#silm fic
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"And Melkor entered his realm. And the Dark bowed before its Lord, and came apart in the light of Silmarilli. The creatures of the night prostrated themselves on the ground in hopes that they would be spared and his heavy gaze wouldn’t fall on them. Sauron bowed low, pinned down by the terror that like a cape was draped over the Fallen Vala. He relinquished all the power he held in his absence and laid it for him, as a servant must."
An illistraion for the "Play with fire" fanfic by @eternal-fear
#my art#silm art#silmarillion#the silm fandom#the silmarillion#melkor#sauron#play with fire#fireplay#the silm#silmarils#silm fic#silmart#fantasy art#fantasy character#silmarillion fanfiction#fanfic#fanfiction
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Avari cities whose entire populace all faded thousands of years ago.
The gates are open, yet you know you are watched as you walk in.
Surely that is the sound of a bustling marketplace around the bend? But no, you reach the square and its empty of life. The stalls are open, but none sell food.
You take a wooden knickknack from one stall. As you walk away you feel— thiefthiefshameguiltyguiltyTHIEF
You double back and leave a coin. The pressure fades.
On the counter of the inn is a mug of fresh beer, waiting for you. You leave a coin. No, two coins. This was generous.
You sit at an empty table and do not feel alone. You can almost hear the bawdy singing and smell the roasting pork.
The ale tastes like the farm in the dells where you danced with your husband in the wheat fields and kissed him below the endless stars and the bedroom where you promised your eternal soul to his and the floorboards he cut himself that you buried his empty shell under and the green door you closed behind you for the last time as you set out for something new and the eastward breeze that sometimes carries his voice out of the Uttermost West and the answers you’ll never give him
You were never married. You’re not thirsty anymore.
As you lie down in an empty room, nothing wishes you peaceful dreams.
You wake up. The bed is a mound of dirt. The inn is dust. The marketplace is stones and overgrowth. The gate is closed. The walls about it are gone.
In what might have been the rot of the stall you visited, no copper gleams. You take the toy you purchased from your pocket. The paint is still unchipped.
You leave through what might have been a watchtower, once. Remember, you do not hear it say.
#silmarillion#the silmarillion#lord of the rings#lotr#tolkien#worldbuilding#avari#stormwritten#silm fic
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It is not yet dawn when they break camp – so much as "dawn" means these days, when the northern skies are ever black with smoke and orcs roam freely in the wilds of broken Beleriand. There are few places left free of the Enemy's taint. Yet the smoke cannot cover all light; the rim of the sky is blushed pink, and the new star rises in the West.
Maglor looks to the light, as the children do: all three fall quiet. But Maedhros walks ahead, his hand on his sword-hilt, and sees nothing but the dark and treacherous path ahead.
For @maedhrosmaglorweek, Day 5: New Horizons
#elrond and elros snuck in again because i love them#maedhros#maglor#elrond#elros#maedhrosmaglorweek#silm art#silmarillion art#silmarillion fanart#tolkien art#silm fic#drabble
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Crack fic idea inspired by this post:
At his death, Boromir gets transported to First Age Beleriand, and upon finding out Sauron -what do you mean, "Mairon"? why does everyone have so many names?!- is around, he promptly joins the Feanorians in attacking Morgoth. His reasons?
No one, especially not some god who doesn't even have the courage to show his face is going to stop him from killing Sauron himself and saving his friends. He'll march in there alone if he has to.
The Feanorians have an eight-pointed star just like Gondor, so they are definitely trustworthy (also to him it seems like they're the only ones doing anything)
Someone responsible needs to take care of this disaster of a family, and he will adopt them if that's what it takes (what do you mean, of course it is absolutely not because he's missing his brother)
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There is a horn. It is nothing special, made from the tusk of some beast that Aredhel barely even recalls felling.
There had been many such beasts on The Ice after all.
The horn had found its way into her luggage and over so many restless nights watching over little Idril she had made it.
It does not compare to those that The Hunt had used in Aman, bound as it is with scant strips of leather and metalwork repurposed from a necklace that she could not wear on The Ice.
But it is hers. And it is precious, in a strange way.
She does not take it when she leaves her brother’s city. It remains, untouched, in her rooms.
It watches as she slowly fades from a poison bestowed by her husband.
The horn is given to her son, yet he has no use for it. A love of hunting and the great outdoors was not anything she passed on to her only child.
It is gifted to another, to a child borne of his cousin, a more precious gift than perhaps his cousin realises.
(One of the few pieces he has of his mother. A wish and a warning and an apology all at once.)
Somehow it survives the Fall. Somehow it ends up in Sirion.
It does not burn in the destruction. Nor is it taken by the Sons of Feanor as they take their hostages.
It lies, abandoned on the floor, until the King comes (too late) to the aid of the city.
There are too few survivors, but they can ill afford to leave any supplies behind. And besides, Gil-Galad can recall his cousin placing a strange solemn honour upon the hunting horn.
It sits, unused, until the Sons of Earendil are returned to their king, whereupon it, aged and yet bearing a presence is returned to them.
There is little argument over which of them gets that piece of their father when it is time for them to separate. The elder twin takes it, as he took their foster father’s sword. The younger is content with a silver harp and the book of their mother’s herblore.
Elros takes it with him. A symbol of his House, and honour for his heir to bear.
Down it goes, down down down the generations until there is little but a drop of Numenorian blood left in its bearer.
It crosses oceans and continents and Ages of the World, survives battles and sieges and the falls of Great Cities and Great Kings until all that is left is a Steward upon his throne sending a son to find answers for a dream.
Finally, on the shores of a river, overlooked by statues of the Kings of Old, the horn is blown for the last time.
It is blown to summon aid, to draw attention, to allow those it’s bearer would protect the chance to escape.
It takes three arrows to take down the horn’s bearer, and the Falls of Rauros to finally grant the horn rest.
The Horn of Aredhel Maeglin Earendil Elros Numenor Gondor is no more.
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Now rumour came to the camp in Hithlum of the march of Fingolfin and those that followed him, who had crossed the Grinding Ice; and all the world lay then in wonder at the coming of the Moon. But as the host of Fingolfin marched into Mithrim the Sun rose flaming in the West; and Fingolfin unfurled his blue and silver banners, and blew his horns, and flowers sprang beneath his marching feet, and the ages of the stars were ended.
~ "Of the Return of the Noldor", The Silmarillion
a little art throwback for the first day of @march-of-the-noldor
Two beautiful writings were created for this art:
Flowers sprang beneath his marching feet by @that-angry-noldo
Longed-for a poem by @searchingforserendipity25
#fingolfin#helcaraxe#arrival to beleriand#silm art#silm fic#march of the noldor#silmarillion#tolkien#nolofinweans
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charmed by the idea that celeborn does fade into a tree, a tall and gracious mallorn with silver leaves, deep of root and branches raised to live every season fully - up until the end of all ages, past dagor dagorath.
ony for galadriel to wake alone in arda unmarred, and go searching across the new seas and continents for her own tall tree.
it makes no difference. galadriel's hungry for knowledge, little pacified by the perfection of her surroundings when something from the past someone very like her once lived. it plucks at her, the lack, like a note in a harp repeated, a longing sound.
she will recognize it when she finds it, she knows - will know it in every shape, in the twist of bark and the glittering of sap; never mind this world is stranger and more alive than even valinor during the noontide, and little raw around the edges.
it is a fairy-tale search, with vague memories to guide her, and her burning will. white hounds guide her, and songbirds tempt her with the distraction of knowledge - and to twitter, chidingly, when she tries to surpass every quest and test with skill but a little too much hubris.
galadriel knows there is something of hers lost, something she has to find. she walks all the woods, and speaks to all the tree-shepherds. sometimes she thinks the leaves of tall tree shiver a little at her voice, turning to her; but none wake to greet her, and none are her tree.
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A flickering flame
She looks at the babe in her arms, blissfully asleep and unaware of the world he just entered. This little boy who shouldn’t be, her miracle and her curse.
Drained, she leans back against the pillows as the midwife cleans the room. It’s a sad place, to bring a child to life in, this rickety little cabin in the woods. And yet, it is the only way to keep her secret, to keep her son safe.
“Do you have a name for him?” the midwife asks quietly. It is not the first time she asks, and not the first time silence is her only answer.
No, she doesn’t have a name for her son, because she did not mean to have a son. Because, by any mean, he should not even exist.
Yet, exist he does, and his warm weight against her breast chases some of the pain and melancholy away. She presses a light kiss to his soft dark hair. His eyes are blue, for now, and she wonders if they will change to her own brown or stay as blue as his sire’s. She considered calling him his father, even if just in her heart, but the wound is still too fresh and the word stings at this gaping absence. He left her, alone with this tiny, flickering life; he does not desserves any other title than sire of her son. And yet…
And yet this is not her son, she muses, not entirely, for the life in him is brighter and stronger than it ought to be. This babe a mere hours old already has a keen gaze, his large eyes reflecting the light. She wonders if they will reflect the stars, if she brings him outside.
She does not have foresight, for this is a gift of the Eldar, but she knows her time with her son is limited. That she has to secret him away and rip yet another piece of her heart if she wants him to live. He does not belong to the green forests of Ladros and the villages scattered there. He is not destined to the simple life of the men of this land.
With a heavy sigh, she carefully lays her son next to her on the bed and asks the midwife for the paper and ink she packed with her own supplies. The letter is short and to the point, just cryptic enough that anyone unaware of her identity can’t understand the message. There is precious little wax in the cabin, but she sacrifices a bit of her candle to seal the letter before handing it to the midwife.
“Give this to the closest courrier you can find,” she says, an order despite her tired voice. The midwife nods and tucks the letter in her bag. She won’t speak, she knows.
***
The answer comes swifter than she expected, in the form of a tall, cloaked figure entering the cabin at night. She almost screams in fear, reaching for the knife on the bedside, before recognising the face half hidden by the hood. The bright eyes shine in the dim light of the lone candle.
“You called for me?” the figure asks, his voice melodious and fair. If she did not know the identity of her visitor, she could have mistaken his voice for another, beloved one, just for the faintest moment. But he is not him. She will never see him again and she thinks ‘good riddance’ even as her heart bleeds.
Mutely, she signals to the visitor to sit on the side of the bed, and places her son in his arms. “Take him to safety, my Lord,” she says. “Tell whatever lies you want about his origins but keep him safe with his kin.”
“But you are his kin, my friend,” he replies calmly, even as he rocks the babe in his arms. And what a picture it would be, to see this great Lord playing nursemaid, if the situation wasn’t so painful.
She shakes her head. “He may share my blood but not my soul; I can see it in his eyes. He belongs with you. Please, take him and tell no one the truth!” and she hates how her voice shakes, how she is reduced to beg to have her son taken away from her. But she cannot keep him, she knew that from the very moment she felt this little life growing within her.
Her visitor sighs softly in defeat, and even this sound is music. “Very well, my nephew has a young daughter and his wife is still nursing. They will be happy to call him their son.” And his words sound like a promise.
A knot loosens in her chest at the knowledge her son will be well cared for. “Thank you, my friend,” she whispers quietly. “But go now, before dawn comes. There is a basket with supplies for the babe on the table.”
The visitor raises, towering over the bed she has spent the last few weeks in, close to her son, and secures the still sleeping babe in a sling against his heart with the uttermost care. Yes, her son will be safe in these hands.
He is about to leave, basket in hand, when he pauses by the door and turns to look at her. “You never told me his name.” His voice is serious and his gaze piercing.
She looks back at him, calm and sure of herself for the first time since he entered the cabin. “Artanáro,” she says with a tight little thing of a smile. “For his life is bright as a flame.”
Her friend smiles faintly as he looks back and forth between her and the babe. “Artanáro. Yes, it suits him.”
#tolkien#the silmarillion#athrabeth finrod ah andreth#gil galad#gil galad son of plothole#finrod#andreth saelind#implied aegnor x andreth#silm fic#tolkien fic#my writing
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You are the daughter of an angelic faerie and an elven king. You have grown up inside the only magical safe-haven of an increasingly apocalyptic land outside. You have wanted for nothing, essentially leading the perfect life, suffering and death playing little role beyond the abstract. Your father will never die, and your mother will never leave, but for tradition you are still crown princess and are educated as such. You love to dance and to sing.
You meet some kind of monster inside your mother's borders, a monster not of her or your making. It stumbled across you, dancing in the forest, bloody and travel-worn and weary and wide-eyed as it stares. You are stronger than it, but you run rather than lunge for the kill. You feel pity, more than fear. And something about him makes the part of you that you inherited from your mother sing.
He tries to follow you, for a year and a day. You are stronger, and faster, and stealthier, and you let him see you sometimes anyways. You are not convinced that he is not a monster, but nor are you convinced that he is.
Spring blooms again to the tune of your song, and you let him get closer than before until you run.
But you hear him speak for the first time. He is a speaker, and perhaps to him you are the monster. You do not run, and you do not kill.
He calls you "Tinuviel"
He calls you nightingale- a little songbird, plain and brown, with a lovely voice. They are your mother's creation, but he does not know this.
He calls you daughter of twilight- perhaps for your skin and eyes and hair, but perhaps because that is when he has seen you most.
He calls you singer- creator of the very fabric of the universe, skilled enough to deserve the title.
You are the most beautiful creature the world will ever see, the daughter of an angel and a king. He does not call you beautiful, or angelic, or princess. He calls you a singer, plain and brown, dark and distant as the approaching night.
He is bloody and travel-worn and weary and wide-eyed as you dare to step closer.
He called you nightingale.
You don't know what to call him, but you hope to find out.
#my writing#my headcanons#headcanon#silm fic#lay of leithian#beren and luthien#luthien#luthien tinuviel#beren#eldritch peredhil#second person pov#sorry but the vibes demanded it#big kudos to that one post that went#'luthien probably stopped for beren bc he called her nightingale acknowledging her skill instead of her beauty'#bc that was a big inspiration here#luthien gets a lot of my love but THE RELATIONSHIP IS TWO SIDED#BEREN MAKES HER FEEL LIKE HERSELF AND I WILL NOT STAND FOR SLANDER#also incredible vibes that luthien canonically worries beren is an orc at first afaik#like maybe problematic but. an eldritch demigoddess going 'you look like you're on my parents kill list of monsters. oh well' speaks to me#not pictured is beren trying to pull himself together w/ internal screaming bc 1) that *should not have worked*#he is as smooth as sandpaper. he is a vegan hobo bogman who talks to animals and is traumatized and hasn't showered in months#2) the Creature that is Looking At Him with its head tilted and eyes pinning and stalking closer with fangs and talons out#should be doing much more for his survival instincts and much less for his libido than it is#beren is certifiably Doing His Best and i love him#banged this out in 10 minutes in a daze of blorbo squeezing lets see if people like it lol
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unhinged Fëanorians AU headcanons
idk if this is even an AU or if they’re just like this
Nelyo:
- Loyal
- The diplomat
- Actually goes fucking crazy after Thangorodrim
- Gives off genuinely the most terrifying energy
- Calculating af
- Will manipulate the shit out of you
- He doesn't look insane but then you get to know him and...
- Lowkey a cult leader (??)
- His followers are also ✨batshit✨
Kano:
- Lowkey the most powerful
- When he sings you think 'avenging angel'
- Not as dramatic as you would think
- Has a conscience
- 'I will make them in my image' energy with Elros and Elrond
- Surprisingly cunning
- Has a smile that will make your skin crawl
- Gentle hands, cruel words
Tyelko:
- Filled with rage pt 1
- Ruthless
- Backstabbing is fun for him
- He loves seeing that face of realization
- His laugh shouldn't make you feel so unsettled
- Cult leader pt 2
- By the end even Oromë is scared of what he's capable of
- Impossible to wrangle (even by Nelyo)
Moryo:
- Spiritually identifies with Pityo
- Smart af
- People try to use ósanwë on him but his mind is like a fortress
- Greed(TM)
- Arguably the least scary
- Rumors spread that he wasn't an elf and was actually a dragon
- Fëanor anti pt 1
- Used a massive fuck off axe in battle
- Fox-like
Curvo:
- Unsettling pt idek
- Conniving bitch of a man
- Vaguely antisocial
- Talks way less than you would think
- A good father for like 10 minutes
- Obsessed with lightning storms
- (Has been struck by lightning)
- Moves like a panther
- Raises one eyebrow
- #1 dad supporter
Pityo:
- Lightly crisp
- Didn't actually die at the burning of the ships
- Can no longer speak because of the scar patterns
- Feral af
- Hates that Nerdanel gave him and Telvo the same name
- Would (and has) punched several of his brothers and cousins
- Spiritually identifies with Moryo
- Everyone swears he’s invisible sometimes
- Slightly better hunter
- No mercy
- Filled with rage pt 2
Telvo:
- Also feral
- Dad always mixed him up with Pityo so they switch places sometimes
- Fëanor anti pt 2
- Slightly more diplomatic
- Develops sign language for Pityo
- Uses ósanwë to talk to Pityo
- (Also they use ósanwë to swap bodies)
- Vaguely terrifying
- Gives off creepy twin energy
- Telvo is the more unsettling of the two
Tyelpë:
- When you meet him you think he’s surprisingly normal
- Eyebrow raise pt 2
- Distinctly unimpressed constantly
- Lowkey thinks it might be fun to be evil for a minute
- Sometimes filed his fingernails into points for the vibes
- Filed his canines so they look like fangs
- Elros and Elrond are his favorite cousins
- Always stealing shit
- Sleight of hand ✨king✨
#silmarillion#silm fic#the silm fandom#silm headcanons#feanorians#maedhros#maglor#celegorm#caranthir#curufin#amrod#amras#celebrimbor
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Noldor Hair Headcanons (3/4)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3
Some lighter Kidnap Fam content, after the downhill freefall that was the last chapter. With a dash of Finrod in Valinor.
Elrond and Elros have never had their hair braided when they end up with Maedhros and Maglor.
They don’t realize what they’re asking when Elros grabs a hairbrush and puts it in Maglor’s hand.
Maglor understands that, but decides that the twins need parental care, even though he has no right. He brushes their hair and leaves it loose at first.
But the twins have watched Maglor braid Maedhros’s hair and they soon start asking for more interesting hairstyles.
Eventually Maglor explains to them that it can only be done by family.
The twins have a whole silent conversation.
“What does it take to be family?” Elros asks eventually.
Well, braiding an unrelated child’s hair is pretty close to informal adoption.
Elros forces the brush into Maglor’s hand again.
Maglor stares.
Elrond shakes his head and runs out.
Of course, Elrond must hate them. He has every right. Sure, Elros has started to warm up to them, but that’s just because he’s affection-starved, probably. They’re still kidnappers.
Maglor is about to put down the brush and try to refuse when Elrond comes back.
He’s holding a second hairbrush.
He hands it to Maedhros expectantly.
Maedhros cries.
Maglor cries.
The twins’ hair really doesn’t hold braids very well, and they’re still kids who run around and play, but damn them if Maglor and Maedhros aren’t going to do their best.
Now all of their people can see that the twins are well-loved.
Maedhros and Maglor also proudly sport a few clumsy, wonky braids each.
They’re less wonky with time, and eventually the twins are doing their fathers’ (kidnappers’) hair as often as not.
Finrod is reembodied shortly before Eärendil and Elwing gets to Valinor. It’s too early and he’s Not Doing Well. While in Middle Earth, he was the one who let basically every one of his friends braid his hair, now he can’t stand the thought of someone touching him that way.
But Beleriandic battle braids feel wrong in Tirion. And he’s desperately trying to reckon with his trauma, with Sauron defeating him by singing about the kinslaying, so he can’t leave his hair loose like the Teleri.
And he can’t quite get the sight of Edrahil’s bloody braids spat out by a werewolf out of his head.
He wears nothing but the very strange-looking (to Amanyar) Mourning Braids he designed after Dagor Bragollach for a couple of years.
Then after an episode of really bad depression and nearly fading, he cuts his hair short.
No-braiding-possible kind of short.
While not unheard of in Beleriand (sometimes former thralls keep their hair very short, like Rog), it’s unthinkable in Valinor, especially for the Crown Prince of the Noldor.
He is stared at a lot, his reputation goes down the drain, but to Finrod it’s liberating.
He does let his hair grow out again eventually, but only when other Exiles start coming back and choose to keep the Beleriandic braid styles, and it becomes a fashion statement rather than a mark of shame.
Finarfin is Very Shocked arriving in Beleriand when he finds his (single remaining) child with her hair loose and everyone else with weird self-braided battle hairstyles.
After a battle or three where he ends up with his hair matted with blood and mud, he caves and gets Galadriel to give him battle braids.
By the end of the war he’s even learned to do them himself! Let it not be said that King Arafinwë Ñoldóran didn’t rise to his calling.
The night before sending the Elrond and Elros to Gil-galad, Maedhros and Maglor undo all of their braids. Everyone cries.
Maedhros and Maglor meant this to minimize the ‘taint’ their names would put on the twins, by making it look like they were still hostages to the end, but the twins stop on the way to do each other’s hair because one does not meet a king with their hair loose, they have manners (which the Fëanorians taught them, so they’re Very Specific Manners), so the effect is lost. Gil-galad has Questions. The twins refuse to lie.
Then, before going to steal the Silmarils, Maedhros and Maglor do each other’s hair, in a style of their father’s that they haven’t worn since the Oath.
Maglor braids a single golden ribbon into Maedhros’s hair.
They have very few pieces of hair jewellery left of their brothers’, but they use all of them.
They both know it’s the last time.
To be continued
I did some sketches for visual reference of a few of the hairstyles mentioned here, if you want to see what I'm imagining!
#noldor hair headcanons#if i am to braid my mystic crown#noldor#maedhros#maglor#elrond#elros#finrod#kidnap fam#silmarillion#silm fic#tolkien#tolkien fanfiction#echo's fanfiction
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Some of the many thoughts I had whilst reading the Silmarillion:
"What the fuck?!", "you can't be serious", "DON'T DON'T!", "oh dear lord", "hear we go", "you absolute idiot", "Why? Just Why?", "Well I'm now depressed", "Oh I like him (dies) OH F*CKING COME ON", "(another character dies) another bites the dust", "does no one here have a brain cell?", "well maybe it can't get any wor- JESUS WEPT HOLY SH*T!!!"
#my art#my blog#my thoughts#silmarillion#manwe#ainur#melkor#middle earth#the silmarillion#valar#silmarillion fandom#silm fic#silm#maglor#maedhros#feanor#tolkien elves#the silm fandom#silm au#oromë#varda#silm art#maiar#aule#ulmo#turin#mairon#tolkein#jrr tolkien#lord of the rings
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Thing I want to see more of in Silm fic: all the weird unexplainable shit that's in The Hobbit and LotR.
Where are Beleriand's instant-sleep rivers, and semi-sapient angry mountains, and doors that only open on a single day of the year when a thrush crunches a snail nearby, and Old Forests (ok that's probably just Nan Elmoth), and foxes passing through the wood on business of their own, and lakes that let you see a crown of stars, and nameless things gnawing the roots of the world, and Tom Bombadils?
#silmarillion#the silmarillion#tolkien#silm fic#stormthinken#seriously what's Tom up to in the First Age#probably the exact same thing he's up to in the Third Age now that I think about it
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breakdown/mending
“I cannot do this,” says Makalaurë, breaking his own stilted attempt at a formal greeting, and crumples like a cloth doll at my bedside.
It is the first time he has come alone. He slipped into the tent early this morning, hollow-eyed in the grey light; now he screams into my blankets, and the medicine-bottles tremble upon the low table.
(Of all my brothers, Makalaurë was ever the quickest to tears. He wept for lost toys and stories, for quarrels between brothers and grievances not his own, for beautiful songs and unexpected gifts – but not like this. Not over me.)
“Káno, Káno,” I say, the nickname strange and rough in my mouth. “Why come here, if the sight of me upsets thee so?”
It is meant as a joke, but I know at once it is wrong: it is too near the truth. Angamando, I am told, has warped my sense of humour.
“I am sorry,” Makalaurë sobs, straining for control of his voice. “This is not – I did not come to thee for this–”
His hands twist in the tangle of his hair, pulling at his scalp as he used to when he was very small and upset. “Stop, Káno, you will hurt yourself,” I tell him – but I am too harsh, and he flinches.
I knew how to calm him, once. Remembering is like looking through poorly-made glass, smoke-tainted and full of imperfections; but I know there was once a bright-haired, handsome child who held his little brother tight and stroked his hair while he cried.
That child, I think, would know what to do.
Even slow and halting movement jars my shoulder painfully. Still I reach for Makalaurë, thinking to take his hand – but I cannot do it. Touch is hateful to me now, the healers’ ministrations all my fragile skin can bear. A glancing touch, and against my will my hand draws back – my fingers shake, bone-white and too thin – I dare not try again.
It would not do any good. My scars are the cause of my brother’s distress: he looks at me as if he had cut every mark himself. How, then, could I be a comfort to him?
This is how I know myself changed: Makalaurë weeps before me, and I cannot console him.
@maedhrosmaglorweek, Day Two: Trust/Distrust
#this one got away from me a bit#maedhrosmaglorweek#maedhros#maglor#post-thangorodrim#silm art#silm fic#silmarillion art#tolkien art#silmarillion fanfiction
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Miscalculation
Dear Morifinwe,
I recently had the privilege of reading your treatise on Dwarven tariffs and found it fascinating reading indeed. I don’t suppose you hear that often. However, I was wondering if you could perhaps clarify the situation on the 36th page, just under the table of tares of standard shipping containers. I was under the impression when one converted between ounces and gallons (which, why aren’t you using liters as a standard unit of liquid measurement??), the multiplier is 0.0078126, but you have it listed as 0.0078125. Does the Naugrim measure alcoholic liquids differently? As you have only two sentences describing the conversion of Dwarvish mead, I can not determine whether it is a typographical error or if I have been misinformed. If the latter is the case, any more explicit suggestion or direction would be appreciated since (as I have pointed out) your explanation in the paper is relatively brief.
Sincerely yours,
Turukano
Dear Turukano,
I am delighted that you enjoyed my protocols for trade in East Beleriand! In regards to your question about whether dwarves measure alcohol differently than other liquids, no Turno, an ounce is an ounce. You have been misinformed. The conversion factor is indeed 0.0078125.
Thank you,
Carnistir Morifinwe,
Dear Moryo,
Thank you for the quick and brief reply. However, I digress, the conversion multiplier is 0.0078126. It was that in Tirion, and it is that now. Please explain your computations.
Looking forward to your reply,
Turukano
Dear Turno,
I am the one who devised that conversion. I don’t need to prove my work to you because I came up with it in the first place. Any possible discrepancies are due to rounding errors. The conversion is valid.
Carnistir
Dear Moryo,
I am well aware that you first calculated the conversion between ounces and gallons. I sat on the council that granted you the defense of such a claim, and if you will recall, I questioned your math then. You were wrong in Tirion, and you are wrong now.
Awaiting your reply,
Turgon
Turgon,
How delightful to know you remember our time together at the Royal Academy of Arts and Sciences. I have no recollection of your involvement in my defense, but I really try to avoid thinking of you. Were you there? I thought you were too busy being henpecked by the campus gulls to accomplish anything, research or otherwise.
Carnistir
Moryo,
I generally thought you were one of the better brothers; don’t be an ass. Just admit you are wrong.
Sincerely,
Turgon Turukano,
Lord of Nevarast,
High Prince of the Noldor
My dearest Turukano,
What a lovely title that is. Quite fitting for your already overinflated ego, but I genuinely hate to remind you that you are a second son and not, in fact, the High Prince of anything. Unless, of course, condolences are in order, then I also do not care because I find your brother infuriatingly obnoxious. I would feel for Nelyo, though.
Yours,
Moryo
Dear Carnistir,
Nelyo…remind me, is that your eldest brother or our grandfather? I can never remember who was born first, him or my father. Regardless, he’s ancient and an inappropriate match for my brother.
But I beseech you, dearest cousin. Please take a look at your defense from Tirion. I believe there is a note regarding the conversion on the final copy. I don’t have a copy with me, but I am sure you must have kept one for yourself.
Yours,
Turgon
My darling Turno,
At least we agree on one thing. Fingon and my brother are terrible for one another.
I do happen to have a copy in my archives. I will check for this mythical correction and have my scribe translate a copy for you. I will enclose it in my next reply, as it’s rather embarrassing to doubt the work of scholars.
With love,
Moryo
Turukano,
Fuck you. There was no correction; the rate has always been 0.0078125. This exchange has been a complete waste of my time, and I will implore Himring to approve an additional one point five percent tax on all limestone coming from and all other goods going to Vinyamar.
Sincerely,
Morifinwe
Despite all of Caranthir’s immense irritation, the final letter to Nevarast is returned some months later by an exhausted raven. Shortly thereafter, he receives word from Hithlum that Turgon and one-third of the Noldor forces in West Beleriand have disappeared.
@silmarillionepistolary
For @cilil (who suggested Caranthir and Tax Day as a prompt) and @dalliansss (who originally did the heavy lifting on building Caranthir’s taxation empire).
Miscalculation (on AO3)
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Dior's doomed *shrugs*
#silmarillion#elf#lotr#tolkien#maedhros#sons of feanor#the hobbit#the silmarillion#silm fic#silm art#the silm fandom#maglor#dior#middle earth#valinor#house of finwe#noldor#sindarin#jrr tolkien#doriath#tolkien elves#hobbit#elves gone wrong#elves behaving badly#here be elves
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