's about her not being possible to kill (dfw would disagree).

"Dairon the dark" so I guess Daeron has black hair. Or face. Or both. Again, he is mightier as a minstrel than Maglor (whose voice is like the sea, and the sea is not a tenor) but they have a third contestant, Tinfang, later deleted.

B&L meet, her magic dazes him and whatnot, I'm not a fan, anyway we get one of my favorite lines:

And now his heart was healed and slain with a new life and with new pain

This point-on describes one very particular emotional experience that does not have a name, but sometimes occur when an emotional (or spiritual) issue is resolved an a sudden and rather surprising moment of insight.

[That's one of the best feelings and I wish you all to have it often enough. <3 ]

…Let's end this on this good note and not on my feelings about the romance part of the canto.

[swanmaids]

ulmo grants his favourite couple a gift on the day of the birth of their first grandchild. written for the @yearoftheotpevent april prompt ‘peace’.

It was sometimes said by the Men of Númenor that in the early days of the reign of Elros Tar-Minyatur, the Star of High Hope was four times seen to shine in place from morning till night, never moving nor fading, and this tale was indeed the truth.

~

Elwing, albatross, soared with the rising dawn to greet Eärendil her beloved aboard Vingilot as he drew in towards her tower. She landed on the deck barefoot in her woman-shape, nude, and wound her arms around his shoulders.

This was how Elwing began each day in Aman, yet this morning was different. For instead of preparing to land as always, as she released him Eärendil raced to the wheel at the bow and turned, so that the great sail billowed across the other side of the wind, and Vingilot turned.

“We haven’t time to spare!” he cried, “Ulmo came before me as I sailed tonight, and he spoke to me of one blessing he has granted us; but only for today- we must make for Númenor with haste!”

~

Elwing dressed herself in Eärendil’s spare tunic (too wide in the shoulders) and trousers (which barely grazed her ankles), and returned to Eärendil’s side on the deck. He wrapped an arm around her waist, and pressed his face into her neck, breathing her in, the light of the silmaril bound to his brow glowing in the blue-black of her hair.

“It’s beautiful in the dawn,” she said, meaning the ocean, and it was. The coral-pink sky sparkled with Arien’s light and the light of the silmaril on the water, and off the coast of Aman it was so clear that flying low as they were, they could see shining pearls tossed about on the sea-floor, and fish like many-coloured jewels.

As they crossed the Enchanted Isles, and over the wider sea, many among the great and small creatures of Ulmo appeared to the flying ship. There was the mighty whale Uin, shooting a jet of water up onto the deck in greeting as he swum among the islands; and as they came closer Elwing and Eärendil saw that one rock was no island at all, but the dread turtle Fastitocalon, yet he did them no harm. Swimming among a school of porpoise were a dozen mermaids with hair and scales of many colours, who rose to the surface and sung in a tongue unintelligable to see Vingilot; and following them was Uinen their queen, unmistakable in her beauty and fierceness.

After Uinen had passed, Eärendil raised the ship higher in the sky and Elwing armed herself with a boathook; for where Uinen went Ossë was sure to be close. Yet when they did encounter him, he simply skated over the waves and raised a hand to the mariners.

Eärendil smiled, and said that all the spirits of the sea must have come out to see his fair wife, and she laughed. And at last when they reached the star-shaped island of Númenor, Salmar appeared before them and he played the great horn of Ulmo, and the song awoke in the hearts of many mariners across the land.

High above the island they soared, and each looked down through a spyglass. As they flew, the seabirds of Númenor flew to join them, the sea-mews and the puffins and the gannets, and they spoke to Elwing and told her to sail as far as the Palace of the King in golden Armenelos.

~

Elros Tar-Minyatur, Elrond his twin, and his wife Gennoril and their newborn child, yet to be named, had waited since the coming of dawn under the tree of Nimloth for their miracle, and late that morning, it came. The star of Elros’ father shone upon his grandchild beneath the tree, and the boy smiled. And though they could not see nor speak to their parents, Elros and Elrond knew that they were with them then, and had never truly left their sides, and they smiled and wept.

That day, the Star of High Hope looked down on the royal family of Númenor until Arien journeyed out of sight, and Gennoril looked upon her child and said, “Vardamir”.

~

Elsewhere in the ocean, fishes darted through the wreckage of Sirion and mussels and limpets clung to the sunken skeleton of Ancalagon. The remains of Turgon’s ships continued to rot and crumble under the water, the bones of their sailors laid in the sand while their bodies reborn walked in Aman. And above it all, the Blessed Mariner and his wife winged with feathers looked down together as they sailed; and while they knew that the gift of today could not make up for their many losses, they held each other in gladness that it had been granted them all the same.

[cosmic-walkers]

maglor spending time in numenor until the death of elros gives me arwen vibes. he follows elros to numenor because he does not want elros to feel forgotten, though he never will feel forgotten. it is more so that elros will never forget where he comes from, and so he won't be alone. even as the years pass by, and elros ages, and his mind is feeble, maglor always wants him to remember there was a time when he was among the eldar, when he was the very magic that he tells his great-grand children about. in elros's old age he tells him stories of their pasts, and the children gather and listen to maglor tell them. at a point, elros does not recall the stories all that well (they are dreams to him), and among the kids they are nothing but fairy tales.

'tell us about the pretty elf woman who turned to a bird!' ' what about the elf who had the most beautiful voice of all men and eldar alike' 'no i want to hear about the one who carries the star in the sky' or 'i want to hear of the one who made the stars--the silmarils!' all the kids recount maglor's stories--stories of his past, stories of elros, and while maglor enjoys his time with the children, he speaks directly to elros, hoping he remembers, but he does not.

until one day, as he sits in elros's room playing his loot, he hears the man of near 500 years speak quietly 'tell me about valinor-what it is like. for i will not join you, elrond, or maedhros there. but i can imagine' and through tears, maglor speaks. he tells him, he tells him as if elros is a child again. he promised him hundreds of years ago that they'd meet again in valinor, but they will not. it doesn't matter, he tells him.

when elros dies, maglor crawls upon the bed and curls up with him, and it is only when the servants and his children come, is it announced the king is dead. maglor is apart of the family by now, so deeply rooted but he cannot stay. he stays for the coronation of Elros's heir, and bids the children and grand children good bye nights after. after that, he takes a boat to himself, and sails to middle earth where he wonders the sea shore and continues to sing songs of sorrow. Where he eventually ventures into the old lands where he and his brother would roam, and fades into nature until a certain half elf finds him and brings him to imaldris. it is difficult for maglor to even look at elrond, he reminds him actually of all of elros's children and he cannot bear to think of them in that moment.

In numenor there are statues dedicated to maglor, some are now at the bottom of the sea. but elros's son, and his children make sure maglor is never forgotten just as maglor attempted to make sure elros never forgot where he came from.

[whovianofmidgard]

New chapter up now!!!

CH.7.: The Myth: Brightest of Stars

The elves only ever told the one tale of Eärendil. No new tales came from beyond the sea, and Middle-earth could only see the light that he carried as a star. 

Men had their own stories of the Star of High Hope, as many and varied as their cultures were. Fragments of half-forgotten elvish history blended together with their own Gods and legends and mythology. 

Yet the fact remained that all anyone could see was a bright light in the night sky. Therefore, there was never any cause to tell any rumours, superstitions or old wives’ tales regarding Gil-Estel. 

However, the Children of Eru were not the only beings with stories of their own. 

- 

Chained in the deep, all-consuming darkness, left there to rot in the shroud of the world’s shadow, Morgoth struggled in his bonds. His wounds from long dead elves and righteous Maiar festered, a constant reminder to fuel his hate and anger. 

He was deep in the belly of the Void, yet the Door of Night taunted him, seeming both close and far away. One day he’ll break that door down and Melkor shall have his revenge. Though that day was still many Ages to come. 

Time should have lost meaning in the ever dark of the Void, yet one thing kept track of the nights. The Light of the Silmaril. 

The Door was closed and veiled in night, but the Treelight pierced through it, like sunlight filtered through curtains. It taunted the fallen Vala to no end, raging against his chains. 

However, the Void was not so empty, and Morgoth was not alone in the dark. Others were also tempted by such marvellous Light. Crawling, many legged creepers chittered just out of sight, flying fell beasts swooped above on whispering wings, and great bodies of flesh oozing Unlight slithered underneath. Brothers and sisters of Ungoliant, just as vile, just as hungry as her. 

And they all craved the Light. 

They knew well how the dazzling radiance hurt them; they knew well the burn of the Light. They muttered and chittered and whispered stories of remembered pain, the pain of the Light and its terrible bright wielder. The memory of blinding, blazing wounds stayed them for a time, recoiling from the wandering star. 

But sooner or later, the temptation would win out, the Light too delicious to ignore their beastly hunger. 

Read the rest on Ao3

[polutrope]

Ya know, reading your wonderful fic Everlasting Darkness made me realize the Earendil x Maedhros ship kinda makes sense cause like in one version of Silmarillion, Maedhros did hang out with Earendil in Vingilot or something while sailing the skies, and then after went to the Valar to beg forgiveness so yeah.

Are you the same Anon who sent me an Ask about this fic a few weeks ago? Anyway, so glad you love the fic! It's one that's close to my heart despite (because of) its crackiness.

Now I hope you'll forgive me for diving into an analysis here because what?! Hahaha I never heard this idea of Maedhros spending time on Vingilot, but I suspect I know where it came from. I thought I'd share because I'm genuinely fascinated by how the "tales grow in the telling" in the fandom with respect to Tolkien's drafts. AND, I discovered to my surprise in revisiting this passage, this interpretation isn't exactly wrong.

Here's a passage from The Sketch of the Mythology, titled The 'Original' Silmarillion by Tolkien. It was a summary of his mythology written for a friend as background to his alliterative Lay of the Children of Hurin. It dates to 1926 and underwent various revisions between then and 1930. I've incorporated revisions in the excerpts below. The relevant quote isn't until the very end, but it's such an interesting passage so I couldn't resist quoting the context.

The Gods [Valar] [...] march through the lands summoning the remnant of the Gnomes [Noldor] and Ilkorins [Sindar] to join them. All do except the people of Maidros. Maidros prepares to perform his oath, though now at last weighed down by sorrow because of it. He sends to Fionwe [Eonwe] reminding him of the oath and begging for the Silmarils [etc., much as in the published Silm]. Maidros and Maglor submit. [...] On the last march Maglor says to Maidros that there are two sons of Feanor now left, and two Silmarils; one is his. He steals it, and flies, but it burns him ... [Maglor casts the Silmaril into a fiery pit.] One Silmaril is now in the sea [because Elwing cast it there], and one in the earth. Maglor sings now ever in sorrow by the sea. [There follows a long passage about the prophecy about the end of the world, including the line:] In those days the Silmarils shall be recovered from sea and earth and air, and Maidros shall break them[1] and Belaurin [Yavanna] with their fire rekindle the Two Trees [...] And thus is was that the Silmaril came into the air. The Gods adjudged the last Silmaril to Earendel -- 'until many things shall come to pass' -- because of the deeds of the sons of Feanor. Maidros is sent to Earendel and with the aid of the Silmaril Elwing is found and restored. Earendel's boat is drawn over Valinor to the Outer Seas [...] From sections 18-19, The Sketch of the Mythology, History of Middle-earth Vol. 4: The Shaping of Middle-earth

"Maidros is sent to Earendel" -- yep! That's there. And, to my surprise, this is after Earendel "sails by the aid of [seabirds'] wings even over the airs in search of Elwing, but is scorched by the Sun, and hunted by the Moon, and for a long while he wanders the sky as a fugitive star." (Section 17).

Fascinating! I can't say I think Tolkien intended in this sketch to suggest Maidros served some time as Earendel's crewman but I also can't say the text precludes that reading. Thank you, Anon, for bringing this little nugget to my attention. I wish I could say I was playing on it in Everlasting Darkness, but I was not.

[1] Maidros is replaced by Feanor in all subsequent versions of this prophecy. I do find Tolkien's first impulse to make it Maidros fascinating.

Btw if you're intrigued by the role of Maglor in this passage, a little plug for my Maglor Biography on SWG.

[sweetearthandnorthernsky]

and i'm forced to deal with what i feel (forgive, morinel ft maglor)

morinel has. a lot of feelings about this actually (10 pages worth, actually). this whole situation is a goddamn mess help. also, your honor that is morinel's emotional support mithril thread spool and one day i will write a fic about how she Aquires it and Why it's her emotional support mithril thread spool.

Mithlond is somehow even emptier than Morinel remembers it being nearly a year ago, silent save for the song of the waves crashing against the shore.

She returns to the palace, standing in the deserted foyer, though she is too lost in thought to really realize who Elrond is talking to, tucked away in a corner.

She pays them no mind and goes to pass them so she can return to her room and start packing–

The hooded figure looks up – looks at her – and there is a moment of terrible realization that makes Morinel feel sick with conflicting feelings.

“Maglor.”  There’s ice in her voice, and she clenches her hands at her side so tightly that her fingernails dig crescents into her palm. 

Her uncle’s– Maglor’s eyes are foggy like sea-glass and there’s barely any Treelight left in them.  

“Isfin–”

“Don’t call me that,” Morinel snaps, sharp like iron, sharp like the crackle of lightning in her runes, or the sharp burn of her fire, sharper than she means. 

Elrond’s brows crinkle and she exhales, trying to calm herself – at least a little. 

“I haven’t gone by that name since…” Since before the War of Wrath, since before the breaking of Beleriand, since before everything changed, since before– 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says stiffly.

Morinel cannot help but glance to the stairway that leads to the hallway that leads to her room. For a few tantalizing seconds, she wonders if she could extricate herself from the conversation and make it up the stairs but–

“What ought I call you then?” There’s that faint bite of not-quite-sarcasm that she remembers all too well from Amon Ereb and Belegost and Taur-im-Duinath. 

“Morinel.”

Maglor says nothing at first but his brow quirks upward for a half-second, which she knows all too well for surprise (she'd disliked that name when she was little, after all) before it smoothly crosses into approval.

“It suits you.”

“Thank you.” 

(She nearly laughs at how bizarre this is – the two of them exchanging polite pleasantries as if they met by chance in the marketplace.)

The wind rustles outside, and raindrops splatter against the roof, and in the distance, lightning flashes. He pushes his hood away from his face and for a half-second, she sees his hand, burnt and blistered, and she wonders what could've made such a mark–

The Silmaril. 

So it did burn him.

(She remembers that night, after the Host of the West had wrested the Silmarilli from Morgoth’s crown, when they stole through the camp and cut down the guards, eyes burning like wild animals, not Eldar, blood on their sword even to the last–)

“I had thought you drowned in the wreck of Beleriand.” It’s with concentrated effort that she keeps her voice level and disinterested. “Were you here this whole time?”  

He nods and something twists within her like a coil that’s been wound far too tightly. 

She closes her eyes and bites her tongue and tries, for Elrond’s sake, to ground herself and keep from lashing out.   “Where?” 

Morinel’s pendant feels heavier than the entire weight of Arda at the moment and her cloak – meant to keep out the chill – feels like it’s made of lead. 

She hopes, desperately, that the answer isn't what she thinks it is.

He shrugs, palms upward, and the light catches on the angry-looking burn. “Here. East of Himring – mostly – as I always have been.” 

As if to emphasize his words, lightning strikes the sky and she can see the lonely island out in the distance.

Arinya flickers and shines in the candlelight and suddenly all she can see is hands dipped in silver and crowns of holly and she can only taste the burning char of stone that sticks in her throat and – 

“This whole time?”

His face twists with pain and his eyes are shadowed when he answers as lightning cracks in the distance. There is sorrow in his voice when he speaks. 

“If this is about Ty–”

Thunder rumbles. 

“Of course this is about Celebrimbor!”

Heat scalds her throat, as if she'd used one of her runes, and she takes a breath before she continues, focusing on the texture of the soft mithril thread between her fingers.  

“Do you know what Sauron did to him?” Her voice is dangerously low, and she knows that this is unfair, but she can’t be bothered caring. “He cast his hands in liquid silver, and made him into a banner, beaten and bloody and barely recognizable.”

Maglor winces and Elrond’s face twists into disapproval. 

She cannot stop now but, by all the Valar, she wants to, she does not want to have this outburst here, in front of Elrond, she does not want to have it at all, she does not want to be emotional when she is already stressed from travel, she does not want to be vulnerable. 

But it would be easier to stop the sun from shining, or to stop the ebbing of the tides, because the words are already bubbling up into her throat, and pouring from her mouth the way the Gelion flowed into the Helevorn.

“Where were you? Hiding on the coast when you could have helped.” Lightning cracks again, bright and throws the room into sharp relief. The words feel like they burn her, and Morinel exhales, and the ill-made pendant rises with her breathing. “We needed you too, you know, but you ran, like you always do.” 

She regrets the words the minute she says them.

Uneasy silence lies between them all, and she stops to listen – the rain has slowed, and the thunder stopped.

She takes advantage of the moment to flee, taking the stairs nearly two at a time, and shutting her door behind her.

Morinel tosses her sketchbook none too gently onto her well-worn chest of drawers, and locks the door behind her. 

She takes a seat at her desk and pushes The Coming Into Eldamar away, and pulls out her letterbox again, carefully paging through each one – half-heartedly, she knows she doesn’t have the heart to throw any of them away. 

When she’s done, she places it on her bed, and turns to her bookshelf.

Her thoughts spiral and twist as she works, mostly to the tune of that was uncalled for, even if you were angry or how are you going to fix that or dark hair isn’t the only thing you inherited from your father –

An hour goes by, and the anger has passed — or, more accurately: turned to a dull simmering — when someone knocks, softly, at her door when she is nearly through organizing her books.

Morinel freezes, then unfreezes to pick the last book off the shelf. More likely than not, it’s probably Elrond and she sighs.

She is not looking forward to her talking to, but it must be gotten over with sooner or later, mustn't it?

Morinel unlocks the door but waits until she’s back to the books before she calls over her shoulder: “It’s unlocked.”

The door creaks on its hinges. 

“May I?”

Blood drains from her face.

Not Elrond. 

“If you wish.” Morinel’s voice is icily polite. 

(She hides the strain very well, if she must say so herself.)

Contrary to his request, Maglor stays on the threshold and she spreads the books out on her bed and begins to sort them into piles: keep, unsure, and give away. 

Ainulindale: A Translation – illustrated by Lorindol of Gondolin – is placed into the Keep Forever pile, while A Treatise On Stone by Arelleth is placed in the Give Away pile – after all, why would she need a book to help with the planning of cities and great buildings when they must be a mirian a dozen in Aman?

Moments tick past.

Morinel cannot stand silence.

(She never has, and she never will be able to. Maglor knows this, and she knows Maglor knows this, and Maglor knows she knows he knows this.)

She exhales.

“Are you going to stand there or come in?” She still is not facing him as she sorts through her books, though in truth, she is barely even really looking at them. “This room gets cold, and I would like the door shut before I freeze, either way.”

There is the shuffle of fabric and the door creaks again. Then the floorboards creak too, as footsteps come closer – though they stop a few feet away from her.

Maglor is still not just yet in her peripheral.

“You were never so affected by the cold before,” Maglor’s voice holds a hint of something… she doesn’t quite know what it is. “That sounds like something that would affect those who crossed the Ice.” 

Morinel feels she’s allowed to be a little petty about the whole thing.

“Yes,” she says succinctly, stacking the books with a little more force than necessary, “But being in a coma due to the dark arts of Sauron for three thousand and twenty-five years causes many changes in one’s hröa, most of which I am still coming to terms with.” 

Her shoulder throbs as if agreeing with her as she watches her words land with a sort of sickening pleasure, and she hates herself for taking satisfaction in the way discomfort flickers across Maglor's face.

“I suppose so. I might've known."

Morinel laughs, but there is no humor in it, only bitterness. “How could you? You weren't here.”

She glances up then, to see how his lips purse into a thin line, like how it did in Belegost or Amon Ereb before telling her and the twins something he knew they wouldn’t like. 

Her eyes narrow, and her hands still.

“That is–” Maglor pauses, taking a step toward her. When he seems convinced that she isn’t going to commit violence to preserve her personal space, he continues, “– not entirely true.”

Morinel goes very, very still.

“What do you mean?” Her voice is low, and her hands have stilled, clutching the spine of one of her older books. 

“I was not as good at hiding as I thought,” he says, with a rueful shrug, and her fingernails dig crescents into her palm. “Elrond found me, not long after Tyelperinquar…”

His voice fades into a soft silence, and the sound of the waves shushing through the windows fills the room. 

At this moment, Morinel doesn't know whether she is more angry at Elrond, for keeping Maglor’s existence a secret from her — of all people! — or at Maglor, for staying away so long. 

But Maglor is not finished speaking. 

“After that… I was in Imladris,” he says, softly, so softly she almost can’t hear him, but she can, if only just barely, and that’s almost worse.  “Occasionally. And I was there when…” He pauses, no doubt trying to figure out how to phrase his next words diplomatically. “...you came back.”

Morinel blinks very slowly. 

The knot of emotions in her chest gets tangled even more, like when she was first learning embroidery and left herself too much thread.  Suddenly, she remembers first waking from the coma, the harp song in the background when she mumbled to Harthalín and—

“That was you, wasn’t it?” The words are accusing, even if the tone isn’t. 

He blinks.

“When I woke up,” she says, frowning. “You were the one at the harp, weren’t you?”

He bows his head – whether from shame or acknowledgement, she cannot tell.

“So–” Heat scalds at her throat again. “So…” She hates this, she hates stammering, she hates not being able to articulate her point. “Why? Why did it take you two ages?”

“The Silmarils burned us,” Maglor says, as if that were the only explanation needed. 

“Do you think that matters to me?” She snaps, finally able to look Maglor in the eyes, to see pain reflected there. “Maybe that line worked on… on the Morinel in your head– but–”  

She takes a deep breath and rises from her bed to pluck half-heartedly at her loom – carefully avoiding Maglor's eyes as she fidgets with her shuttle. 

“Oh, Morinel,” Maglor says, his voice soft and tired and despairing. “You didn’t want me around, not really. You say that now but you don’t understand.”

“Do not tell me how I felt then,” she says, more fiercely than she meant to. The spool of mithril thread grounds her as she reminds herself to breathe.

“I didn’t want people whispering about you,” Maglor says quietly, “Or Celebrimbor. I know they would have, if you had received visits from your kinslaying-uncle.”

She laughs despairingly, turning to face him again. 

“They already did whisper about us! A Fëanorian who works with thread –” and she lifts the basket full of spools as if to demonstrate her point, “– in weaving and embroidery both…” 

Morinel smiles bitterly then, tucking a braid out of her face. 

“You can imagine, I’m sure, the rumors that started and Celebrimbor always had it worse – as a smith, as the eldest of the two of us, for his resemblance to his father and to Grandfather.”

She takes a breath.

“We looked. I looked.” 

The words come out like she is carving them into marble, torturously slow but the tangle of knots in her chest unravels the tiniest bit. He makes a sound of surprise, and she smiles, though it comes out like a grimace. 

“Those first decades after the war were hard,” she says. “I had questions, and I’m sure he did too.”

She feels very young again, a child amidst the days of the War of Wrath. 

“I– We– thought you were dead.”  Then, so quiet, she’s not sure if he even hears: “And we thought that if you were not dead that you must have been angry with us.”

Silence again. 

Maglor isn’t looking at her this time, and she tightens her grip on the mithril spool in her hand for reassurance.

“I was—I was trying to protect you both.” 

The words sound as difficult to say as Morinel’s own admission. “I know how difficult it was to love Feanorians in those days.”

“Not as difficult as it was to be one.”  

(This time her response is easy, because it is true.)

They stand in an impasse, in silence. 

Finally, she manages to say what she’d been wondering (and fearing) the response to. “Why… Why did you show yourself to Elrond, and not us, then?”

A pause, and she watches the tossing waves in the harbor. 

“There was very little choice in the matter.”

Maglor’s lips quirk.

“It happened by chance. He saw the smoke of my campfire.” The words sting a little, and she knows that they should not. “And I think, part of it, is I was scared of your reactions.” He shrugs. “I was running.”

She winces as she takes a seat at her loom, and gestures for Maglor to sit at her desk. 

“I am sorry,” she says, after a long, long moment of anxiously passing her shuttle from hand to hand. “About what I said.”

Maglor gives her a crooked half-smile. 

“I deserved most of it, if it makes you feel better.”

She shakes her head and rises – almost as soon as she sits down, because she had never been one for sitting still – to start taking down the tapestry she’d finished on her last visit to Mithlond. 

“It doesn’t,” she says, digging through her basket before finding her favorite tapestry needle. 

With deft and skilled movement – she’s done this often enough it’s almost second nature – she weaves the loose threads at the top back into the weave.

“I hold myself to higher standards than that, and what I said was…” she pauses, frowning as she paused, looking for words. “Not kind. I am very sorry.”

She bends to do the same for the lower part of the frame before deciding to just sit cross-legged on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Maglor looks like he is going to say something, but decides otherwise at the last moment. 

She looks up to meet his eyes, halfway through the bottom half of the tapestry. “If you have something to say, I would prefer you say it, you know. I have been a little too honest, and it is only fair that you are offered the same.”

Another crooked smile. 

“I was only going to say that thinking before you spoke has never been your strong suit, but I was not sure if that would be too familiar of a thing to say after… everything.”

To Morinel’s surprise, she actually laughs as she goes back to weaving her loose ends back into the tapestry. 

“You aren’t wrong,” she says, shaking her head. “Though, I like to imagine that over the years as a councilor that I learned to be a little diplomatic. Clearly, I was too hopeful.”

She cuts through the looped warp threads holding the tapestry at the bottom and she stands to cut the loops at the top. 

The tapestry comes loose once she pulls it free, and she’d forgotten how heavy they could get as she staggers backward before she regains her balance, and drops it onto her bed. 

Morinel comes back to the loom and with the tapestry gone it looks forlornly empty – throughout the years she has always been working on something, though she could go months or years taking breaks from her current project. 

The only time she can truly remember it being empty was in the first few weeks after she’d commissioned it – those weeks were her trying to bring herself to actually use without feeling like she was tempting fate. 

This loom has been her companion throughout the ages and she knows its quirks and oddities better than any other she’d practiced on, and Cirdan had said, when she asked, that she could bring it with her if she wished. 

She’d been uncertain before, but her mind is made up now.

“Would you like some help, or would you prefer to handle it yourself?”

The request is made casually, making Morinel free to accept or decline, and she appreciates the choice.

“I think help would be nice,” she says softly, and her uncle rises to come stand by the loom.

Things may not be entirely mended between them yet, but they were getting there. 

[maya-tl]

63. Indigo skies just before dawn, Eärendil ☺️

How Eärendil detested the dawn.

In fair Gondolin of old, when he was a child still even in the years of Men, he had loved the dawn of the first day of summer, for upon that morning choirs would sing and his people would rejoice, and the silver lanterns about the city would gleam bright. The Sun would rise above the Echoriad like a beacon of fire, bathing the valley of Tumladen in brilliant light.

Morgoth had come on the eve of his seventh birthday, and since that day not even the Sun could banish the shadow of that terrible dawn from the heart of Eärendil.

It was a learned habit now, to look to the North before the first light of dawn crested the edge of the world; never again would the red flames of Morgoth loom above long-lost Beleriand, and yet Eärendil, for all his learned wisdom and courage, could not help but turn his eyes northward. Could not help that instance of dread, followed swiftly by hollowing relief.

You should know better, he would scold himself, You should know better, Star of High Hope.

And so Eärendil detested the dawn, for better or worse—yet the night he loved, for it was peaceful and still, and though the stars were cold and distant and lifeless, they made for good company when the alternative was none.

Dusk was pleasant, that much could be said, for it was when he would set sail for the Doors of Night, and the vision of his white ship upon the skies was a balm on the souls of those below who looked ever to the domain of Varda for hope. But Eärendil was loathe to leave his loved ones behind, no matter how his mariner's heart called him to duty, and so the pleasure of adventure turned bittersweet.

He loved not the dawn, which carried tainted memories. He loved not the dusk, which took him away from home. He loved the night, that was true, yet it was a love born of necessity.

What he loved most, in truth, were the hours just before morning.

Eärendil had never met Tilion, but the Moon he passed often, and he would raise his hand in greeting as he came close, and Tilion would wave back, and the light of the Silmaril would mingle with the light of the last Flower of Telperion in kinship.

It was by Tilion's design that the sky took on colour at night. Arien was too mighty to allow any other light to flourish in her presence, yet Tilion was more gentle, and he would leave in his wake a trail of colours as it suited his mood.

Reds and yellows were a tribute to the Sun, whom he loved always and chased after. The warmer the colours, the more lovestruck his smile. The colder the colours, the more sorrowful his tears.

The hours before dawn, few as they were, bore the only instance of Tilion's melancholy: a deep, winding indigo sky, upon which the fading stars glimmered like diamonds. A time of reflection and meditation, a sliver of a moment where nothing else seemed to matter.

Eärendil loved this best. Neither love nor mourning could touch him then, and neither the Moon nor the Sun lit his path. Vingilot would glide on over the unseen sea at the Circles of the World alone, and Eärendil would stand upon its prow and reminisce.

He would think of all he had lost and all that was beyond him, of the pull of mortality that never seemed to leave him, and he would not weep. He would think of all he had gained, of his family and friends and a home made anew, and he would not laugh.

And the stars, his lonely companions, would embrace him on all sides, and he would close his eyes and feel their touch on his skin.

Then the passage of time would resume. The Silmaril upon his brow would glow, untouched, and the Moon would sink into the horizon and the Sun would rise, and Eärendil would change course, headed for the bliss of Valinor.

He would pause. Would look to the North, waiting for something that would never come again.

You should know better, he would scold himself, and leave the indigo skies behind as he faced another dawn.

—

Send me a prompt and a Silm/Lotr/Hobbit character and I'll write a short drabble about them!

[austerlitzborodinoleipzig]

Flight Patterns

For @miriel-therindes for the @officialtolkiensecretsanta who wanted something about Elwing. Here’s a fic and the playlist that goes with it. Happy holidays, I hope you like it.

Four flights from the life of Elwing, what came after, and what came before.

I DORIATH

Elwing hates the trees. She hates the forest. Hates that suffocating feeling of being lost in a sea of green, drowned in sickeningly sweet mossy lime.

She learned to climb trees before she could walk. Her mother taught her. It served her well at the Havens, for she was the most agile of them and could climb trees and cliffs to find eggs. I want you as a crewmate on my ship, laughed Eärendil. I need someone to climb to the mast and you could do it blindfolded in the middle of a storm.

She hates the warm and humid smell of the forest, like the breath of a monster asleep after a feast.

She knows the guise and the song of all the birds in the forests of Beleriand.

She lost her family to the dark and cursed woods. She has no memory of it, but when she closes her eyes she can picture it, dark gnarly twisted trees, bending, crushing. Roots surging from the ground, naked, white and wet, like the bones of creatures older, and meaner and angrier than any elf could ever be. Branches bending, creaking, howling, slashing, swallowing stone, ground, flesh. The crumbling, dark, decaying realm of Doriath, caves collapsing on themselves until only dust remains of the fair kingdom of Thingol and Melian.

The forest starved and killed her brothers. The Feänorian killed her parents, but the trees gave them cover.

She is glad when the trees in the woods near the Havens are felled to build boats.

The Vingilot smells like the woods and hills around Sirion on a summer’s day. It smells of flowers and of grass under the sun.

 FLIGHT 

Faster, faster, amid the cries and the tears, the branches and leaves, clinging to the small boats, faster ever faster, until the forest is left behind, until the clamor and the song of steel against steel against stone against flesh fades away. Faster ever faster to the river, to the sea.

Farewell to the tears, the forest, to your family, to your childhood, even though you’re barely out of your crib but from now-on you’re alone.

 II THE HAVENS OF SIRION

Luthien was the fairest of the Children of Iluvatar, and Dior was the fairest man, but Eärendil seems stunned when he sees her with a bride’s veil, the Silmaril at her throat, and he laughs and calls her the fairest of them all, fairer than the Valar, and he should know because his father has seen one, and he kisses her and they are wed under the stars, when the night is so full of light and laughter, and Eärendil’s hair shines golden.

He’s old even for an Elf. He looks old, and cruel, his copper hair throws flames around on the walls of her hall. And he burns bright and cruel, but she’s Elwing, daughter of Nimloth and Dior, granddaughter of Luthien, heir to Doriath, so she grips the armrest, sits straighter, digs her feet into the ground. Maedhros Feänorion all but begs for the Silmaril and she says no.

Galadriel doesn’t want to see it. Never does. It’s not mine, she says. It brings death, she says. It is cursed.

Elwing knows she shouldn’t spend too much time looking into the jewel’s depth. And yet she can’t help it. The light inside. It’s infinite. It’s glorious. It’s alive. And when she wears it she feels its heat on her breast. Alive. Beating. Full of power. Her family died for it. Her family lived for it. Elwing exists because of it.

Maybe she’s deceiving herself but she feels stronger when she wears the jewel. Her songs are stronger. The greens, the flowers, the plants, all that grows under the sky, beasts and birds and Children alike, they all grow stronger. The fires in the hearths burn stronger and the houses are warmer. The people she tends to heal faster and better. She sings and the Silmaril pulses against her skin like a second heart.

She is tending Elros. The boy is unstoppable, always running away getting his brother into trouble. This time it’s a sprained ankle. She binds it and kisses him. The kiss will make it better. "How?" asks Elrond suspiciously, before running away shouting "Aunt Galadriel", followed by his brother, the boy will just not sit still. Galadriel is standing at the door. "Are you crying?" asks Elros. "Yes child I am", she answers, "but those are happy tears". And answering Elwing’s unspoken question she says: "I thought it could only bring death. I think I was wrong."

The people of Bor love their fires. She visits them at night, learns their songs and dances. To become a man they say, you must jump over a bonfire. Elros has begged to let her try. They always light a fire during the longest night of the year. To wait and remember, one of the Wisewomen explains. To carry us through the night to the other side. To remember that we shall see the light again, that the sun will return. Elwing thinks of Arien and Tilion sailing through the sky and wonder if from up there they can see the devotions of the Children of Iluvatar, if they can feel the love and care the people of Bor put into their fires, small sparks carrying their wishes and hopes and concerns guiding, urging accompanying the Sun, following it in its course. She thinks of her husband carrying their hopes, away at sea.

She stands once again in the middle of her hall. Fire has breached the city, flames are at the gates. The Feänorian have come to take by murder and crime, what she would not cede. "We’ll go through the night, and meet light on the other side". She doesn’t believe they’ll survive the night.

 FLIGHT 

Faster, faster, amid the shouts and the fires and the smoke, blood flowing through the streets, wind blowing through her ears, faster ever faster, her body falling from the cliffs, the liquid mass pulling her down, falling faster untill she doesn’t. Untill she soars!

Faster faster, on the wind and the waves, under the moon and the stars, away, away from the stench of death and ruin and betrayal and loss. Her children! Her sons! Sweet Elros and gentle Elrond. Lost to her. Taken, like so many years ago, her brothers were. Lost to an Oath and a Curse and Darkness and the Enemy.

Farewell to Beleriand, to her home. Farewell to her family. Luthien and Beren in their green grave on Tar Galen, where Morgoth himself dares not come. Dior and Nimloth in the Thousand Caves, with no one left to bury them. Elured and Elurin lost to the forest. Elrond and Elros, her sons. Her beautiful wonderful sons to whom the world was promised. Lost to the fire and the steel.

Farewell to all. Now the silence, now the vast emptiness, now the liberation.

III THE SEA

Water and wind carry her to her husband's ship. She lands on his breast amid spray, salt and tears. They killed everyone she tells him. And our children are lost. The Valar never came. And Cirdan’s ships arrived too late. The way ahead is shut. The way behind is destroyed. Eärendil takes the Silmaril in his hand and grips it. "Then we’ll make our own path."

She meets Eärendil, on the beach, on a sunny day. The retreating tides have left a myriad of little pools full of shrimps and there’s a boy her age, disturbing the water with a stick. She joins him and together they spend the morning observing the small universe, and it’s the most peaceful Elwing has ever felt and then she hears him sing.

You’re one of them! she shouts, spitting on the ground. Elf of the fire! You’re one of them! Noldor! They killed my father, my mother and destroyed my home! Eärendil stays still, eyes fixed on her. Then, in a voice so low she can hardly hear it: "the fire took my home too." And he adds, "if it helps, I’m only half-elven."

Oh, thinks Elwing. Oh…

She climbs the mast everyday. Falahtar says it’s useless. And he’s right. The sea at the limit of the world is dark, full of smoke, and ice, and rain, and mist. You can scarcely see the prow of the ship. Sailors start to despair. So many years lost at sea. With nothing around them but the liquid masses of the ocean, empty islands, and failure. Always fighting against the wind, the waves, the current, the blocks of ice if they go too far North.

Elwing feels safe. Here, in the middle of nowhere, clinging to a small boat, to the wrinkled skin of the water. Ice, storms, rains, the cold. She can deal with all of it. The sea is treasonous, but so far, no one has ever surged from the depth of the ocean to attack her. Ice and cold never hurt her, it’s the fire that kills. The sea saved her. Ulmo turned her into a bird and carried her to safety, to her husband. Ulmo sent Tuor to Gondolin, and later led the refugees to safety. The sea will carry them to their destination.

Elwing is of the water, and to water she shall return. She was born amid the foam of the riverfall, at Lanthir Lamath. She gave birth to her sons near a babbling brook, in a cave, with the water singing beside her, and the stars reflected on the glistening dome. The water took her away from Doriath, to the Havens, to Eärendil. And away from the Havens, to Eärendil once more. Always, it has saved her and cherished her. It will save her once more. Save them. Save all of them.

It’s getting dark and cold. Food and water are running low. But the Silmaril shines brighter. Almost alive and its light pierce the darkness. Steadfast, Eärendil presses on. Not far, he says. Elwing and him cling to each other. If we go down, we go down together, he whispers. Yes she says. And then we’ll fly. And even if we find them, what should I say? Elwing thinks of their children. That you have two sons left on Beleriand.

They are a sorry bunch at the mouth of the river. Displaced, miserable, starved, cold and ill. Refugees from Doriath, and Gondolin, and Ossiriand, and Nargothrond and Brethil, and Dor Lomin, Brithombar and Eglarest. Noldor, Sindar, Falathrim, Edain and Easterlings. All carrying with them their fears, hatred and distrust. They once came to blows. All naked, covered in mud, wrestling in the water, all beaten by life and the waves. It all stopped, only the tears remained, washed down the river. They were all brothers of misfortune, and brothers yet. And at the end that’s all they were. Naked children crying.

FLIGHT

Faster, faster, amid the rain and wind, the foam and the salt, riding the crescent of the waves, faster through the grey-rain curtain and the silver glass, to the fragrance and songs on the wings of the wind.

Faster to the white shores and beyond them, a green country under a swift sunrise.

IV VALINOR

On the beaches of Valinor, far away, stands a white tower, glistening in the sun. They say it’s the first thing the sailors from Tol Eressëa, of the Green Havens see when they reach the earth. All the birds of Valinor come to the Tower.

In the Tower, there’s a Lady. She’s the Queen of the Birds. They say at night she turns into a swan. Her songs are the sweetest and the saddest.

She sends seagulls to the lost mariner, and nightingales to comfort children, and falcons to the hunters, and sparrows to eat the crickets and protect the harvest.

They are greeted by the birds, the land isn’t yet in sight. Seagulls, albatrosses, and some strange birds, she’s never seen. Red, with a feathery tail like a flame. The air in Valinor is very still. And so pure it almost hurts to breathe. A gentle breeze carries sweet unknown fragrances.

Every night a nightingale comes to the Tower to sing. Some swear to have seen the bird turn into a woman. The most beautiful woman they ever saw, bearing a striking resemblance to the Lady.

She’ll find none of her family on Valinor, she knows it. But one day a couple comes to visit. She is barefoot, and he is tall, with the blondest hair she’s ever seen, and her heart skips a beat because for one blissful second she thought he was back again on the ground. And then she laughs, because of course they made it. Ulmo has always answered her prayers. And the next night she tells Eärendil she saw his parents, and her husband cries.

She lives alone, but is not lonely. She gets visits from all the folk that live nearby, for she is wise and has seen much. She tells stories of a country long gone, sleeping beneath the waves. They say Ulmo dines every week with her.

While Eärendil pleads, Elwing meets the Teleri. They greet her, the only surviving descendant of Elwë. She tells them of Doriath, and of Gondolin, of the sufferings of Beleriand. She sees Alqualondë and thinks it’s the fairest city she ever saw. Some ask about the ships. What happened to the White Swan ships? They burned, answers Elwing, crying. They burned. Everything burned. Her house got a Silmaril back, she doesn’t know if it is fair. Doesn’t know if the debt is repaid.

Why should we help them ? ask the Teleri, through clenched fists and gritted teeth.

We shouldn’t, thinks Elwing. And she thinks of her sons. Captives and more likely dead. And of her brothers, lost to the woods. No jewel could ever pay for that. And yet...

The Silmaril brought us here, she answers. My husband is of the Noldor. And she tells them of Cirdan and Ereinion. Of the Edain, of Beren and Luthien, of the people of Bor. Of the Tree-shepherd.

And when she’s brought before Manwë, the Teleri come with her.

She listens to the wind and the birds. They tell her the stories of those who still live across the ocean. Your husband killed a dragon. Of course he did. She catches Elros before he departs beyond the circles of the World. He is old, so very old, and so very wise, and she is so very proud. Forgive me, she asks. There’s nothing to forgive, Mother, he answers, and tries to kiss her, but his feä is slipping away.

FLIGHT 

Faster, faster, on the wings, her wings, on the wings of the songs. Faster through the skies and the clouds, over the mountains and the stars, to Manwë's domain, and past that to the Circles of the World.

Faster, to that small ship and the oceans of heaven. To the greatest sailor that ever lived, and the Star of Hope. Faster where the air is pure and everything is so vast even the Valar feel small. Faster, always faster, for miles and hundreds of miles and thousands of miles, through the night and the dark, faster to the new day, Arien and Tilion laughing and joining the race.

Farewell to all that was known or is. Now the space, now the heavens, now the light.

V THE BIRD AND THE STAR

There once was a star who fell in love with a bird. And they loved the Children of Iluvatar very much. Some say there were Elves before, some say they were Men. Perhaps they were both. And they had to choose, the Earth or the Sky. They loved both, so they didn’t. One lives on the Earth, the other in the Sky, and every night they meet halfway. The star shines over all that live in Middle Earth, bringing hope and strength. The bird greets all that come to the Undying Lands, bringing comfort and healing.

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

And here’s the playlist that goes with the fic (I’m working on adding the link, it’ll be one Youtube, as I don’t have Spotify)

Part I Doriath

1 - Slow Motion Blackbird, by Chris Hughes

2 - Wild Swans Suite - Eliza’s Aria by Elena Kats-Chernin, performed by the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra

3 - Le Chant des Oiseaux by Clément Janequin, performed by the Musica Intima ensemble

Flight : Those Free Butterflies, by Alfred Garrievich Schnittke

Part II The Havens

1 - The Lark, by Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka, performed by Mélanie Laurent

2 - The Nightingale (The Birds), by Ottorino Respighi,

3 - Hoopoe (4 songs from Hafez), by Sally Beamish, performed by Roderick Williams and Andrew West

4 - Uirapuru, The Enchanted Little Bird, by Hector Villa-Lobos, performed by the Paraiba Symphony Orchestra

Flight : Symphony n°3 in D Major, Scherzo, by Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, performed by the Royal Concergebouw Orchestra

Part III The Sea

1 - The Dove (The Birds), by Ottorino Respighi

2 - Owls (An Epitaph), by Edward Elgar, performed by the Cambridge University Chamber Choir

3 - Swan Lake, Op 20, Act IV n°27, Dance of the Swans, by Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, performed by the Montreal Symphony Orchestra

Flight : Push the Sky Away, by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

Part IV Valinor

1 - Le Merle Noir, by Olivier Messiaen, performed by Emmanuel Pahud

2 - On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring, by Frederick Delius, performed by the Royal Philarmonic Orchestra

3 - Crane, by Meredi

Flight : The Lark Ascending, by Vaughan Williams, performed by the London Philarmonic

Part V The Bird and the Star

The Butterfly Lover’s Violin Concerto, Adagio Cantabile, by He Zhanhao and Chen Gang, performed by Lu Siqing and the Taipei Chinese Orchestra

[matrose]

We hear a lot about the legendary weapons of elves and men In tolkien's works but dwarves seem to keep those stories to themselves. Do you have any thoughts about the stories dwarves might have about famous weapons wielded by their ancestors? I'm sure they'd love the idea of passing an axe down through the generations. There's Durin's axe (because of course there is!) but that's the only one I can think of.

OH what a nice ask!

The funny thing is, a lot of famous weapons wielded by men and elves were forged by dwarves... Narsil (Andúril), one of the most famous swords we hear of, was forged by Telchar, and so was Angrist, the knife that cut a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown. You probably know this already but my first thought was that some of the most famous weapons are already of dwarvish make, and the do pride themselves on this, I think, though not as much as they might over a weapon wielded by one of their own. We do only hear about Durin's Axe as a weapon heirloom, though there's also the other Dragon-helms, perhaps passed down as a set should dragons ever strike again (with the exception of the one Hador was given of course), and Nimphelos, a pearl given to the Lord of Belegost by Thingol, though perhaps that one sank with Beleriand...

I would like to think that the knife Azaghâl used to strike Glaurung became a very important heirloom for the Broadboam clan (or Firebeard! I headcanon Azaghâl as a Broadbeam but he could be of either clan). Maybe the knife became indestructable after being drenched in dragonblood, or atleast was said to be indestructible, similar to how Siegfried becomes invulnerable after he bathes in dragonblood. If the dwarves managed to recover this knife, I can definitely imagine it being an important heirloom to whichever clan Azaghâl belonged to ❤️ This knife was likely important to the Dwarves during the war with the dragons in T.A. 2500s, as a symbol of hope!

Speaking of the Dragons - Dwarves conflict of that time, the Éothéod (ancestors of the Rohirrim) took some of the ancestral dwarvish treasures from a Dragon during this and refused to yield it, so in my heart, following close relations between the Rohirrim and the Dwarves of Aglarond, many ancestral belongings were restored to the dwarves in the early fourth age. Some possible dwarvish heirlooms related to weaponry could be:

- The Hammer of Telchar (this one is actually heavily disputed - some dwarves say that telchars hammer lies at the bottom of the sea where it was once beleriand, others are 100% convinced that this is THE Hammer of THE Telchar that he used to make Narsil. not a weapon TECHNICALLY but it is said Telchar also went into battle with it though others dispute this. a highly controversial item amongst scholars!)

- Borin's Bow (said to be capable of shooting even a dragon out of the sky, such force was behind it if pulled through!)

- The Horn of Dragonfire (made early in the third age, it was said to sound so loudly it could alert even the deafest dwarves in the deepest mines. used to warn against dragons, of course!)

- Náin‘s Shield (another renowned heirloom, it was purportedly the shield Nàin I used to protect his young daughter against Durin's Bane. She escaped with the shield to Erebor and it was passed down her line)

And I love the legendary Axe of Durin of course ❤️ I am sure it was recovered when Durin VII reclaimed Khazad-dum later on ‼️🥰🌙💘 ach theres so many lovely stories you could spin here its wonderful!