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jengajives · 3 years

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My guys attend the Mereth Aderthad

“You have to watch yourself,” Mablung was saying. “There’s something strange about the Noldor. The king doesn’t trust them.”

Daeron rolled his eyes, nudging his little bay mare forward to keep up with the massive stallion Mablung was riding. “It’s a party. I don’t see what could really go wrong.”

“It’s these sons of Fëanor,” Mablung said coldly. “I have heard they’re remarkably fell. I don’t trust them.”

“If they were so fell, why would anyone follow them?” Daeron asked playfully. “You should relax. I don’t think a suspicious wet blanket is the impression you want to leave on them. We’re the closest they’re ever going to get to King Thingol.”

“With luck.” Mablung frowned so deeply his warm brown face looked decades older. “I would ask you not to get too friendly.”

“You can’t stop me having fun,” Daeron said with a grin, and Mablung just sighed tiredly and continued on his way.

Daeron trotted on behind until eventually the pools of Irvin began to peak over the horizon, surrounded by beautiful blue tents and banners in silver and red.

This was going to be a night to remember.

“Your Majesty,” said Mablung stiffly, with a deep bow to one knee. “I am Mablung, captain of King Thingol’s guard. This is my kinsman, Daeron, his court minstrel.”

The High King of the Noldor stood smiling at him, and gave a respectful nod of his own. “You are most welcome, my friends. Please, make yourselves at home. Relax, enjoy the food, the wine, the music. Tonight you are our guests of honor.”

Again he gave a remarkably calm smile, but his face fell when he looked up and he cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

Then he hurried off, hands raised.

“Aredhel, you can’t shoot that off his head, it’s attached!“

Daeron watched him go with a widening grin. He nudged Mablung with an elbow. “Hear that? Guests of honor. And they have music. I’ll bet it’s no good, though.”

“Be polite,” Mablung scolded, “just not too polite.”

“Certainly, Captain,” said Daeron. He looked around the camp just to take everything in.

There were just as many Sindar here as there were Exiles. Grey-Elves milling about and talking and laughing with these strangers, sharing wine and platters of food. Beneath the billowing blue tents were elaborate silver tables laden with piles of fruit and meat, fountains of wine. Near the center of the camp was a pavilion set up for minstrels; now there were several silver and scarlet-clad Noldor sitting on their fancy metal chairs and playing flutes, lutes, and chimes of every kind. In their center sat one particular Elf with his dark, curly hair set with glimmering sapphires and his raiment of silky blue-green. He held a silver harp across his chest, and Daeron had to admit he was skilled with it. When he started to sing, though, the majesty of the music rose to another level.

Daeron had never heard song like that. Never anything so beautiful or captivating.

“Lord Finrod,” said Mablung behind him. Daeron turned and saw the captain with his arms folded behind him, talking to a fair-haired prince whose braids were twisted with diamond and pearl. “It is an honor to meet you again.”

“Mablung!” Finrod smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “How wonderful to see Thingol’s folk here! I was so worried no one would come…”

“Who’s that singing?” Daeron asked, very rudely, barely giving the princeling a glance.

Mablung glared at him. “Apologies, my lord. My kinsman speaks out of turn.”

Finrod just smiled with a light laugh like water falling over stone.

“No apology necessary, friend. Nothing wrong with curiosity.” He followed Daeron’s gaze over to the pavilion. “That is my cousin, Maglor, Fëanor’s son. He is the most skilled of our kindred in music by far.”

Mablung bristled when he heard the name, but Daeron only found it even more difficult to tear his eyes away.

“Maglor,” he repeated, turning to give Mablung a smug look. “And you said they would be fell.”

At that Finrod laughed again. “The sons of Fëanor? It’s true they can be very fierce, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say fell. That is…” He turned his head to the side, taking a glance at a tall Elf standing apart from the others, his red hair done up in tight braids, with pale scars crisscrossing his dark face. “As long as you aren’t a friend of Morgoth’s.”

Mablung followed his gaze, and his eyes narrowed looking at the red-haired Elf’s empty sleeve.

“We are no friends of your Enemy.”

“Never said you were, Captain.” Finrod again but a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Here. You and your kinsman come for a drink.”

Mablung took Daeron by the arm, which is the only thing then that could have dragged him from the sight of Maglor Fëanor’s son, and together they followed Finrod to find themselves some wine.

Maglor finished his song and hopped offstage, leaving his harp resting on the chair. The strings and winds could carry the music department for a little while; he wanted to enjoy some high-class mingling.

Maedhros was standing on his own, taking in the party without engaging himself, so Maglor sidled over and stuck an elbow into his brother’s ribs.

“You like the song, Nelyo?”

“Hm? Oh, yes.” Maedhros gave him a forced smile. Immediately Maglor could tell he’d been thinking of other things.

It was not so long since he’d been carried from Angband, and his years of torment had never really left him.

“Very good, brother. You have a magical voice.”

“You should have a drink.” Maglor motioned to where Fingon stood laughing with the sons of Finarfin. “Go on and join them.”

Maedhros shook his head, again with a wan smile. “I wouldn’t want to impede on their merriment.”

Maglor didn’t have the willpower now to contend with him, so he just scanned the party again until he found what he was looking for: the Elf in armor of silver leaves, and the one at his side dressed all in green. He motioned that way.

“Those two. They aren’t Green-Elves, are they?”

“Green-Elves don’t wear metal.”

“I know, I know. But surely they cannot be common Sindar.”

Maedhros shrugged. “From what I hear, they’re ambassadors from Doriath. Greymantle’s folk.”

“Really?” Maglor smoothed his tunic. “The short one was watching me. You think he’s handsome?”

“Oh, certainly, Maglor.” His brother didn’t indulge him with any inflection in the reply. “Very handsome indeed.”

“I’m going to talk to him,” Maglor said with a decisive nod. “You should try to mingle.”

A dismissive wave of hand. “Best of luck.”

Maglor set his shoulders back and started toward the pair of strange Grey-Elves.

“You know, Mablung said you were dangerous.”

It was an embellishment of the words, but Daeron really didn’t mind. The night had gone velvety and dark and all that mattered was how smooth the wine-craft of the Noldor, and how close Maglor was standing to him.

It filled the whole night with heat.

“Dangerous?” the Fëanorian repeated, raising one eyebrow. Daeron nodded.

“He told me the sons of Fëanor were remarkably fell.”

“And what do you think of us now?”

He was very aware of the hand curled around his wrist. How he could feel every warm puff of Maglor’s breath.

“I think you brother is very fell,” Daeron said coyly. He no longer cared to glance around and make sure they were alone. If anyone stepped into the tent now, they would quickly realize the value of privacy. “But you... I’m not so sure. I don’t know if the pretty minstrel prince has it in him.”

Maglor’s blue eyes glittered in synchronization with the jewels in his hair.

“I could be dangerous if you wanted me to.”

“Hmm...” Daeron tried to draw his lips to a line, but he couldn’t stop the smile from blooming. “I’m not so sure I do.”

When Maglor kissed his neck he simply threw his head back with a sigh.

Yes, indeed. A night to remember.

#jenga makes junk #fanfic #fic #writers #daeron #mablung #maglor #Maglor x daeron #maedhros #Finrod #Fingolfin #aredhel #thingol #minstrel boys #the greatest minstrels of the first age huh #mereth aderthad

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years

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The Leithian Reread - Canto VI (Beren in Nargothrond)

While The Leithian-related plot of this canto focuses on Beren in Nargothrond, almost the first half of it is a brief summary of the Silmarillion from Return of the Noldor through to the Dagor Bragollach. Which I love, since those events for the most part aren’t coverered in Tolkien’s other poetic works, and I prefer the poetry structure of the Leithian to Tolkien’s other (non-rhyming, more Rohirric-sounding) pieces of epic poetry.

This is a good place to note, for readers who are new to the poetic Leithian, that some names are different from the Silm (Tolkien started a revised version with Silm-consistent names, but he didn’t get very far with it). The Noldor are referred to as the Gnomes - a rough transliteration of their elvish name into a human language, drawing from the Greek for ‘knowledge’. Tolkien later rejected this on the basis that the word was already too associated with entirely different mental images, but given how transformative his use of ‘elves’ was (typical fantasy elves are now almost all inspired by his ideas of tall, beautiful, long-lived immortals), we might have completely different concepts of ‘gnome’ now if he’s gone ahead with it.

The second big diiference is that Finrod is referred to exclusively as Felagund - his Dwarven honorific - whereas his father Finarfin is referred to as Finrod. Tolkien had a lot of difficulty with Finarfin’s name and it went through a pile of different iterations. There are also other minor differences, like Finwë being referred to as Finn.

Returning to the poem - it’s hard to pick a favourite part of the summary section; I love so much of it. This is the closest I’m ever going to get to the Noldolantë (Tolkien wrote a couple pages of another poem focusing on the Return of the Noldor, but I don’t like it as much).

The mists were mantled round the towers

of the Elves’ white city by the sea.

There countless torches fitfully

did start and twinkle, as the Gnomes

were gathered to their fading homes

and thronged the wide and winding stair

that led to the wide echoing square.

There Fëanor mourned his jewels divine,

the Silmarils he made. Like wine

his wild and potent words them fill;

a great host hearkens deathly still.

But all he said both wild and wise

half truth and half the fruit of lies

that Morgoth sowed in Valinor

in other songs and other lore

recorded is.

There’s such a wonderful sense of place and of mood in those lines; the Return of the Noldor has always been one of the most compelling parts of the Silmarillion for me. In the same way that Elves have a different sense of time than Men, Valar must have a different sense of it than Elves; they’re acting, but within their own sense of time, and for the Noldor, in the wake of the Darkening, the desire to do something rather than wait around for the Valar (who are looking more deeply fallible than they ever have before) to fix things must be extremely powerful. And Fëanor’s presence and words and fury, brought into that environment, is like fire to oil. To be active and purposeful in the face of disaster, rather than passive and directionless - that’s a powerful force. The poem also acknowledges that Fëanor’s not entirely wrong (“half truth and half the fruit of lies”), however deeply distorted his ideas about both the Valar and the Secondborn are. As I’ve said before, I think that Eru intended for the Elves to be in Middle-earth, not Valinor; the entire Leithian is centred around the value and importance of an elf-human relationship that continues to affect the history of Arda down through the Third Age (and, in its symbolic meaning, even further).

There’s also a line about the Oath: Who calls these names in witness may not break his oath, though earth and heaven shake. The texts on the Oath are somewhat contradictory on its breakability, though they are united on its importance and severity (it is decidedly not just words, or something that can be casually laid aside). The Silmarillion says “so sworn, good or evil, an oath may not be broken, and it shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world’s end”. But that contradicts itself - it it can’t be broken, then there can’t be oathbreakers. Maedhros and Maglor’s final conversation at the end of the Silm is more illuminating to me: it’s not a matter of the Oath being physically or psychologically impossible to break (if it was, how did they go the 400 years of the Siege of Angband without actively attacking Morgoth?), but of fearing the fate they have called down upon themselves (the Everlasting Darkness) if they do break it. (Plus a lot of sunk cost fallacy, by that point.) Which is considerably less sympathetic: murdering innocent people in order to avoid the consequences of your own bad decision is, ultimately, the choice that innocents should bear the cost of your own choices, which is ultimately a form of cowardice. (Not to mention the inherently contradictory nature of saying “I’m going to do evil so that I won’t be damned,” which Maglor eventually realizes.)

(More of my thoughts on the Oath here.)

This is also one of the few texts we have that actually states the Oath (or rather, part of it; the invocations are not included) rather that describing it. I think all the ones we have are in Tolkien’s poetry; there’s no prose version.

The Kinslaying is not mentioned in this Canto; that’s saved for the Duel of Felagund and Sauron in the next one. But this canto does include possibly the only poetic rendition we get of Fingon rescuing Maedhros from Thangorodrim:

Fingon daring alone went forth

and sought for Maidros where he hung;

in torment terrible he swung,

his wrist in band of forgéd steel,

from a sheer precipice where reel

the dizzy senses staring down

from Thangorodrim’s stony crown.

The song of Fingon Elves yet sing,

captain of armies, Gnomish king...

They sing how Maidros free he set,

and stayed the feud that slumbered yet

between the children proud of Finn.

After describing the Siege of Angband and the Long Peace, the narrative moves on to the Dagor Bragollach, and specifically Barahir’s rescue of Felagund. (And in this account, as in the Silm, Orodreth is Felagund’s brother, not his nephew.) From there, it returns to the main story and Beren’s arrival in Nargothrond. It could not be more different than his reception in Menegroth:

When the ring [of Barahir] was seen

they bowed before him, though his plight

was poor and beggarly...

Fair were the words of Narog’s king

to Beren, and his wandering

and all his feuds and bitter wars

recounted soon.

Regarding Felagund’s fulfillment of his Oath to Barahir, and the betrayal by Celegorm and Curufin, and the abandonment by the Elves of Nargothrond, I’ve already written a fair bit in my (much earlier) posts on Finrod & Nargothrond and Celegorm & Curufin. I’ll add a few additional points here.

First, I do not think it was irresponsible of Felagund to leave Nargothrond to go with Beren. If his presence as king of Nargothrond was important (and I think it was; basically all of Nargothrond’s decisions after he leaves are bad, and he’s been the peacemaker and diplomat between different elven and human groups throughout the Silmarillion up to this point) that is all the more reason why Nargothrond is indebted to Barahir and his descendents, since Felagund would already be dead if not for Barahir’s actions.

Secondly - and I’m getting this from Philosopher at Large’s Leithian Script, which emphasizes it very heavily - Felagund, as liege-lord to the Bëorings, has certain obligations to them even outside of his oath, including providing military assistance in times of need. Usual chains of communication have been cut since the Bragollach, so Felagund’s only just now finding out that the Bëorings have, aside from Beren, been basically exterminated; and that Barahir and later Beren spent years fighting a very long-odds guerrilla war without ever asking or recieving assistance, while Nargothrond was safe and largely inactive. This is going to strongly enhance Felagund’s (legitimate) sense of indebtedness to Barahir’s kin.

Thirdly, Celegorm is often treated as something of a meathead (because he acts like one; all his decisions are terrible in both moral and practical terms), but this sequence makes it clear that both he and Curufin inherited their father’s rhetorical abilities; his speech is specifically compared to Fëanor’s speech in Tirion (Many wild and potent words he spoke, and as before in Tûn awoke his father’s voice their hearts to fire, so now dark fear and brooding ire he cast on them...) But ironically, the direction of Curufin’s speech is opposite to Fëanor’s - while Fëanor’s was about rallying the Noldor to fight Morgoth, Curufin’s is about discouraging them from fighting Morgoth, by frightening them, and he does it so effectively that it’s unlikely Nargothrond would have showed up at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad even without the additional motivation of being furious at the brothers. And continuing on that theme, the brothers are setting themselves against the first real attempt anyone has ever made to regain the Silmarils from Morgoth. A mission that resulted in Beren and Lúthien having one Silmaril, and the Fëanorians having the other two, would obviously be better in terms of their goals than all three remaining in Morgoth’s posession, but they don’t appear to even consider it. This is part of a long thread throughout the Silmarillion - every action taken directly in service to the Oath aids Morgoth and harms the Eldar.

The people of Nargothrond, by the way, really do not come off well here - they’re rejecting their king for someone who has just threatened violence against them all (Celegorm’s speech is basically threatening them with another Kinslaying here and now).

And as a final point - what Celegorm and Curufin do here is one of the worst crimes imaginable within their society. The sacredness of the relationship between guests and hosts (and they are guests in Nargothrond, having fled there from the Bragollach) is a major theme in a lot of pre-modern societies. People familiar with A Song of Ice and Fire will remember its importance there; for a more historical source, Dante places ‘traitors to guests and hosts’ in the ninth circle of hell in the Divine Comedy and goes beyond that to state that people who betray their guests or hosts go directly to hell even before they die, while their body becomes inhabited by a demon for the rest of their life. From this betrayal, to the usurpation of Nargothrond, to the attempted rape of Lúthien, to the attempted murder of Lúthien, to Celegorm’s servants leaving Eluréd and Elurín - young children - to die of exposure, everything we see from the brothers from this point on is them committing crimes that are literally unthinkable to elves. Which is to say that the Eldar might have found Dante’s explanation pretty credible.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #fëanor #sons of fëanor #beren #finrod #celegorm #curufin #nargothrond #oath of feanor #lay of leithian #leithian reread

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elesianne · 4 years

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A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter four

Story summary: Through all the struggles and triumphs of the Noldor, Angrod and Edhellos hold on to their love and their faith in each other.

Despite the title, there is more than romance in this fic.

Chapter length: ~2,200 words; Rating: Teenage audiences

Some keywords for the whole fic: romance, family, some fluff and angst, mild sexual content, the Noldor and their fall and their triumphs, canon compliant

AO3 link (first chapter here)

Chapter IV // The land of pines

From the northern slopes of Dorthonion Angrod and Aegnor, sons of Finarfin, looked out over the fields of Ard-galen, and were the vassals of their brother Finrod, lord of Nargothrond; their people were few, for the land was barren, and the great highlands behind were deemed to be a bulwark that Morgoth would not lightly seek to cross. – The Silmarillion: Of Beleriand and Its Realms

The first few years in Beleriand are hard though nothing alike in hardness to the treacherous ice that Eldalótë still walks on many nights, only to rouse within the warm hold of Angaráto's arms. His bare skin against hers is a blessing that quickly grounds her in the moment.

She breathes in the smell of him and lets herself fall to rest again, in search of better dreams.

There is little need for a gilder in the first, hard years and decades. Eldalótë instead makes use of the spinning and weaving skills that her mother-in-law taught her. It is good to be of use, and like all of her family, she lost long ago any notion of being above hard work because of royal status.

Working at her loom that they purchased from the Sindar for one of the treasures Findaráto brought with him, Eldalótë cannot help thinking of Eärwen weaving white sails for her father's fleet of white ships. For her sake, and for Elenwë's who became as close a friend to her as their husbands are, she stays as far away from Fëanáro's sons as she can. She is glad, though, that Findekáno saved Maitimo from his torment and that the fractured Noldor are working together towards shared goals again. Under the leadership of Nolofinwë, she believes they can prosper in this new land.

But though she is as polite with everyone as she always is, she will not forget the particular part that Fëanáro and his sons played in their coming here. There will always be a shard of the Ice in her heart for them.

She stays behind when Angaráto goes to the kingdom of Doriath as Findaráto's messenger.

'I assume it is best that you do not flaunt your Noldorin wife in case he would count that against you', she says. 'But do take Artaresto with you. He looks more like you than me, and speaks Valinorean Telerin as well as if it was his only tongue.'

'I am loath to leave you behind when I journey to lands unknown to us', Angaráto replies.

She rummages in her trunk. 'The grey-elves and our own scouts say that the way is safe', she says over her shoulder. 'And I shall not be lonely, or if I shall, Aikanáro shall be equally lonely, the constant companion that he is to you, and he and I can keep each other company.' She finds what she was looking for, a golden ribbon for his golden hair.

Angaráto snorts. 'I will never stop wondering how you did not grow tired of his 'constant companionship' decades and decades ago. I feared it at the beginning of our marriage.'

Eldalótë smiles, and tells him to stay still. 'I could not have married you if I didn't like him too. And –' she ties his hair neatly back so it will stay off his face when he rides '– he is my brother too. For many years now.'

Angaráto turns and kisses her. 'I am glad. When the time comes to decide where we will settle, Aikanáro and I would like to share lordship of a realm.'

'Of course.' She pokes him in the chest. 'But do not kiss me while we talk of him!'

Angaráto is angrier than she has seen him since the betrayal of Fëanáro when he storms back into their tent from the council of lords, much earlier than she expected to see him.

He paces around the tent, furious, fuming, but silent. Eldalótë asks whether it would make him feel better to shout and he replies bluntly, 'I shall not, or I'll be no better than the thrice-accursed sons of Fëanáro.'

Eldalótë understands. 'Which one was it this time?'

'Carnistir, again.' Angaráto sighs, and sits down next to her. 'He insulted his brother who agreed to me being sent to Elwë as messenger, and me, and my mother all in one short angry rant.' He tells her what exactly was said, and adds, 'It stings my honour and pride that he should insult my parentage so when I and my brothers and sister have fought through all the same hardships as Nolofinwë and his children, and indeed through more than he has!'

Eldalótë shakes her head. 'Maitimo will no doubt rebuke him as always, but how we shall settle these lands and fight our battles together with Carnistir and his brothers who are more like him than Maitimo, I do not know.'

With the help of great distances, it turns out. Maitimo sends Carnistir to settle in the eastern land that lies at the feet of Ered Luin, and Angaráto's land is to be much more westward.

They ride to their new realm with eager hearts, and a few hundred eager followers of Arafinwë who have chosen to come to the highlands of Dorthonion to live under Angaráto and Aikanáro's rule. Most of them are bold warriors who acquitted themselves well in battle and prefer staying closer to the threat of Morgoth should he send his troops forth in battle again to going further south with Findaráto. A smaller part of them are grey-elves who want to leave the land of Mithrim where they had loss and sorrow.

Eldalótë would have preferred a land more to the south and west, close to the people of Círdan who look favourable upon the kin of Olwë. But Findaráto will keep all that land, for Angaráto and Aikanáro volunteered to take on the watch in the northern highlands.

As they ride there, this time it is Aikanáro who carries their father's banner in honour of Angaráto as the older brother, though they have agreed to be equal lords.

Eldalótë keeps a tight hold on her new horse's bridle. Like their other horses, she was a gift from Maitimo, or Maedhros as he has quickly taken to calling himself. In amends, he gave many of the horses he brought over on the swan-ships to Nolofinwë – Fingolfin, now – and Nolofinwë distributed them among his lords.

Eldalótë's horse is a young mare. She is a little skittish but manageable and shows promise, and Eldalótë certainly wasn't too proud to accept a noble beast of Valinor. It has been wonderful, one of the most wonderful things since their arrival here, to ride out with her husband and son and feel the wind on her face and the power and speed of her horse under her.

It is even better to be riding to their new home. The scouts and grey-elves have told them that the highlands east of Mithrim and south of the green plain of Ard-Galen are rather barren, growing mainly pine, and rainy like Hithlum. It will be home, nonetheless, their first home after a long time of journeying. It will be the realm that Angaráto dreamed of, long ago in a different land, and Aikanáro too.

Once they are settled in the place of their new home and begun building their citadel, Minas Avras, Eldalótë and Angaráto decide to give each other new names rather than deciding the forms of their names themselves.

They both want to keep their most-used names and only translate them but in the language of the grey-elves, there are alternative word-forms as well as binding sounds in the place where two elements join together to choose from.

'Edhellos', Angaráto whispers against the heated skin of her neck one night, and lowers his head to kiss her breast. 'It flows soft and sweet on my tongue, like you do.'

'Ah.' She arches under his exploring tongue. 'Ang - oh - Angrod.' He pauses his ministrations of her for a moment, and she explains. 'It sounds as much like Angaráto as possible and I want it to, because despite everything that has changed, with me you are as you always were. Strong and sure and oh, oh –' He has continued his way down her body and she can hardly stay still and certainly not speak apart from gasping out his names, old and new.

She tries to tangle her fingers deep in his hair like she loves to do but it is harder to do these days. He cut it short on the Ice and has kept that way ever since. It doesn't even reach his shoulders.

Edhellos misses the abundant golden fall of it, but she understands. The long cold road changed them all, and that is all right. She has hardened too. Besides finding it more difficult to forgive and acceptable not to, she raises her voice more often now and joins in conversations where she may have stayed still and silent before. Angaráto still sometimes speaks for her like he always has, but only when they have spoken of it beforehand in the quiet of their own chambers, in their own private moments that become ever more precious year after year.

She is more protective of what she has now, being aware of all that she can lose.

Edhellos did not see her husband or other family members fight in the first battle at the Lammoth that took place soon after their arrival in Beleriand. She stayed at the rear of the host at Finrod's request, put by him in charge of the others who weren't fighters of first rank and would only engage in battle if necessary. It turned out to be necessary, and she fought as well as she could; well enough to survive while some in the van who were more valiant at arms perished, including the fearless youngest son of Fingolfin.

Even in Dorthonion Edhellos doesn't become as adept at fighting as her family, though she keeps practising. She can defend herself but not well enough that it would make any sense, still, for her to take part in battles by her husband's side, in the sharp front point of the attack.

She has always prided herself on her common sense. The price of it is accepting things she rather wouldn't, like letting Angrod ride to face possible death so far ahead of her.

She sees her family fight later, from horseback on the side of a battlefield with her bow in hand, on a hill high enough to see everything that happens. It is a revelation. Aegnor, her gentle-hearted brother, roars like a lion and his eyes shine bright with battle-rage. It leaves no doubt in the hearts of the enemy that this is a child of the Light that they abhor; and they quiver before him, and Aegnor with his spirit of wrath cleaves them with his sword that soon no longer shines, dripping with gore.

Angrod and Orodreth fight side by side, father and son working violence together efficiently and mercilessly, their moves as graceful and coordinated as any dance performance and as strong and precise as a smith's strike on the anvil. The golden rays on their shields catch the light of the sun and strike the eyes of the enemy half-blind.

When it is Edhellos' contingent's turn to fire, she with her fellow archers shoots arrow after arrow until their fingers go numb. The enemy falters and fails under the rain of arrows and the swift blows from the long swords of the Noldor.

The singers will call it the Glorious Battle, soon, during more peaceful years when there is plenty of time for songs.

Dorthonion makes Edhellos happy in peacetime.

The crags and the pines remind her a little of the times when she was young and newly married and Angrod took her along on the long wanderings he and his brothers went on in the summers in the north of Aman, north of Formenos even, where the treelight was weaker and the nature barren at the rocky foothills of the Pelóri.

The wanderings took place in the summer because it was warmer even there then, and they made long treks because it was before any of them had children or any responsibilities that they couldn't abandon for weeks.

In Dorthonion, Edhellos once climbs one of the highest pines on the highest tor that still supports growing trees. It is a clear day.

She looks to the north and sees the dark shape of the great peaks of Thangorodrim that hides the fortress of Angband, ever pouring forth smoke that forms a stain on the wide blue sky.

Between that place of abhoration and Edhellos' land lie the grassy plains of Ard-Galen. The sight of the green land always warms her heart. The grass there grows tall and strong despite the proximity of Morgoth's stronghold, and it feeds the growing horse herds of the Noldor. Fingolfin has sent many young horses to Dorthonion, too, valiant war-steeds descended from the horses brought over from Valinor.

She looks to the south and sees the land that Angrod and Aegnor and she rule: encircled by mountain peaks, craggy and wooded, and dear, with its fair, tall trees and clear lakes that reflect the full beauty of midday and night skies alike. She and Angrod have many times ridden to such a lake and spent a night there, enjoying starlight and each other.

As she looks over it all, breathing in the lovely scent of pine needles, she can understand a little of the desire for conquest and exploration that drove her husband and brothers and sister-in-law. This is her land, and she is its lady.

* A/N: The fifth and last chapter will be posted on Sunday.

#silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #silmarillion #angrod #angrod's wife #edhellos #eldalótë #eldalotë #eldalote #noldor #my fics #everbeloved #dorthonion #elesianne's fics

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undercat-overdog · 5 years

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One of the things that strikes me with Celebrian sailing to Valinor is how much culture shock she must have experienced, and not just with things like climate and food. Most of her family, on her mother’s and father’s side both, were dead before she was born, and how she relates to them, and how she has to change to how she relates to them in Aman, is interesting. And the expectations that the Amanyar would have of her, and the expectations that she had of the Amanyar... recovering from her torment wouldn’t have been the only struggle she faced in Valinor.

So have a little (unedited) bit from a Celebrian in Valinor fic:

Later Celebrían stood before the portraits, studying them. A large painting had pride of place, the picture of a family. Finarfin was in it, and six others. A dark haired man stood next to a woman with gold hair and Finarfin's look, leaning into her embrace: she supposed them to be Finwe and Indis. There was another gold-haired woman (Findis? Lalwen?) and three others with black hair, all clearly related, similar in countenance. One had her dear, dead cousin's face: he must be Feanor then, which meant the other man was Fingolfin. The painting was strange to look upon. Her family, and yet not.

She heard footsteps behind her, and spun around sharply. Her heart pounded, sudden fear in her veins. It was just Finarfin, though, and she made herself smile at him.

He came up to stand beside her. “My parents,” he said, nodding at the couple in the middle. “And my brother Fingolfin and my sisters Lalwen and Findis.” He gestured to each as he spoke; Findis was the one with dark hair. “And my half-brother.”

There was something strange in his voice that Celebrían could not decipher. She said, “I thought he must be Feanor. He bears a remarkable resemblance to my cousin Celebrimbor.” That familiar grief was old, and dulled, and still in her heart. “The others I just guessed at – aside from you, of course.”

Finarfin looked at her, his face unreadable, then sighed. “You have a rather large family, and not just through me.”

Celebrían frowned. Her parents mourned at times for the loss of their kin, but Celebrían had never felt the lack. Still... she looked around the room. The only person she would know in here would be her mother, and suddenly she marveled at how many faces there were, and this only Finarfin's family, not Earwen's or her father's.

I only knew three of my cousins, she thought, and none of them hang on this wall. Neither do I. There must be two dozen people here, and most were dead, and she had never met them. It was a queer thought: it didn't hurt her, but quite suddenly she felt it to be a loss.

There was another portrait nearby, of four people with golden hair. She recognized her mother and Finrod both; the others must be Angrod and Aegnor. Tears prickled her eyes to see her mother's face. Her mother (not Galadriel yet: she would have been Artanis then) looked young and proud, untouched by the world, and so very familiar.

Celebrían looked at Finarfin (my grandfather, a touch of wonder in her thoughts) who was staring at the same painting as she: his children, two dead and one long lost. She had seen the look on his face before – it was her mother's expression too - and Celebrían ached.

“How many of those here have returned?” she asked.

His face was still. “Finrod only. Though I never left, nor my mother, nor my sister Findis. Both come to Tirion but rarely.”

“I grieve with you,” she said. And she did – not as Finarfin did, for what had been had lost, but for what might have been.

He sighed and lifted his arm as if to hold her, but paused. “May I?” he asked.

She froze and then nodded. She forced herself to not flinch away when he laid his arm over her shoulder, but then she relaxed. Despite everything, she felt comforted.

“Ara-” Celebrían paused, thought, and continued, “Grandfather, will you show me everyone?”

Finarfin's eyes were bright, but he nodded. She let him lead her around the room, and listened as he told her of her mother's family.

(As for why Finrod alone of the Finweans who left Valinor has returned in this universe, well, Luthien might have intimidated Mandos a bit...)

#celebrian #finarfin #my fic #meta

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dawnfelagund · 6 years

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Maedhros and/or Indis for the character meme?

@thecurseofhotfeet also asked for Maedhros, so I’ll go with him for now, but I also got an anon ask for Indis, so she’ll be along later in the week. :D

(Thank you, btw, for all the asks, everyone! I will get to them all, and yes, you can keep sending them! This was such an amazing gift to get me back into writing and thinking about Tolkien every day. ^_^)

Favorite Thing: His leadership. He exemplifies, to me, someone who knows what it means to be a leader. He certainly has a better grasp of this than his father, who was highly skilled in getting people fired up to do things but lacked Maedhros’s self-awareness and ability to act in a way that benefits his people rather than feeling right in the moment.

My favorite quote below says more about this.

Least Favorite Thing: He failed miserably at that leadership three times.

The kinslaying at Alqualondë can be seen as less of a leadership failing since Fëanor was still in charge, and one can read his resistance at Losgar as perhaps realizing too late that Fëanor was not entirely stable or acting in the best interests of his people. But the kinslayings at Doriath and Sirion are really unforgivable. He was the leader and in a position of influence to stop them, and he didn’t. The moral compass and willingness to sacrifice himself for the greater good that we see elsewhere isn’t to be found here.

Of course, this illustrates as well the power of the Oath, but I have never like absolving the Fëanorians of responsibility for their deeds on those grounds. Maedhros could have stood aside again and didn’t, and that’s a problem.

Favorite Line: From The Silmarillion, “Of the Return of the Noldor”:

That region was named thereafter the March ofMaedhros; for northwards there was little defence of hill or river against assaultfrom Angband. There Maedhros and his brothers kept watch, gathering all suchpeople as would come to them, and they had few dealings with their kinsfolkwestward, save at need. It is said indeed that Maedhros himself devised thisplan, to lessen the chances of strife, and because he was very willing that thechief peril of assault should fall upon himself; and he remained for his partin friendship with the houses of Fingolfin and Finarfin, and would come amongthem at times for common counsel.

This quote shows exactly what I was just saying about how he was generally willing to act for the greater good, even when he served to lose the most. Key to this, too, was that he had known the torments of Morgoth and was willing to risk them again in order to preserve others.

(See why this guy has fascinated me to write about for fourteen years now? Also why I grudge the kings of the hidden kingdoms for the accolades they receive, purchased in part by the sacrifices of characters like Maedhros?)

brOTP: Oh, Maglor, without a doubt. In the Felakverse, these two are closest in age, only eight years apart, whereas there are twenty-five years between Maglor and Celegorm (and twenty-six between Maglor and Fingon, the eldest cousin). So they are the equivalent of teenagers when their brothers and cousins are still kids. They are best friends and remain so throughout their lives, unfailingly loyal and devoted to each other.

OTP: I do have an unfailing soft spot for MaeFin. (Yep, keeping the old-school name for this pairing, no offense to Russingon.) I love stories about them, and despite myself, they have made it into my stories more than I ever intended, the Republic of Tirion (where they are canon) being the key example of this.

nOTP: Really, none? Okay … Maedhros and his mom. That would be weird and icky. But this guy has been paired and slashed with nearly everyone, and I’ve read quite a bit of them.

Random Headcanon: Finwë adored Fëanor but harbored no delusions about Fëanor’s suitability as king. And for all his noise about the succession, Fëanor didn’t really want to be king either. He wanted the symbolic place in his father’s family, not the responsibility and the sacrifice of the actual job. So Finwë started training Maedhros from a young age to take on this role, for when Finwë was ready to abdicate. It was never explicitly stated, but Fëanor saw what was happening and supported it. As such, Maedhros alone of the Fëanorians lived extensively in the city of Tirion and was involved in politics prior to the Darkening.

Unpopular Opinion: Well, I kind of started writing about Maedhros in the first place because I harbored an unpopular opinion, namely that the Fëanorians were not evil degenerates. What spurred me to open a blank Word document and start furiously typing the first chapter of AMC was a comment on a poem about Maedhros found on Fanfiction.net that said something like, “You’ve made me see that Maedhros is the true villain in The Silmarillion.” Like … what? Huh?? Maedhros???

I’ve never believed him–or Fëanor, or even the most misanthropic of his sons–to be evil. I think the story is about their fall and how it came about, and that is what makes The Silmarillion interesting (and scary) to me. (I tackle this subject in this blog post here.) At the same time, I’ve also never sought to absolve them of responsibility for their horrible deeds, which makes me unpopular also with the other side, the extreme Fëanatics. No, I am fascinated by how such an illustrious family could fall so far.

Which incidentally made me popular among many in the middle, but it continues (amazingly, to me) to be a controversial stance.

Song I Associate with the Character: Okay, so I am making a playlist on Spotify called “Maedhros and Fingon”! I’ve been working on it for months now without much to show. My absolute favorite song that I can’t hear without thinking of them, and Maedhros in particular? Fuel, “Hemorrhage (In My Hands).” I mean, listen to that and tell me that is about anything but Fingon rescuing Maedhros on Thangorodrim.

Favorite Image: Oh, there’s so many! Of all the Silm characters, I have the biggest crush on Maedhros. I do love me some beautiful Maedhros art. My most recent favorite: Maedhros with a Manbun by the inestimable @hrymfaxe. This is pretty much Maedhros relaxing after a day teaching middle school in the Republic of Tirion series while Fingon cooks them dinner.

#maedhros #silmarillion #tolkien

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