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elspethdixon · 2 years

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After two weeks of trying to trim this meta down to something coherent and reasonable, I am now throwing up my hands and posting my tl;dr ramble anyway.

So, the prompt for day 2 of Angbang week was Creation/Corruption.

This is a great pair of prompts, because creation and corruption are inextricably linked in Tolkien’s works. Melkor’s fall is caused by his desire to create his own ideas in his own way, instead of cooperating with Illuvatar’s plan. While his backstory is clearly inspired by Satan/Lucifer in Christian mythology, Melkor’s rebellion has a slightly different source - it’s about stifled creativity as much as it is about power. Not “You can’t tell me what to do!” (“Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven”) but “You can’t tell me what to make!”

I guess you could say the Valar broke up over artistic differences. (“You see, Yavanna and the others saw the Trees as alive, and I… I. Saw. Them. Dead.”)

And it’s not just Melkor who is corrupted by the desire to create - the only other vala who ever defied Illuvatar in any way was Aule, the Smith, when he decided on his own initiative to create the dwarves. The two most significant Maiar to go evil, Saruman and Sauron, both started out as followers of Aule. The entire main conflict in the Silmarillion is set in motion by Feanor’s creation of the Silmarils and the fact that he prizes and values his own creations over everything else. The biggest sin in Tolkien’s world isn’t actually greed; it’s valuing your own creations over/above Illuvatar’s, including valuing the creative process more than you value yourself. Melkor/Morgoth and Sauron are both ultimately destroyed not by their own hubris/overconfidence, but because they both put too much of themselves into their creations - lacking the essential flame eternal needed to create life (which only Illuvatar possesses), Morgoth pours his own essence into Arda in order to make his volcanoes and dragons and trolls and so forth, gradually wearing himself down from a being more powerful than all the other Valar combined into a warped shadow of his former self weak enough to be permanently injured by an elf. Sauron puts the greater part of his power into the One Ring, such that destroying the ring (in one of those volcanoes) destroys him along with it.

And speaking of volcanoes...

Tolkien was pretty solidly anti-industrial pollution (the real life version of valuing man’s creations more than the Creator’s). Nobody in Middle Earth might be on Treebeard’s side, but the author clearly is. When Tolkien describes Mordor, he emphasizes the red glow of the forges, the slag heaps, the smoke - it’s the darkest parts of the industrial revolution on full display. A desolated landscape where industry has spoiled the earth and where the mines and forges are worked by slaves. So… basically late-19th/early-20th century Birmingham. Or basically anywhere the IWW/Wobblies ever went on strike (fic/meta suggestion: one good way to cleanse the Shire at the end of RotK would have been with a labor union).

And now that we’ve mentioned smoke and flame and toxic fumes...

Let’s talk about volcanoes in Tolkien.

Like evil spiders and ill-omened jewelry, volcanoes are repeatedly featured in Tolkien’s works. Mount Doom and its smoldering lava lake in LotR, the smoking volcanoes of Angband in the Silmarillion, the volcano Maedhros throws himself into, and, arguably, the Lonely Mountain in the Hobbit, which is metaphorically a volcano even if not literally, with “fiery destruction via dragon that lives in mountain” substituted for “fiery destruction via volcanic eruption” (not to mention that “large, conically-shaped mountain with a hollow interior that stands all by itself away from any surrounding mountain ranges” pretty much screams “extinct stratovolcano”).

A number of different human religions have a volcano-related deity who doubles as the god of smiths and metalworking, because of the obvious smoke/fire/forges connection (which Tolkien makes himself when describing Mordor), but Tolkien’s cosmology that he invented for his fictional world very noticeably avoids that - smithcraft is Aule’s domain and volcanoes are Melkor’s, their presence in Arda implied to be the result of his presence/power/works “marring” it. Instead, it’s Sauron, the follower of Aule who forsakes his former master in order to serve Melkor, who serves as the volcanoes/fire/metalworking link.

Tolkien associates volcanoes only with destruction, and specifically with the kind of “toxic fumes and black smoke and ash” environmental destruction he ascribes to Sauron (and his servant Saruman) and to Morgoth before him. Where this becomes interesting, if you know some things about real life volcanism, is that volcanoes, despite causing some of the most dramatic death and destruction in Earth’s history (including killing 80-90% of life on Earth at one point - look up the End Permian Extinction Event some time if you want to truly panic yourself about global warming), also create.

Volcanic soil is some of the richest and most productive in the world, which is one reason people persist in living around volcanoes despite things like the eruption of Pompeii happening over and over again through history. The Serengeti is able to support those massive migrations of millions of wildebeest because the soil in northern Tanzania is regularly enriched with minerals via ash fall from the Ol Doinyo Lengai volcano. Those hot springs in Yellowstone that allow animals to survive harsh winters by keeping parts of the rivers from freezing over? Volcanoes at work. Japan’s hot springs, beloved by people and monkeys alike? More volcanoes. Obsidian (volcanic glass) has been used to make tools for tens of thousands of years, and is still used today as a cutting edge in some surgical implements. (Tolkien probably wouldn’t have thought of the volcanic obsidian = essential part of tool making/source of mirrors and sacrificial knives/the root of all artifice connection but if you’re from the Americas it’s hard not to).

Volcanoes create the very earth itself - volcanic activity is the only reason Hawaii, the Galápagos, the Canary Islands, the Azores, and half the islands in the Mediterranean exist, and volcanic eruptions are a key part of the carbon cycle that (absent human activity) keeps the Earth’s climate relatively stable. The lava explosive stratovolcanoes like Thangorodrim produce is the result of the Earth’s crust melting as it’s forced back downward into the mantle by plate tectonics - every volcanic eruption is the planet continually destroying and recreating itself.

Granted, when Tolkien was alive and writing, most people didn’t know this - plate tectonics was still considered a fringe theory in Europe and had only really been accepted in the Americas, where things like the San Andreas fault made it really obvious that yes, continents move. Nevertheless, it makes his thematic pairing of volcanoes with dark/sinister/corrupted creators even more fitting. In the same way that Melkor’s disruptive playing of his own music only deepened and enriched Illuvatar’s overall theme by providing necessary conflict (which incidentally means Tolkien accidentally imported the whole “but if Satan was really a part of God’s plan all along then isn’t God kind of an asshole for punishing Satan for doing the exact thing he was created to do? Like, God kind of deliberately sets Satan up to fail in this scenario, way to be a terrible dad-slash-boss, God,” dilemma over wholesale from Christianity) volcanic activity creates even as it destroys.

Anyway, tl;dr corruption and creation are two sides of the same coin in Tolkien and destruction and creation combined are the dual essence of volcanoes, which are super awesome and important, and that why it’s great that Melkor/Morgoth is associated with volcanoes, because he just wanted to play improvisational jazz and blow mountains up and if his dad really thought those things were a vital part of Arda then he should have told the other Valar to shut up and let his goth asshole son sing dissonant counter themes in peace instead of being so condescending and “everything you make is really mine and not yours” about it. Maybe your son wouldn’t have smashed your other kids’ lamps if you didn’t play favorites so much.

#angbang #angbang week 2022 #volcanoes #melkor

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ayearinfaith · 5 years

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𝗔 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗶𝗻 𝗙𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗵, 𝗗𝗮𝘆 𝟯: 𝗠𝗶𝗱𝗱𝗹𝗲-𝗘𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗵

"We may put a deadly green upon a man’s face and produce a horror; we may make the rare and terrible blue moon to shine; or we may cause woods to spring with silver leaves and rams to wear fleeces of gold, and put hot fire into the belly of the cold worm. But in such "fantasy," as it is called, new form is made; Faerie begins; Man becomes a sub-creator." - J.R.R. Tolkien, 𝘖𝘯 𝘍𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘺-𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴,1947

Though this series will largely deal with “real” mythology, religion, and folklore, I felt it would not be complete without a few references to significant examples of more modern myth. To say the works of J.R.R. Tolkien have had a profound impact on the perception of myths in the English speaking world (and beyond) would be an understatement. “Middle-Earth” is the name of the continent that is the main setting of his myths as showcased in works like 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘪𝘵, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, and 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯. It’s name is derived from the Old English version of the Norse realm of mankind “Midgard”.

𝗔 𝗡𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗠𝘆𝘁𝗵

Tolkien created and revised his mythology for most of his life. He coined the term “mythopoeia” to refer to the act of creating mythology which he considered to be different from the simple act of writing a fantasy story as myths require history, continuity, cultures, etc. in order to create a larger and more credible setting. This was an extension of another passion and ideology: creating languages. A linguist by trade, Tolkien fashioned his world to house the languages he had been creating since childhood. He believed that language is ultimately tied to culture and therefore needed a people to speak his languages in order to give them life. When writing his works Tolkien sought to fill what he thought was a damning lack of English mythology, as distinct from Celtic or Germanic mythology. Whether or not he was correct about the absence of English myth, he was very successful in installing his own. Many aspects of his lore are now so deeply embedded in English pop-culture that tropes he established are now viewed as cliché, and reference to things he created or influences are so common we sometimes forget we were referencing him at all.

𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗣𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗺, 𝗔𝗰𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗮

Tolkien himself had a long-standing interest in mythology which was unusual for academics at the time. Mythology was seen by many as being little more than fairy-tales fit primarily for children or to pass time. Tolkien was one of a vein of academics who fought for mythology to be taken as a serious part of history and culture. His particular focus on Norse and Finnish mythology can be seen in many aspects of his stories ex. the wizard Gandalf is one part Odin, the Norse king of gods who is portrayed as a bearded wanderer and practitioner of magic, and one part Väinämöinen, the heroic bard of the Kalevala. His obsessions and creations were not without some mild controversy from within his own religion: Roman Catholicism. However, Tolkien felt his works were very much in-line with his own faith. Though there are other great spirits in the universe of Middle-Earth, there is ultimately one supreme god. The rebellion of Melkor is very much like that of the Christian Satan. He even writes that only mankind experiences death, while the spirits of other creatures of Middle-Earth are either reincarnated or otherwise bound to the physical world, insuring that the sanctity of man’s souls and the Christian covenant are not violated.

𝗘𝗹𝘃𝗲𝘀, 𝗗𝘄𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗲𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗢𝗿𝗰𝘀, 𝗢𝗵 𝗠𝘆

As mentioned above, Tolkien established many aspects of fantasy we now take as givens. Here are just a few prominent examples. Elves and Dwarves are both supernatural human-like creatures from Norse and broader Germanic mythology, however modern conceptions of both have been heavily influenced by Tolkien. Despite devoting a whole section of the cosmos to them, surviving Norse texts mention elves sparingly. Other than being some class of supernatural person, generally conceived of as good though also being responsible for certain illnesses and other maladies, there’s not much we can definitively say about them. In the middle ages the word “elf” became increasingly generic and lost its footing to other similar words like “fairy”. If you imagine an elf as a tall, pointed eared person, gifted with long life and magic powers, your fantasy is one of Tolkien’s influence. Dwarves are somewhat better attested from antiquity, though they too are made significantly more concrete by Tolkien. The idea of them as gruff creatures in opposition to elvish elegance is his, as is the spelling “dwarves”. The “authentic” plural is “dwarfs”, but Tolkien felt the “v” gave it an authentic Old-English feel. The orc is one of the more impressive feats of Tolkien’s. Now a staple of modern fantasy, these are 100% a Tolkien original. When creating his “evil race”, which in Middle-Earth are actually corruptions of elves, a name was needed. The word “goblin” is frequently used, though as a diminutive term was not always appropriate for larger and more intimidating specimens. For reasons unknown Tolkien did not go for other well-established terms, like “ogre”, and instead pulled an obscure reference to Beowulf, wherein exactly one line mentions “orcneas” alongside elves and giants as cursed pagan races. Like with Elves, Dwarves, and other facets of the Tolkien's mythology, the concept of the orc as a distinct supernatural entity would spread across such popular fantasy games as Dungeons and Dragons and Warcraft.

Image Credit: Barbara Remington, 𝘈 𝘔𝘢𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘔𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦-𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩

#A Year in Faith #Middle-Earth #Tolkien #AYIF #Mythology #Religion #day 3

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madtomedgar · 6 years

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When Finrod starts singing in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, it was a desperate attempt to change the course of The Song.

This assumes that part of how foresight works for elves is that they get glimpses of the course of the Ainulindale occasionally, or can feel the weight of its course (the universe bending towards or away from something idk it’s all made up), and that Finrod understood where the music was pulling everything at the moment the disguises didn’t work. In that moment, Finrod commits the ultimate act of rebellion and starts singing a song of power in an attempt not just to defeat or foil Sauron, but alter the course of the Music itself so that his companions (Beren) will not die here. It fails because he’s just an elf and their ability to alter things is extremely limited, and because he’s going up against someone who participated in the original song, and whose strain is a part of it, and so can actually play with the strings of the universe in a way Finrod could not. Alqualonde coming up could just be a dig, or it could be a statement that all this was set in motion there, and that it can’t be changed now (a la the game “anatomy of a fuck-up” where you trace the Real Origins of why you are late or something and it turns out it’s bc you didn’t do something 4 months ago) or a reminder of what happens when the elves try to take things like the Music into their own hands.

Luthien however does have the raw ability to influence and alter the course of the universe because she’s part ainu. She does not have the experience of having played/sung The Song, and possibly has only the barest rudiments of what the song is and why it’s important so she doesn’t… get. Why it’s important. It’s not that important to her. What is important to her is Beren. So she succeeds etc.

But I really like the idea that Finrod wasn’t just attempting to knock Gorthaur out and run like hell, but was making a desperate attempt to change what was written into the fabric of existence at its beginning (for love), and was in a way guilty of something similar to Melkor (rebellion), but for the reasons one should rebel.

#tolkien stuff #reposting at a reasonable hour without the self deprication #since that didn't seem to go over well #anyway this is one possible interpretation of the rap battle #among many #Finrod being desperate enough to try to literally rewrite Fate right then and there #his very own Fingolfin moment

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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Ghost Love Score

For the @silmarillionwritersguild’s Challenge ‘Just an old-fashioned love song’ as part of the New Year’s Resolution Challenge.

Fëanor in the Halls of Mandos: 2.8k words

based on Ghost Love Score - Nightwish:

Bring me home or leave me be

My love in the dark heart of the night

I have lost the path before me

The one behind will lead me.

My fall will be for you

My love will be in you

You were the one to cut me

So I'll bleed forever

There was no pity in Námo’s white eyes, shining beneath the dark hood of his cloak, when they landed on him.

Fëanor felt oddly pleased by that, meeting the even gaze with an unflinching glare of his own. He had not expected to end up here, to stand before the Doomsman. He did not speak, still filled with the incandescent fury that had consumed his hröa, burning so brightly the world faded from view.

Námo watched in silence. Fëanor resented that. If he was not doomed to the Everlasting Darkness – and standing before Námo told him that he was in Mandos, not the Void beyond the World – then there would be a judgement handed down from this being, who allegedly saw all, knew everything. He resented that as much as he resented the silent scrutiny.

Who were the Valar to judge him, these mighty beings who possessed so much power yet cowered away from hardship when it came to judging one of their own?

How could they judge his deeds when their own actions had forced his hand?

Fëanáro. He had burned, burned so brightly, burned brightly enough to light a fire that changed the world. He heard the voices of those who arrived after him, heard them both curse and praise his name. He wondered which would be the greater, in the end, but it was idly curiosity as he had no way of finding out.

Námo smiled, and Fëanor no longer saw him, saw nothing but a flurry of stars – or were they snowflakes? Seeds dancing on the wind? – stretching endlessly around him.

The stars, whatever they were, danced, moving, some swiftly, some slow, but they moved around him and Fëanor knew they would eventually touch his fëa. His lips twisted in a contemptuous snarl, wondering what trickery this was, what new game the Vala was playing with him as a board-piece.

Because waiting for whatever gambit Námo had just delivered him into to play out was not in his nature, Fëanor – he liked the Sindarin version, short and hard; his Quenya name was somehow softer, floating on one of Nerdanel’s sighs, perhaps – reached out to touch one of the whirling pinpricks of light.

Alqualondë. Recognisable; he had helped build some of the grand houses here, after all, left far too many blank walls behind – Teleri liked painting with wet plaster, for unknown reasons, even though mosaics were clearly the more beautiful option for wall decoration.

Red hair escaping from its binds – so familiar that it took him longer than he’d like to admit, even to himself, to notice the hands that were building stone upon stone.

Faces appeared next, almost known, pale hair – Arafinwë? – curling around bared shoulders, sleeveless tunic revealing the play of light on skin, muscles tensing and releasing as another stone was moved.

The stars returned, whirling and spinning around him, swift like rapids and slow like the movement of earth.

Fëanor reached out.

Námo’s game let him see things, glimpses of past, present, future, and seeing the mess he had left behind was the worst punishment for his rebellion he could imagine. He resented it, watching powerlessly, seeing things unfolding without possibility of changing anything. Was this how Manwë watched the world; another way to drive home how separate the Valar truly were from the Children? Knowing that others were denied the knowledge he found imposed upon his solitary existence grated against nerves more raw than he had ever felt before, but at the same time he craved it, craved both the harsh pain of knowledge without action, but also the sweet agony of seeing each of their faces, seeing the ner they became.

He felt proud of them, despite it all, for different reasons.

He watched as Curvo stopped little Tyelpë – who was no longer little, growing up seemingly from one moment to the next – from taking his Oath, and for a moment he wondered if Atarinkë had been a prophecy rather than the remark on their resemblance he had always thought she had meant.

For a moment, he wanted to ask, wanted red hair wrapping in curls around his fingers and laughter floating in the breeze. Had she known, somehow?

The thought cut through him, the pain of it sharp enough to steal his breath, the sudden certainty that she had always known Curvo was destined to be a better father to Tyelpë than he had managed for any of theirs. As air rushed back into lungs he didn’t really have – existing as a fëa was too peculiar, and he had crafted himself a pretend-shell that resembled his former house rather than live as fire, taking comfort in familiar expressions instead of roaring like an inferno or flickering like a candle when his thoughts changed – he felt an accompanying rush of pride, watching his only grandchild speak with an echo of the fire that had brought a whole people across the sea to fight an unwinnable war.

They believed in him; in Tyelpë they saw a ner worth believing, worth following, and it was glorious to behold.

He watched trials and triumphs, watched as the Oath slowly corrupted his sons, watched as the words haunted them. No cravens nor cowards, his sons, to shy away from their Doom, even as it tore them apart, tore away one after the other.

‘To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass.’

Nelyo should never forgive him. Nor any of the others, the scars he had left on them would never fade.

He could not even dream that she would forgive him, knowing what he had done to her sons, to her. There would be no healing this wound, this rend in her that would be left bleeding until Dagor Dagorath and the Re-making.

Sometimes, she appeared so clearly in his mind, almost clearer than she had when it was real, when it was happening, when he had been able to act.

Tears spilling across her cheeks, helplessness he had not noticed at the time giving her a defeated posture, making her slump in a way that was simply wrong. She should be proud, standing straight and strong, life and love and fire equal to his own in her heart.

But he had smothered her fire. Eclipsed it, and thus covered his own world in darkness, losing the assured path he had once followed and stumbling off into what he now saw as a mire of grief and maddened fury.

Sometimes, he wondered in dark amusement whether that was the Eternal Darkness he had called upon himself, the absence of any fire but his own.

He rarely saw her, the glimpses never more than the familiar shape of a hand, the curve of her cheek, fragmented sights he felt meant to torment him with what he had lost until the moment he began to wonder if he only remembered these fragments, if what he saw was coloured by his own memory of people and places.

He still remembered the redness of her curls – at least he thought he did. He remembered the feel of her body beneath his hands, those muscles born of shaping stone and hefting hammers. He remembered gentle light playing across skin slightly paler than his own, remembered tracing the scattered stars across her cheek with his tongue.

He saw those stars in the faces of some of his sons, saw echoes of her brightness, marred by the Oath and the deeds they had done. He saw them arrive, brought to him one by one, though they did not see him, and he could not bear to speak to those he loved most dearly for fear they would not hear him.

His sons; how terribly had he shaped their fates?

Looking back at it all, he hardly recognised himself, a creature of grief and pain, unwilling to listen to counsel or reason. She had been right to leave, and that, perhaps, was what hurt the most. To know that he had lost himself so completely that she no longer knew his heart, no longer understood him as only she had ever truly understood.

Nerdanel stood on the precipice, her bare toes kissing the edge of the cliffs, overlooking the roiling sea. The gale blowing around her caught in loose curls, but she stood frozen, uncaring, barely feeling the breath of Manwë as it tangled her hair, pulled at the fabric of her clothes.

Her sons – bar one – were dead, and the last one… was Makalurë staring at the same grey waves that stretched before her eyes?

Her heart was a small wounded thing in her chest, beating slowly, painfully.

Had they been afraid, her sons?

Had they wished for her to hold them, hold them as they breathed their last, calling out to her with voices she could not hear?

Fëanáro had been wrong in haring off after Melkor – Morgoth as he had named him – but as news trickled back to her, tales of Kinslayings – plural! – of kidnappings, of neri that she scarcely recognised as the boys she had once laid to her breast, had raised with more love than she had thought herself capable of feeling… Nerdanel began to wonder if she had not been just as wrong in her stubborn refusal to follow.

Perhaps she could have… that way lay madness, surely. Where was her vaunted wisdom now? How had her feet brought her down this path, taken her from the life she had loved and made her stumble into this unrecognisable nightmare of a future?

Nerdanel… the wise. It left a sour taste in her mouth, the name, a bitter tang of loneliness and grief that it had not carried when he had named her so. What wisdom had been in remaining behind, in letting her sons – her sons! – throw their lives away thus, what wisdom in staying in this place where she was equal parts scorned and revered for the choice?

She had come here, escaping the looks cast her way in Tirion, in Alqualondë.

She had raised Kinslayers.

She had spoken against Fëanáro’s plan, and been banished for it.

Pity and scorn, always, pity and scorn. And pain. So much pain it felt like she had not taken a true breath since before Finwë was murdered.

There was no escape from this pain.

She did not hear her words even as she spoke them, did not care to note how she threw her fury, her agony, her grief, her love into the wind, screamed against the pain that had wrapped her in chains tighter than she could ever escape.

And still she could not hate him.

Oh, they thought she must, those people far away who had never understood what she shared with him, but Nerdanel knew that love was as tightly woven into her fëa as this new grief that cut a thousand bleeding wounds in her heart.

Beyond the pain, however, there was fury, fury strong enough to topple mountains if she let it.

Others had hope they might see their loved ones again, hope that they might make amends with those who had been wronged, those who had left… hope that was denied her.

For that, she did blame him.

For that, she did blame the Valar, their willingness to abandon the Children to their own devices, for that, she blamed even the All-Father, by whom they had foolishly sworn their oath.

My sons. How did we all come to this, my most beloveds?

How do we find the path that will lead us from this darkness, Fëanáro, when you cannot seek it with me?

She sat in a hall he recognised, her lips pressed tight together as she watched a stranger come before her, speaking words meant to oust her from this place, this seat that Finwë had sat upon when he joined them in exile, and the vehement loathing in her eyes as she stared at the quailing ner before her was something at once alien and so familiar that Fëanáro shuddered to see it on her face. It was a look he had seen on his own face, mirrored in glass, but never in her, never shaped by her brows, her lips, her clenching fingers as anger warred within her.

“No.” Her refusal was plain, only one word; denial, pure and simple.

“You could return to Tirion,” the ner tried, but Fëanáro felt no surprise to see the steel in her gaze harden further. She was at least as stubborn as he; one of the reasons he had loved her.

“You may tell your King that he is welcome to visit me,” Nerdanel replied, and her voice held enough ice that Fëanáro half expected it to come out as a puff of frost, “but I am the Lady of Formenos, and here I shall remain.”

She did not sing when she worked.

Somehow – and it surprised him to feel so, having teased her often that her singing was comparable to a cat that had been stepped on – the silence of Nerdanel’s workshop seemed to number among the greatest wrongs he had done her.

The stars whirled ever onwards.

Fëanor had stopped reaching out, choosing silent endurance as each moment broke him down further.

In the dead of night, she felt the ghost of his touch, wiping away the tears that only fell in darkness, loneliness, felt the way he would kiss silent apologies into her skin when he hurt her.

It was almost real, and almost real was not enough.

Nerdanel had realised ‘almost real’ hurt even more than ‘gone forever’.

“I want them back.”

She said it clearly, decisively, like she was Queen – she was, she was his Queen, and no one would dare say otherwise – tired of smothering the fire that burned in her heart. The serving maiar did not reply, but Nerdanel did not care.

What had she, but time?

Settling with her back against a pillar she could have carved more beautiful in her sleep, Nerdanel waited.

What was there, for her, but steely determination?

Loneliness.

Loneliness, and anger, fury that would find no release, no easing of the pain she felt.

What was there, except the scorn and the pity as those who had died in Alqualondë began to return, while she grew paler by the day, losing more and more pieces of what made her her. Hope. It had been the first thing to vanish, leaving her with such fleeting steps she did not even notice its flight before it had abandoned her.

She had not come for hope.

She had not come for anger, for vengeance, not shown up at the Halls as a penitent seeking absolution.

She had come for love.

Love and fire.

Fire and pain.

Pain and love.

To pass the time, she sang. Badly. She knew her strengths, and music was surely not among them – Makalaurë’s skill had ever fascinated her, the way his mind seemed to hear melodies in everything around him, his fingers plucking them out on a harp, his lips shaping them in a hum, a song.

Still, she had no desire to begin reshaping this travesty of stone that Mandos called his Halls – parts of it might have been beautiful, but it felt oddly unfinished, as though the sculptor had put down his tools while only half the design had been released from the stone – and so Nerdanel sang.

“Why are you here?”

The question came days later, maybe weeks, months, years.

Nerdanel smiled; it was not a pleasant smile. The servant of Mandos took a step back.

“I want them,” she said. “All of them.”

Námo’s hidden eyes saw all.

A wave of his hand made the specks of memory that floated around Fëanor whirl faster.

The stars held no fascination for him anymore, beyond trying not to wince when they pierced his mind with flashes of imagery.

Nerdanel in her workshop, offkey singing as her chisel shaped wondrous things became the stars once more.

The singing continued.

Fëanor started, whirling to peer through the impenetrable haze of stars that seemed to be no fewer than when his punishment had first begun.

Nerdanel.

It could be no other.

Fëanor grinned, feeling a curious sense of uplifting; she really was atrocious, and the sound was more precious to him than anything he could have named in that moment.

Pushing through the stars, Fëanor watched impatiently as each memory blurred together, a collage of thoughts and time.

And still, Nerdanel was singing in the distance.

Perhaps the Valar had found some mercy in the war that had been fought beyond the sea, a glimmer of compassion, perhaps, Nerdanel wondered.

Sstaring at the doorway, she fell silent. Such familiar hair – her own, but sitting on a different head, mingled with darker strands, and single head of pale moonlight – and she reached for them, reached for them even as she saw hesitancy in their eyes, saw the way they expected her scorn, her disdain for their acts.

“Come to me,” she pleaded, reaching, reaching, hearing her blood thunder in her ears as her heart pushed it through her body.

They came.

Her arms were not long enough; they were bigger now than when they had left, or maybe she was smaller, but they fit with her nonetheless.

“Ammë.”

“My boys.” They were. Her boys, no matter what they had done, had seen; they were hers.

Nerdanel kissed brows, wiped away tears, crushed bodies against her, surprised by the strength that returned her hold.

“My boys,” she whispered, wishing that she could take the haunted looks from their eyes as easily as she was putting smiles on their faces.

“I said all of them.” Nerdanel said later, making the seven around her startle, but her tone brooked no disagreement, and they settled around her, adding their stares to her own. “You will give them to me.” She said it, and he could hear the determination in her voice, did not need to hear the rest of her words to know what she meant to say. “You will give them to me, or I will follow them, this time, I will follow.” Silence greeted her. “Do not test me.”

Fëanor thought he was running, following the sound that had underscored much of his life, in truth, the sound of her voice.

He had left her behind in anger, and now he was running towards her, wishing for no more than a true glimpse.

The irony was not lost on him.

#feanor #nerdanel #namo #halls of mandos #swg challenge fic

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emptymanuscript · 5 years

Text

Something I wrote elsewhere and have to FIX so I am just putting the original here

So, the ring of the book is kind of an adaptation in and of itself. It’s drawing on several legends surrounding Andvaranaut, a golden ring of nebulous power, and its associated artifacts.

The ring does turn people invisible in the hobbit and LoTR because Andvari, who made the ring, also made the Tarnhelm out of the same gold and one of its two primary powers is invisibility. Not coincidentally it’s other primary power is shape changing - which is how Sauron deceived everyone and forged the rings of power. Tolkien just collapsed the items into one.

The ring is evil in the original legends for several reasons. First, the gold it’s made from was sacred and it was stolen by Andvari. Andvari stole it by taking advantage of the loophole in the gold’s protection and renouncing all love.

Which brought him to a bad fate. The ring then passed hands like the Elder Wand - by thievery, death, and betrayal. Gaining curses as it went. Until, by the time it passed into the hands of its final owner it had the vast malicious power to break the power of the gods and shatter their kingdom.

That’s the ring adapted into LoTR and later back into Hobbit. It’s power is unspecified because it’s real power is purely metaphysical - it empowers, corrupts, and destroys. The things like invisibility (and gold finding in the very original) are minor side effects. It’s job is to remove the divine from the rulership of creation and put something else in its place. It’s an apocalypse bringer - as in thousand years of darkness, cats and dogs living together, mass hysteria sort of thing. It’s the symbol of the end of the divine order.

In LoTR, Sauron puts what is the equivalent of a portion of his soul into the ring. It’s more complex, since Sauron technically doesn’t have a soul but we’ll ignore that. So it most naturally favors him. It wants to reunite with him to be whole. And it tries to get back to him because that’s its purpose. But failing that, its content to turn the one who wears it into the best copy of Sauron that it can make from them.

In the case of a Hobbit, that’s the tragic patheticness of Golum. He has no power and so can only express corruption.

In the case of Gandalf, who is not very different from Sauron, both having once been angels of different types before Melkor’s (Lucifer in Tolkien’s universe) rebellion - him taking the ring would corrupt him into a very effective copy of Sauron, enough that the ring could probably live with evil Gandalf instead.

You take Galadriel, who is not only that power level but also has a soul and the ring is trading up. Corrupt her to be like Sauron and the ring gets what it wants and more.

So it depends very much on who wears the ring, how difficult it is for the ring to reach its goals, and the fuzziness of a mythology created by someone with a sophisticated enough understanding of them to mimic how they really worked.

The fellowship probably could have weaponized the ring because they assume the purpose of the ring is service and that it wants to serve the person of Sauron. It would corrupt Minis Tirith into something new but orc-like, the fallen version of humans the way that orcs are the fallen elves, because that’s its real purpose, not the physical but the spiritual will of Sauron: to debase the world and turn it wicked. It doesn’t care how that goal is met particularly. If orcs wipe out humans, cool. If humans become the new orcs, cool. As long as it undermines and destroys all that is sacred. So, make humans the ultimate heartless weapons that will turn the world into a wasteland and it is still in service to its goal, never to a body.

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