well maybe the world would be a better place if I stopped talking, but that's just unrealistic so heres a part 8 of dumb shit I've said as Tolkien characters >:)
curufin to maedhros: tall people better shut the fuck up or I'm gonna bite a bitches ankles
Maglor: my body wasnt made for excersie, my body was made for drinking cranberry juice like its red wine bcos I can't stand the taste of alcohol
thingol: why do people hate me? I get that I'm easily detestable but come on cut me some slack
fingolfin, seconds before morgoth kills him: I mean this in the most offensive way possible, but you radiate Tory energy. its gross.
luthien: when I fall in love, its gonna be so much. like, it's just gonna be a lot. for both of us. poor lass
Maedhros in angband: this is, hands down, the second most terrible thing to ever happen to me. the worst? my panic at the disco and twenty one pilots phase. more humiliating than anything these mf's can throw at me
maeglin: I'm iron deficient, I'm a god. I am untouchable and innovative, I could not win a physical fight. I am the most indescribabley beautiful person ever, and I am very unattractive.
Aredhel: my coping mechanism is just leaving. things are too much? pack ur bags lads we moving
Finarfin: anyone want to sit in a field of flowers in pretty dresses and bitch about their life together? it can be a date <3
Ingwe: people ask me why I dont argue with authority figures, and the answer is simple. they terrify me. I am, simply put, afraid of them in every way possible. hope that clears things up
feanor: will people stop telling me I'm short? it's not revolutionary, this isnt new knowledge, get over urself
Nerdanel, after her stupid family leave: surely, if Nerdanel the WISE is staying, it must be at least worth considering??? are you dumb??
Caranthir: cant believe I have hayfever. I'm really getting beaten up by a plant fr
Reasons why Feanor is at least partly Jrrt's self insert...
Here is a person who tragically lost his mother at a young age, and whose interests, worldview and personality were profoundly impacted by the things which were important to her. Pursuing those things, and keeping them alive as a significant part of his life became an emotional comfort mechanism.
He then creates a character who lost his mother at a young age, and whose interests, worldview and personality were profoundly impacted by the things that were important to her, and keeping her memory alive at all costs becomes an emotional comfort mechanism.
Obviously his character ended up with a very different arc, but I can't believe that Tolkien did not intend for Feanor to be at least partly a sympathetic character, when it seems he was writing from experience and they shared the same kind of trauma.
Pronounced “Day-red.” This is the Old English name of Maitimo Russandol, better known as Maedhros. The “daeg” bit does actually mean day, and could be used as a poetic way of saying “top” or “above” (See “Vom Tag”, lit. “Of the Day”, a high guard position used in HEMA). So Daegred is the Russandol part.
This leaves Wisterhand for Maitimo. I found all this out while trying to come up with a Modern English version of this name. This is where I found this entry in Parf Edhellen (not sure of the original source):
Q. adjective. handy, skillful, having a hand, handed, shapely, *[ᴹQ.] skilled, *[Q.] having a hand
Now the obvious meaning should be the “Shapely” part, refering to his sexiness, and this is the most common gloss. But at the same time, THE GUY WITH ONE HAND HAS A NAME MEANING “GUY WITH A HAND.” He does indeed have a hand.
There was a post here a while ago about how you could make “Maitemo” (hand-guy) as a pun on his name, but now I don’t even think it’s a pun. Amilessi are usually chosen with foresight, so this is probably Nerdanel’s sick sense of humour again. I can’t tell if this is a worse name than “Dad jr.”, “Acne”, or “Cursed” though. And I know jirt probably did this on purpose because of the “hand” bit in “wisterhand”. How did he resist the temptation to point this out somewhere? Did CT not notice it, or does he point it out somewhere in HoME and I haven’t seen it yet?
“Wist”, in Old English, means “food or other provisions”, which seems a bit weird. However, “wistful” meant “well-supplied”, which I can definitely see, and which evolved into meaning “bountiful.” Hence “Well-shaped”, the common gloss, and, I shit you not, “Many-hands.” Comedy gold, Ronald, comedy gold.
Which brings me to the modern meaning of “Wistful”: “having a vague or regretful longing”, an amalgam of “wishful” and “wistly”: with intent, close attention.” Wiktionary says “[p]ossibly an alternative form of whistly”, which means “silently”, (Or, I suppose, “discreetly” -> “subtle” -> “detailed”) but I think that coming from this “wist” is more likely, through the phrase “had I wist”: regret for something done in heedlessness or ignorance, vain regret.
Something done without heed, in ignorance, like, perhaps, swearing an unbreakable oath of hatred while dancing in a circle, laughing? Or, perhaps, hunting down innocent refugees, making alliances with traitors, leading your people and close friends to absolute ruin, letting yourself get kidnapped and tortured by an obvious enemy, burning down cities, abandoning children in the woods in the dead of winter, regicide, abandoning your family in exile in the Arctic, destroying priceless cultural treasures, getting your brothers brutally murdured/maimed, etc.? Remind you of anyone?
That’s not really related to the actual etymology, just food-for-thought. Or, perhaps, wist-for-heed. If you ever find yourself going on important journeys, make sure you have enough provisions, and take heed of what dangers may lie ahead. You don’t want to end up wistful, do you?
Besides, the excess might come in handy.
I’ve seen this interpretation floating around here, and my brain went absolutely feral about it. Idril Celebrindal but make the “Silverfoot” part LITERAL. It’s a galaxy brain idea and I refuse to acknowledge anything else from now on.
Lol you can tell I didn’t spend any time trying to figure out how those joints work, like, at all. Take the Aesthetic and go.
How do you pronounce Maeglin? I used to pronounce it like May-glin but after reading the pronunciation guide I found out that ae sounds like ai so I’ve been saying it as My-glin (and My-thros for Maedhros) but I heard someone pronounce it like May-glin in a video and now I’m confused.
Of course Maglor had heard about Elrond, the wise master healer of Lindon. Of course he had heard about the kingdom of Númenor and he realized that Elros had been the first king.
But somehow, Maglor had forgotten to care. The grief over the lost jewels, lost brothers, and the lost purpose of life had been all he could focus on for a long time. And it would surely have consumed him by now, if it hadn't been for the two short encounters with the Atani.
But now it was time to stop running away from himself.
Was he doomed to stay here until the End? Yes.
Was he all alone? Yes.
But whose fault it really was?
Everyone's. No one's.
Truly, Maglor was alone, as lonely as an unknown wandering stranger can be. But for the first time in many years he realized there still might be those who sometimes look upon the stars or over the sea, and wonder: Where is the Minstrel? What is he doing right now?
Or perhaps they do not wonder at all. One thing was for sure, though – he would never know until he goes to see for himself.
Maglor suspected the sea would not let him cross the distance to Númenor. He would probably never make it there. Still, he traveled to the ports, to all the harbors which ever saw the sails of the Isle of Elenna, to at least try. But as expected, invisible hands always held him back, silent whispers brought by the western wind always lured him away from the ships.
All he could do after years of this fruitless effort was buy a piece of parchment and ink. He wrote the letter during one winter and finished it in the spring, crafting each word with care.
He felt reluctant to send it, though, and was filled with doubt when he was about to hand the writing to the Dúnedain sailing west. Maglor wondered whether there was still something he should add; he was not certain he was entitled at all to send letters to the kings of Númenor. After having heard about the wisdom and deeds of Tar-Minyatur and his descendants, he felt humiliated and useless. He felt ashamed of himself that he hadn't even tried to reach Elros and his kin earlier, when it had been still possible.
But not just that.
Even if a small part of the stories told about his foster son and his kin was true, Maglor realized he had contributed to it all in his own way. The time he and Elros had spent together had been short, too short for his current liking, but it had been intense and worthwhile. And this sudden sparkle of fatherly pride in his heart was enough to finally dispel the insecurity, and made Maglor drop the letter to the hands of the royal mariner.
He was alone again when he watched the ship leave the port; on a cliff away from the city gates.
Maglor had decided not to wait for a possible answer. He had attached instructions for it, however, he did not really expect any – he had not made any requests or claims in his writing, after all, and he had not signed it with his name. All he had intended was to express gratitude and add some final missing pieces to the personal history of the first king.
Thus whispering a quick prayer to Ulmo and Varda, he looked one last time at the flying banners of Númenor, and turned east.
Strange visions accompanied him on his way, and he wondered whose doing it was. Was it still the Doom of the Noldor? Or could it be his personal curse he had once called upon himself should he ever break the Oath? Perhaps something else entirely, as his journey was hard, but he was still able to go on. The invisible strings that tied him to the shore and kept him from sailing west did not hold him back this time.
But as he continued, the forest darkened and closed over him, so he could not tell the day from the night. What was the meaning of this? Perhaps he was not worthy to see Elrond, either. Or was it an ordeal he had to pass, to be allowed to speak to his kin? After all, many of the Noldor had been forgiven after having passed cruel ordeals of their own, Maglor thought and recalled the melodies of the Lay of Leithian. And with his withered voice, he started to sing, quietly but with a firm resolve that helped him keep his pace, even if his visions encircled him, trying to choke his song down.
He stumbled many times, but kept going. When he fell, he rose again. And when he got to the part that spoke about the great courage of Finrod Felagund, Maglor felt his voice grow stronger, the echo of it coming back to him clean and unshaken. It poured back the strength into his whole being, and the trees and their protruding roots seemed to move back from him on their own accord.
However, his voice failed him when he got to the darkness growing in Valinor – to his father, his brothers, even himself killing the Falmari. Maglor remembered his own heart bleeding over the deeds, regretting for uncountable times all those decisions and events. A desperate cry left his throat as his legs gave out and he fell, just like Finrod before Sauron's throne.
Unable to tell the reality from this vivid nightmare he felt a presence, an intense gaze upon him, piercing and burning.
“What do you want to accomplish here?” Maglor asked in a wild, raging defiance. “You have nothing left to take from me. From this point, I can only gain, and I will, when my time comes!” He cried, raising his head high to look the threat in the eye.
He saw the Enemy's face loom over him, the inner cruelty and twisted nature spoiling its original fairness.
“You cannot break me any further, and you won't, just like you did not break him. Finrod now lives in the light of the West, and you will never reach him again. It is you who shall fall!” He shouted and all he could do afterwards was cover his face from a sudden blaze of heat. Strong gale pushed him back and tugged violently at his hair and clothes, tearing his cloak apart.
He screamed against it, clutching the tree trunks and protruding roots in despair, the splinters of wood biting into his bare hands and face, but he would not let go. Not like this, when he was so close. „It is you who shall fall,” he repeated stubbornly, almost choking on the wind. “And we will watch!”
One last cry, and it was over.
Maglor sank slowly to the quiet ground, nestled between the massive roots and just lay there. As he watched the newfound daylight play between the branches overhead, his eyes started to close. Listening peacefully to the high whistling noise in his ears, he felt a sweet tiredness take over him. And he did not protest.
An illustration for my Tolkien-inspired story. This depicts one of Calnira's most cherished memories-teaching little Arínion how to dance. Mélarina and Morwë are watching in full contentment.
It's done (and I'm crying internally). I love everything about this piece. From the warm lighting, the stone ground/wall, the ivy, and of course, the beautiful night sky. I was hoping to do all of this on CSP, but I had to use my custom PS cloud brush on this (and CRF just really helps the colours pop).