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amethysttribble · 7 months

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If You Hold a Silmaril-

Things might get a little weird.

On the night which Thingol first held the Silmaril, he dreamed of Finwe.

He saw his friend standing beneath Laurelin and Telperion, laughing in wonder. 'Elwe!' he called, 'Elwe, isn't it beautiful?'

Thingol didn't get the chance to reply, because the seasons of Valinor which he had never seen passed them by swiftly, and the light of the Trees which had so touched him changed and Finwe changed, too. His features softened, his stature lessened, the gleam in his eyes grew brighter.

In a soft voice, he asked, "Isn't it beautiful?" Laurelin and Telperion winter-dead behind him and a Silmaril cupped in his palms, presenting.

"Yes," Thingol agreed with a smile.

---

Beren never held the Silmaril for long; at least, not outside the wolf's stomach. He took the stone in hand once, twice, thrice, always just trying to convey it to its next location, it's new owner. He was fine with this.

He would never forget how his own hand had look in Carcharoth's stomach- first perfectly preserved, and then naught but dust once disturbed. Felagund had once recounted the Sons of Feanor's oath to him, and the line about 'mortal hands' had stuck out.

Beren did not trust the thing. He did not trust the lullaby that had teased his ears since he first pried the burning thing from the crown of darkness. Never could he hear the words clearly, but when he tried to provide reason to that sweet, haunting melody, he ascribed that Oath of Feanor. He was pretty sure he was wrong, though.

He was especially sure he was wrong about the lullaby when he draped the Nauglamir over his fingers and pondered what to do with it.

___

Earendil sang with the Silmaril. Old songs and new songs, Quenya songs and Sindarin songs; Elvish songs, Mannish songs, and songs from before either of their times. There was little else to do while sailing on the rim of the world.

They'd become friends, the two of them.

___

Melkor held three Silmarils, for a time. Even at his poorest, he possessed two. That voice and light was hewn into his very being. So much so that his eyes and ears- which were constructions, falsehoods, empty veneers- tricked him.

He grew used to the shadows haunting every corner of his eyes. The whispers which came from every direction.

For him, there was no singing, no memories.

There were taunts, jeers, and laughter, because he and dear Feanaro were cut from the same cloth, and there was nothing spirits like them hated more than being mocked. Melkor knew this well, had used this well, and so he did not react. Did not provide the satisfaction to Feanaro.

Because he had been the one to bring Feanaro low, he was the one who won.

So even when his feet were cut from under him, and that little fey thing that only he could see looked down at him, smirk split over his unreal face, triumph in those eyes, Melkor didn't care.

He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't CARE-

Feanor laughed and all of Morgoth's screams couldn't drown it out.

---

The first time Luthien held the Silmaril was when her husband, brow knit in worry, handed her the Nauglamir.

"Interesting," she said.

"I think there is some fairy within it," Beren said, quoting the legends of his youth. "When your father and the Dwarves of Nogrod were moved to madness, I thought it a demon, but after holding it myself for a time... Perhaps not. Perhaps it has ensorcelled me as well."

"So not evil?" she asked, though already well-sure of her assumptions. No, not evil, just-

"Not good either," Beren grumbled, crossing his arms. "But, no. That's why I now think it to be a fairy."

"I agree," Luthien said, bringing the pretty thing up meet her eyes. She had never understood the allure while hearing tales or while retrieving this creation, but holding him, feeling him, she felt she might understand.

He was very warm, and very bright, and the scope of him was so very wide and colorful and varied. And this was just one Silmaril? Luthien was starting to understand how love for such a father could turn a son to such evil. This could also inspire greatness.

"Not evil, not good, just very strong in who he is. Quite the fairy, indeed. I think, if minded correctly, a great blessing."

___

Silmaril in hand, Maedhros heard only one thing: a call of recognition, wreathed in infinite sorrow and regret.

My son!

He wanted to hear no more.

___

Carcharoth burned. He cried. He wanted this to end.

There was something within that hated him. Furious and heated. It tasted like the sky at first, like the slight sting of stars except worse, and then it grew worse still.

At once, the fire within was both hot and cold, tasting of his master's Ainur fury and the slaps of the Orcs which fed him as a pup. Both his spirit and his flesh burned. It hurt so badly.

He wanted it to stop, why wouldn't it stop, wouldn't master return and make it stop?

What was this crystallized flame he'd swallowed, where had it come from, why would anyone make such a thing? Carcharoth could not understand, would never understand, especially when it cried, Foul imitation.

His bane rejoiced when the puny wolfhound appeared again, and Carcharoth's last joy was killing that holy lapdog. Then the pain flared even brighter, all heat and fury and hatred, and he faltered. He, the Red Maw. He howled in pain around the Man in his mouth, and his Elven prey struck.

He was almost grateful to the Elves.

___

Varda, completely taken with her own designs and creations, happily humming to herself, actually didn't notice anything of note.

___

Dior grew up on stories of the Silmaril.

Hearing of wicked Feanorions and the massive wolf and the Great Enemy's palace. The eagles and horseback duels and the hand. On rare occasions, his grandfather had showed the treasure to him, but it wasn't often and never for very long.

So, suffice to say, when he and his father recovered the Nauglamir bound Silmaril, he was awe-struck.

For the last year of her life, his mother wore that necklace, and he often told her that she was beautiful, and looked healthier in that light, and she seemed to keep laughing at private jokes. She'd wink at him. Luthien was very lively in that last year, especially for an old Woman, but it did not stop her from lying in bed with Beren as he died, and slipping away in the same heartbeat.

The Silmaril lay forgotten in a drawer when they went.

Dior retrieved it as he packed up their house, their life, and prepared to make for Doriath. This was the first time he'd ever held it, because his father was wary of the thing, his grandfather possessive of the thing, and his mother a funny kind of person. As he trailed his fingers over the warm, glowing gem, he did not think it deserved all the fuss.

His mother once said there was a fairy within that gave advice that was not strictly good or bad, just mad, mad, mad. And grand. As Dior entered beautiful, wild, Elvish Doriath, he felt he could use a little madness and grandness both.

He put it on.

And there was the lullaby his father spoke of, and there was the tricksy warmth his mother traded japes with, and there was the strength of will that always kept his revered grandfather's countenance so tall and straight. Dior smiled, and asked Nimloth how he looked, breathing a little bit easier. Feeling a little more confident.

Dior felt like a real Elf-king when he wore the Silmaril.

___

Mablung held the Silmaril for the briefest of moments, and still felt the world shift.

Or maybe the world did not shift. Maybe he shifted. Moved slightly to the left on the plane of Arda. Drawn slightly closer to his spirit, the world's; spirit of an Ainu.

Because after that brief moment of possession, the colors of the world were brighter. The sounds sharper. The smells richer. The tastes deeper. Was this how it was in Valinor, he wondered.

Or was this something unique. Was it the appeal of the Silmarils? Why they were so coveted?

He still did not understand why they were worth the death and blood and suffering of so many. So the world was greater and vaster and there was now a taste in his mouth that urged him to seek that world and understand it and bend it.

No, he would not do that. He was loyal to his king and home. And he would fight for the Silmaril if heeded, but it was with great reluctance. The Silmaril had touched him and he did not like it.

Mablung supposed some would feel blessed, but he just felt tainted. Violated. Who would want such a thing?

___

Hanar was a craftsman of Nogrod, a disciple of Gamil Zirak. Not as renowned as Telchar was he, but still respected, still well-known, still good enough to receive the invitation to King Thingol's court. He was given a special job.

Though his heart pounded with envy at seeing all his people had wrought occupied and hoarded by Elves, especially the Nauglamir- which bore that foul name for his people though they made that beautiful thing- he was a reasonable person. An honorable dwarflord. He accepted the terms of the deal and got to work. He accepted the Silmaril.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

This was delicate work, his hammer remained stored away, but his pounding heart filled the void. He evaluated the shape of the Silmaril, turned it over in his hands and contemplated how to hold such beautifully wrought facets without defacing it.

Hanar felt that the gem in his hands understood his task. His care in fulfilling it. As he unwound the Nauglamir and nestled the Silmaril within, it offered advice, as if from one craftsman to another.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Into the silver and steel, the twinkling gems and the burning Silmaril, he poured himself. He slaved over this project for many weeks, scarcely sleeping, eating. The Silmaril rejoiced with him, crying, So long its been since I helped make something! So much I have missed it! Thank you, thank you!

Together, they worked.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

When complete, Hanar held their new creation and wept. Such a masterpiece he created in the merging of two previous masterpieces. It surpassed the work of Telchar. Why, it might even have surpassed his master.

And his masterpiece, it had helped him bring itself to fruition. It thanked him for giving it life. They were friends now.

How could anyone ask Hanar to give this up to unappreciative hands? How?

No smith of any artistry could.

___

When Finwe first beheld the Silmarils, cupping each reverently in his hands one-by-one, he knew what he had been gifted immediately.

He kissed his beloved son and smiled sadly as he said, "Are you still so scared of your mother's fate?"

Feanaro denied it, but Finwe knew the truth.

___

If Mairon could grind the Silmarils down into dust, he would.

His beloved master returned home with them in hand, burning in hand, burning down to the soul so that the wound could not be wiped away. They were beautiful and powerful. At the time, the prospect excited Mairon. His master tasked him with forging a crown for his prizes, and he'd grinned in excitement.

What creations, what strange creations, smithed by an Elf? Mairon could not wait to break them down and build them back better and recieve praise for his genius.

Except... Except.

Except, that proved... difficult. Difficult, at first, it was just +difficult. Why couldn't he cut into them? Alter them with temperature? Remove that pesky burning? Why could Mairon not peer inside and break down the molecular structure and understand?

He didn't understand. What was he working with? He couldn't understand!

His master issued a warning when he took too long to make the crown, and Mairon was forced to retreat.

It wasn't a defeat. It wasn't impossible for him to alter, to better the Silmarils, it wasn't. He would recreate them.

Then master would see that he was the better smith than this Elf. Maybe the first try didn't work. Maybe the second didn't either. And the third, fourth, fifth-

Mairon screamed and raged and razed his smithy to the ground, taking a dozen servants with it.

He tried again. Not light, but darkness. Something more fitting for his master's reign! And then he'd give up on the Silmarils. He only had two now, why did he even still care?

He would keep trying and trying and trying and trying-

Mairon would dissect Curufinwe Tyelperinquar as many times as it took, physically, mentally, alive or dead, as many times as it took to understand.

___

Elwing really knew nothing of the Silmaril but what she learned herself.

There was no one to tell her what the Silmaril had whispered to them, shown them. Many hands it had gone through, and not one was around to impart any wisdom. She wasn't frightened of this gift, though.

On her twentieth birthday, her people draped the Nauglamir, Silmaril front and center- around her neck and named her queen. Elwing took on the Silmaril and was struck with familiarity.

It sung her a song that she recognized. It was the one that soothed her as she was spirited away from Menegroth, silver and diamond necklace weighing down her little body, family dead. A song that told her not to cry, to not be scared. Oh, how the Silmaril hated the sound of crying children.

She started to wear the Nauglamir often, more the sign of her queenship than any crown. It gave her people hope. It made her feel stronger. More... connected to something.

That night and many thereafter, she dreamed of shores she'd never been to, and started to recognize traits of Idril's as belonging to people she'd never met, and learned which songs Finwe would use to sing his children to sleep. Strange treasure, curious relic. It had life and memories of its own, and it communicated feelings.

The Silmaril was fond of her. Sometimes, in snatches, it told her of what it'd seen of her own family. That made Elwing happy. Their connection made her own soul brighter.

She told Earendil of all this and only him. At least, only her husband until-

Elwing sneered in the face of Maedhros, and said, "Why do you even want it? He would hate you as you are."

___

"You are not my father," Maglor said, holding the Silmaril before his face, collapsed upon the shore, defeated. His hand was still burning, though his flesh was long since ruined. At once, he wanted nothing more than to hold on and let go.

"You are a shadow. A remnant. An echo. But a piece of him, capable of communicating memories and the basest of feelings and impulses, but no higher thought. My father, distilled. But not him.

"Which is a shame, I- I never believed Curufin's theory about my father's spirit only being recoverable with the Silmarils, but I'm disappointed now that it is not him speaking to me. I have so much to say, but I find myself mourning only one lost opportunity thing: it would have been nice to debate poetry movements with him again.

"You're not my father. You're a will-o-wisp, a taunt. A false light, guiding us to our doom. Our fault. Our stupidity. Our end."

He ambled to his feet.

"Yet, I feel your love for me, and I'm glad. I feel your horror, and I'm ashamed. To sadness, I respond with anger, and to regret- Do you feel regret? Are you capable, strange little reflection? Am I seeing what I want to see or disregarding what I cannot stand? I don't know. I don't know. I wish I didn't know. To have died in pursuit and not know would be preferable."

Fury gripped Maglor's heart and hot tears came to his eyes. He pulled his arm back.

"You are not worth what has been done in your name!"

He screamed, and the Silmaril was gone. All was silent. Then, Maglor started to weep. He had not realized until this moment how much he had forgotten about who his father was, beyond the last words he said.

How much the world had forgotten about Feanor, beyond the scope of a Silmaril.

___

If you hold a Silmaril, you're going to get to know Feanor. When you get to know him, you're soul will brush up against his. When you possess his soul and he stains yours, you might just start to understand him.

#thingol #beren #earendil #melkor #luthien #maedhros #carcharoth #varda #dior #mablung #sauron #finwe #elwing #maglor #tolkien #the silmarillion #tribble post #fanfic

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verecunda · 1 year

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Anyone else ever get emotional thinking about all the stories that Celebrimbor could tell Narvi of the great Dwarven smiths et al. of the First Age?

About how his father was friends with Telchar, and that the knife Angrist was originally made for him. (“So how did it come to Beren?” Narvi asks, at which Celebrimbor ducks his head and has to *mumble mumble* the explanation.) How Curufin would bring him with him to see the Dwarven forges, and how Telchar always called him “laddie”, despite the fact that Celebrimbor was definitely older than him by quite a big margin! And how it was in Telchar’s forges that Celebrimbor learned his first words of Khuzdul, which he still speaks with a slight Nogrod accent.

Then there were all the ingenious objets d’art from Belegost that his Uncle Caranthir had in his study at Helevorn. Such things are now rare heirlooms among Dwarven families in the Second Age. And the Nauglamír! The fairest of all of the ancient Dwarven treasures, which Celebrimbor saw countless times worn by King Felagund.

Then there was Azaghâl, who was as great and valiant as all the tales tell, but also capable of telling the dirtiest jokes you ever heard. Celebrimbor can remember seeing him, after a few drinks, reducing Uncle Maedhros into tears of laughter (and there were so few things that made Maedhros laugh in those days).

And imagine the first time Narvi gives him the big tour of Khazad-dûm, and Celebrimbor being delighted because it reminds him of Nargothrond, but even more delighted that he can tell Narvi truthfully that Khazad-dûm is even more magnificent. But he has so many stories he can tell of Nargothrond and King Felagund, some happy, some not so much, but he’s happy to share them all, to bring them to life once more for Narvi.

#The Silmarillion #Lord of the Rings #Celebrimbor #Narvi

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lathalea · 4 days

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Entangled 3/10

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Dwarf OFC (The Hobbit) Rating: G (subject to change) Warnings: ANGST Summary: Arranged marriages are common among the dwarven nobility. After reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, the Kingdom Under the Mountain needs to be rebuilt. Thorin agrees to marry a lady from the Blue Mountains, securing a mutually beneficial alliance with the Broadbeam Dwarves. Lady Mista is said to be a practical and hard-working dwarf-woman, willing to give him an heir who would secure the line of succession. A decent queen material, his advisors say. If only Thorin could let go of his past… You can find this fic on AO3 (search for lathalea). ✨ Chapter list: Chapter 1 (Prologue) | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3...

Khuzdul:

Azsâlul'abad - the Lonely Mountain (both the mountain and the dwarven kingdom known among Elves and Men as Erebor)

Tumunzahar - Nogrod (my headcanon for this story is that the dwarven city of old had been rebuilt and populated by the Broadbeams)

‘Urdêk - local name of ‘the Lonely Mountain’ (referring to the dwarven Halls within the mountain), used by its inhabitants

Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain

‘Urd - local name for Lonely Mountain (referring to the Mountain itself)

Later that night

Mista sighed, finally freed from the weight of her crown and royal garments by Katla, her new maid. The girl knew her duties well and quickly helped her change into her sleeping gown. As soon as Katla curtsied and left the bed-chamber through a gilded door, wishing her queen a “fruitful night”, Mista – who did not feel like a queen at all at that moment – poured herself a glass of water. Her throat was parched, and her whole body felt stiff. She glanced at the other door in her chamber; the dark walnut door that led to the King’s chambers, but it was still closed, and no sounds seemed to come from the other side. Apparently, she still had some time for herself.

Mista took off her glasses and squinted, looking into the mirror in an opulent golden frame. This sumptuous object hung on the wall in her new chambers in the royal wing of the dwarven kingdom of Azsâlul'abad. The reflected image was blurry, and so she squinted harder, stretching her neck forward. Finally, she made out a dwarf-woman, plain and far from being a beauty, her mousy hair unbraided — except for her marriage braid – and still adorned with scores of diamonds. Diamonds are the bride’s best friends, an old saying claimed. Yes, she was a bride and she was wearing a luxurious, crispy white sleeping gown. Why? Because, by a turn of fate, on this very day she fulfilled her dearest, her most secret wish: today she wedded the only Dwarf she loved.

Mista became Thorin Oakenshield’s wife – and the Queen Consort of Azsâlul'abad.

And now she was waiting for her lord husband to fulfil his marital duties.

A knock on the door — the dark walnut door — jolted her from her reverie.

“Come…” She cleared her throat and tried again, hoping her voice did not tremble too much, “Come in.”

She had barely enough time to stand up and straighten the silks of her sleeping gown. It was hard not to notice that her fingers were trembling more than her voice.

The King Under the Mountain, Thorin II Oakenshield, entered the room. Gone were his crown and his opulent wedding attire; he wore plain bedclothes, but his dark, wavy hair streaked with silver was braided only with his marriage braid, exactly like hers, just as the tradition dictated. She couldn’t stop herself from admiring his strong shoulders, his lush beard pleated into two thick braids, and his regal profile. Years passed since their first meeting in Tumunzahar, and yet her heart fluttered as if she were that girl hiding behind a statue again. “Good evening, My Lady.” He stopped by the fireplace, slowly taking in the room. Surprised, Mista could not help but notice the tension in his movements. Surely, he could not be nervous, was he? Not him, not now, away from the prying eyes. He was the fearless hero of Azanulbizar, after all, and she was only a bookish, unremarkable girl. It simply could not be. “Good evening, My Lord,” she replied and stole an apprehensive glance at the four-poster bed beside her. “Are your chambers to your satisfaction, My Lady?” Her newly wedded husband asked, putting his arms behind his back and taking in the room as if he was seeing it for the first time. Was he? Impossible, Mista scolded herself. Princess Dis informed her that he hadoverseen the renovations himself to ensure they offered the utmost comfort to his new wife.

Mista cleared her throat and took a deep breath.

“Indeed, they are, My Lord. I am very grateful. These rooms have exceeded my expectations by far,” she admitted truthfully. She was used to the comfort and splendour of Tumunzahar, but Azsâlul'abad’s opulence was unmatched.

“I am glad to hear it. If you are ever in need of any one thing, please do not hesitate to ask for it. As the royal consort, Lady Mista, you shall receive only what is best in my kingdom.” He spoke in a steady tone, his low voice slightly hoarser than before.

“Thank you, My Lord, for your generosity,” she lowered her head, wondering whether he was just as uneasy as she was. He thanked her with a nod and observed her silently for a few moments. Mista knew very well how she must look in his eyes and swallowed in embarrassment. Her figure was not what they call “statuesque”, her bosom was too small to be considered enticing, and so, if anyone asked Mista, the low cut bodice was a waste of the tailor’s skill. Besides, she was a bit on the stocky side, and not in that feminine way that was so highly admired among dwarves. As her mother had pertinently put it, “curvaceous” was not the word that described Mista’s figure. Apparently, she resembled a stone slab the most. Crude, angular, and plain. To put it simply, she knew well that she was not the most graceful nor alluring woman in the dwarven kingdom of Azsâlul'abad. Therefore, she felt a bit of relief at the fact that her new lord husband’s gaze did not stray below her neck.

“Let us sit down for now.” He pointed at the two armchairs standing nearby, “and talk.”

Mista hid her confusion at this statement, and joined him quickly by the fireplace. Talking meant that the moment she both dreaded and hoped for would be delayed.

After a few moments of silence, the King finally spoke, his voice solemn, “We have found ourselves in quite unusual circumstances, My Lady. We have been joined in the eyes of Mahal and our people, and are expected to consummate our union. I believe, however, that the best course of action would be for us to wait until we… are better acquainted with each other.”

“Oh, I see…” she replied, taken aback. Something stung in Mista's chest. Was she that unalluring to him? She mustered all her strength to appear unmoved and quickly added, “That is very… thoughtful of you.” “I gathered that you may not feel too comfortable,” his throat bobbed as he looked away, “sharing your bed with someone you have only met for the first time yesterday.”

A surprised, nervous chuckle escaped her, but she stifled it quickly, “Are you jesting, My Lord?” “I am not certain I take your meaning.” He frowned. “We met for the first time in Tumunzahar, at the feast in honour of your family’s arrival to our city,” she explained, cheerily at first, and then — not so much as the signs of puzzlement became more pronounced on his face. The King, her newlywed husband, knitted his eyebrows together. A ball of ice began to grow in her stomach.

Mista added, her voice barely audible, “And you… you asked me to dance.” “Did I, My Lady?” he tilted his head slightly and looked above her head, perhaps attempting to recall the event. “That must have been… eighty years ago?”

“One hundred and three,” she interjected quickly and then felt her cheeks burn instantly. “I wore a blue gown adorned with sweetwater pearls and you asked me about them. We discussed pearling; I believe you wanted to try it yourself in order to find a pearl for your sister.”

Recounting those long-gone events she treasured in her memory for so many years, she saw an absent expression on his face and the enthusiasm in her voice slowly died off. Mista had hoped that the King, Thorin, would easily recall how he laughed at her silly dragon story or the moment when he showed her how to make a raven out of her dance card to her mother’s utter bafflement. Sadly, the handsome features of his face said the opposite.

“My apologies, My Lady,” he replied, shaking his head slowly. “I am ashamed to say it, but I must admit that I cannot recall that particular event. It seems that too many years have passed since then.” Silence fell after his words and she lowered her gaze, clasping her hands on her lap to prevent them from shaking. Suddenly, in her well-warmed-up room, she felt cold.

“Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten my manners,” Thorin Oakenshield stood up swiftly and made a small bow. “I did not mean to imply that your age…” “No offence taken,” she swallowed the lump in her throat as he sat back down. “We are not younglings any more. You were correct, My Lord. That feast happened long ago. Anyone could have forgotten.”

Anyone. But not Mista. She kept on cherishing the memory of that meeting, and when she first heard about the offer of marriage, she could not believe her ears. She thought that perhaps Thorin Oakenshield remembered her fondly for all these years and… nevermind. It was clear that she was mistaken. He did not recall Mista at all. Why would he? She was simply one of the many uninteresting maidens he had danced with. Plain and easy to forget. So unlike her stunningly beautiful sister Adla who never learned the bitter taste of rejection; whose husband waited impatiently for their wedding night – and with whom Adla now had three sturdy sons.

Thorin Oakenshield drummed his fingers on the armrest of the chair but remained silent. Mista stared at the elaborate pattern of the carpet under her feet. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the mountain the mine bell struck for the third time since midnight when the King poured wine into two goblets that stood on the nearby table. Only then did he finally speak. “As you know very well, My Lady, this… marriage,” he said that last word with a hint of uncharacteristic hesitation, “was to serve several purposes. Did your father inform you about all the clauses of the contract before sending the proposal to me?”

Her eyes widened.

“Before…? I do not understand. Were you not the one to offer the alliance between our houses, My Lord?” Thorin II, the King Under the Mountain, frowned, “The offer came from your father.” “Oh… I see,” her throat tightened. Her eyes pricked. “Were you not aware of this?” The King’s eyes searched Mista’s face. “Father spared me the details,” she admitted, trying to ignore the dull ache deep inside her that seemed to come in waves. It was not the first time Lord Tair, her father, did something of this sort, but she promised herself it would be the last time. The Lonely Mountain and the kingdom beneath it was beyond his reach.

“I have been informed of the cornerstones of the deal: you give the Broadbeams of Tumunzahar the trade licences and I…” Mista swallowed. “I give you heirs.”

Somehow, she managed to keep her tone of voice casual. Her voice did not tremble this time. What a relief. Perhaps she was not as alluring as Adla, perhaps her husband — unlike Adla’s — was set on delaying the consummation of their marriage, but at least she kept her dignity intact. She would only need to hold in the tears until she was alone again.

“That is indeed a very straightforward approach,” the King offered with a nod. “I understand that this must sound to you like a soulless contract, but rest assured that I aim to follow all the clauses of the agreement. And as the Queen Under the Mountain, Zabdûna undu ‘Urd you will be treated with the utmost respect due to the royal consort.” “Of course, My Lord, I did not expect anything less of you,” she uttered. He had been a true gentledwarf when they had met for the first time, after all. One hundred and three years ago. “Your reputation is that of an honourable Dwarf. That is why I agreed to this marriage.”

“Then I will strive to maintain it. May I reciprocate by saying that although I do not yet know you well as a person, your conduct gives you great credit. I admired how composed you were during the ceremony, but perhaps that is not a surprise, knowing that you come from such an ancient and noble house. And I have heard of your admirable work in the Blue Mountains. All those traits are exactly what the kingdom of ‘Urdêk needs from its Queen,” the King gave her a small smile.

“I am happy to hear it, My Lord,” she whispered, looking at her hands on her lap. Your admirable work. Warmth spread in her chest. “May I ask what ‘‘Urdêk’ means? I don’t think I am familiar with this word.”

“Forgive me, this is how we call this kingdom – our home within the Mountain,” he offered. “We do not often use it when talking with outsiders. But now, you are one of us, My Lady.”

Mista’s throat tightened, but she was somehow able to utter a handful of words. “Thank you, My Lord.”

“The task before us both,” the King continued, unaware of the sudden wave of emotions that washed over her, “is to serve the Kingdom Under the Mountain to the best of our ability. Our people will rely both on you and me now.”

Our people. You and me. Those words rang in Mista’s ears like the loudest mine bells after a discovery of a new gold deposit would.

“I will strive to learn my duties as fast as I can and help you with your work, my king,” she replied, feeling his gaze on her face, but unable to meet it.

“Perfect. Time is of the essence, so Lord Balin has taken the liberty to find a capable secretary for you. She will introduce you to the way things are run here. And if you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask him. You can trust him – he taught me most of what I know about ruling this kingdom. He will be more than happy to offer his advice to you as well. There is a lot of work ahead of us; my wish is to make the Mountain fully habitable to our people as soon as possible.”

“You can count on me, My Lord,” she replied enthusiastically. “The people of ‘Urdêk, the Longbeards, the Broadbeams, and everyone else — our people — are returning and they deserve to find new homes here.”

“It brings me great joy to hear you say it, My Lady Mista,” the King took a goblet in his hand and raised it, as if to toast her, before taking a sip. “Once again the proverbial generosity of the Broadbeams turns out to be worth its weight in gold.”

“As you know, I have never visited Azsâlul'abad before, but I have heard many tales of its greatness of old. What I have seen so far only confirms these tales — and I wish to help return the Lonely Mountain to its former glory if I can.”

She looked timidly at the King from under her eyelashes and saw a flicker in his eyes as he peered at her.

“And I will do what I can for you to feel at home here, My Lady,” he gestured at their surroundings. “This kingdom is now yours as well.”

“You are very kind, My Lord,” Mista bowed her head reverently.

For a moment, they sat in silence.

“Well, this was a productive conversation, My Lady,” he clapped his hand against his muscular thigh and then rose from his chair. “I will not impose myself upon you any further. You must be exhausted after today’s ceremonies. Allow me to bid you good night,” King Thorin, her husband, made a hasty bow and returned to his chambers.

The sound of the closing door echoed dully in the silence of her bedchamber.

For a long while, Mista stared blankly at the dark wooden surface behind which her newly wed husband disappeared, without even once addressing her as “wife”. She was barely aware of the tears that fell from her face onto the soft fabric of her nightgown. Even this elegant piece of clothing was not enough to make her alluring in the eyes of the King. If she only were as enticing as Adla…

It was Mista’s wedding night and she felt like the greatest fool in the world.

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dalliansss · 1 month

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“You have read your briefer, of course?” Maedhros asks as he sits down, as he gestures for Caranthir to take a seat. His brother obeys. Caranthir pulls his black furs close – despite all the Song Maglor put into raising Himring, and despite Curufin and Celebrimbor’s genius with plumbing and centralized heating system – nothing can truly keep away the cold of Morgoth’s touch, so near Thangorodrim. It is not without some small sick fascination that Caranthir wonders that perhaps this played into why Maedhros picked to install himself here in Himring. Surely it cannot be just for the golden opportunity to glare at Thangorodrim every morning?

“Yes,” Caranthir replied as he held his cup of hot wine with both hands.

“Your new realm will be mountainous,” Maedhros says, contemplating him, before turning his silver-gray eyes to the map of Beleriand unfurled on the lord’s desk between them. He points with a mithril-and-gold finger. “Thargelion, it is called. And this mountain will make for a very nice fortress. Maglor will raise it to your specifications, and Curufin and Celebrimbor will install the necessary facilities.”

“I wish to delve,” Caranthir says, also fixing his dark gray eyes where Maedhros points. “Vaults, deep into the earth, enchanted with Song and traps. I see where you decided to place me.” He too, points with a beringed finger. “So close to the known realm of the Naugrim: Nogrod and Belegost.”

“Of course you do,” Maedhros says. “Nogrod and Belegost will be your special assignment from me. You will foster diplomatic relations with the dwarven lords, and from there build the trade channels. Maritime trade is limited to us; Ingoldo sank his fangs there first, being kin to Thingol, and by extension, Círdan.”

Caranthir nods. He does not speak Khûzdul as well as Maglor or Curufin, but he knows how. Anyway the chance will be a good exercise to develop further fluency on the tongues of the dwarves.

[recoup / AO3]

#silmarillion #my drabs #maedhros #maitimo #carnistir #caranthir

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thelordofgifs · 1 year

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In light of recent interesting discourse about Beren and Lúthien's Silmaril theft, and the Fëanorions' priorities in the lead-up to Nirnaeth and after, I started wondering how things might have changed if B&L had managed to steal two Silmarils rather than one. Would pulling the Union together be harder with only one jewel left to draw focus in Angband?

Then as soon as I thought about it some more, I realised the most inevitable path diverged earlier than that.

Then I started writing a fic, got 400 words in, and realised I wanted to actually figure out what happened first. So here's a half (or potentially a smaller fraction) of a sort of bullet point fic/plan/thing, which may or may not get properly written up later. First I need to work out where to go from here.

Angrist was forged by the greatest of the Dwarf-smiths in the master-workshops of Nogrod. It cuts two Silmarils from Morgoth's iron crown before the blade snaps, and Morgoth stirs in his enchanted sleep.

Beren passes one Silmaril to Lúthien, and they run for it.

Carcharoth still meets them, snarling, at the gate. Beren still holds out a Silmaril to ward him off. His hand still gets bitten off.

But when the Eagles come for them, and Lúthien clambers sobbing onto Thorondor's back, she clasps a Silmaril in her hand.

The Eagles bear them towards Doriath, and the Treelight undiminished shines out over Dorthonion and Gondolin.

In chilly Himring, Maglor is shaken awake from nightmares of fire and smoke by his eldest brother, who drags him out of bed and towards the window. "Look! Is that not a Silmaril that shines now in the North?"

Maglor recognises it, of course. Moreover, he recognises the size and shape of Eagles in flight, even at a distance. Recognises, too, that as often as not they bear doom itself upon their great feathered backs.

(His father's jewel stinging his Oath awake, his brother's emaciated bleeding body wrapped in Fingon's cloak - they all mean failure.)

"Thingol's daughter and the mortal must have succeeded," he says. "What can we do?"

Maedhros and Maglor, you see, are Not Happy with the news out of Nargothrond.

That Celegorm wanted to force an elf-maid to wed against her will, after what they heard befell Aredhel—

That Curufin could turn against his favourite cousin, and betray him to his death—

"I am afraid," says Maedhros, "of what it will make us do. What it will make us become."

"We could ignore it," says Maglor, whose first response is always inaction. "Let it go to Doriath—" But it is hard even to finish the sentence, with the Oath choking his words.

And there is a bigger problem: Celegorm and Curufin, who are sleeping now (it is only Maedhros who can be relied upon to pace the fortress by night), will not do so forever. They have already attacked Thingol's daughter once - will they do so again, before she can pass into the safety of her mother's Girdle?

"We have to get to Doriath before they do," says Maedhros, and wonders when his little brothers became the threat to be outpaced.

"And then what?" asks Maglor, who never shies from difficult questions.

Maedhros gives him one of his quick strange smiles. "This is how it works, you know," he says. "Huan has turned from Tyelko. Tyelpë has repudiated Curvo. It turns you into the worst version of yourself, and then it strips away the best thing you have left."

Maedhros has ridden out to claim a Silmaril before, and lost all of himself in the process.

Maglor, too, has been offered all he ever wanted - his dearest brother, returned to him - and turned away for the sake of the Oath he renewed at his father's deathbed.

They are both afraid of what they could become.

They ride out from Himring anyway, swiftly and secretly, before the dawn.

Meanwhile, Thorondor sets Beren and Lúthien down on Doriath's southern border.

Huan comes to join them, and with the power of the Silmaril, Beren is healed sooner than he might have been, otherwise.

The Quest is fulfilled. Beren has no reason to stay away from Thingol's house.

Instead of wandering in the wilds, the lovers return to Menegroth, present a Silmaril, and promptly get married.

Thingol is very surprised (and overjoyed) to see them; the last news he had of Lúthien was that she had vanished from Nargothrond.

In fact, he's just sent out a couple of messengers, led by Mablung Heavy-hand, with a scathing letter to Maedhros Fëanorion demanding his aid in finding the princess.

North of the Girdle: "Hey, isn't that Maedhros Fëanorion?"

"Sure is," says Mablung, who was at the Mereth Aderthad.

"Hail, Mablung of Doriath!" calls Maedhros, who never forgets a face. "What news from King Thingol?"

Well, there isn't news as such. Just... fury.

Maedhros considers the merits of keeping his cards close to his chest versus the dire diplomatic situation he's currently in, and opts to share what they saw from Himring, and what it bodes for Beren's success.

He decides not to share that Lúthien was definitely with Beren, which he knows because his brothers attacked her.

Maglor is not sure how stopping to chat with an Iathren marchwarden is going to get them closer to a Silmaril, but he isn't in the habit of arguing with Maedhros.

Anyway, before the conversation can wrap up, a marauding werewolf appears.

Right. Carcharoth.

The Iathrim make the sensible call and scramble up some trees. Maglor follows a beat later.

Noldor don't climb trees very often. It isn't one of the skills Maedhros has had cause to practice one-handed.

Not that it matters, because he's frozen where he stands, eyes wide and bright and thoughtful.

This is unusual. Maedhros would not be the most renowned warrior of the Noldor if he were constantly dissociating in the midst of battle.

He saves the dissociation for after the battle, thank you.

The wolf is almost upon him.

Well, thinks Maglor, about time I did some saving for a change.

Maglor is not Lúthien. Does he need to be? He knows enough about madness, and enough about torment. He knows how to sing the suffering to sleep.

He drops down from his perch to begin a lullaby.

Carcharoth slows down when he sings, and comes to a momentary halt, and Maglor takes the time to hiss, "Nelyo, run—"

"They burned him," Maedhros breathes, still with that bright faraway look in his eyes that means he is half-lost in memory. "His hands were black and ruined. No evil thing may touch them."

The wolf lunges.

[I want to kill Maglor off here but I'm a coward. so.]

Carcharoth savages Maglor's leg and he collapses.

That brings Maedhros back to himself.

Mablung and his party aren't heavily armed. They were only meant to be messengers, after all. They get a few shots in at the wolf, who runs off, still maddened.

Maglor isn't moving isn't talking and there's so much blood—

(to be continued)

#silmarillion #my fic #bullet point fic #beren #luthien #maedhros #maglor #I think I know what happens next #but not what that leads to #I had to look at a map for this do you know how traumatic that was #anyway turns out bullet point fic is quite fun to write #maedhros and maglor have entered leithian and derailed it #maybe fingon will make an appearance too #who knows I'm tired #what even is this actually #cw blood

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imakemywings · 11 months

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Lowkey obsessed with the naming tradition of the line of Elwe/Thingol.

It just fascinates me how Thingol did not create the “El-” prefix naming tradition despite being the origin of it. Luthien’s given name bears no resemblance to either of her parents’ and neither does the name of her son, Dior. Yet Dior named himself Eluchil and took up the lordship of Doriath (something Luthien impliedly rejected when she and Beren chose to make their home elsewhere) and called his children Elured, Elurin, Elwing, and in their refugee’s home, cut off from her family and her heritage, Elwing named her own sons Elrond and Elros.

And then, that thousands of years later, as lord of his own realm, in the safety of Rivendell, lifetimes since he last saw either of his parents or lived among the Doriathrim, Elrond names his sons Elrohir and Elladan.

It feels especially important as a claim on Iathrim heritage considering Doriath’s destruction. It was in the wake of the ruinous war with Nogrod, when Dior stepped in to try to rebuild, that he chose to name his children after a grandfather he never met, the legendary Elu Thingol, once called Elwe. It’s after the total obliteration of Doriath as a kingdom at the hands of fellow Elves that Elwing claims this tradition in naming her own children. And for Elrond, who never saw Doriath, who was deprived of the chance to know his mother or be raised among the Iathrim in Sirion (or the Gondolindrim, but that’s another issue), when he names his firstborn children, he reaches for that heritage in Doriath, that connection and in doing so declares himself of the line of Thingol and of Elwing, and his children also. He marks them as the next generation of this bloodline, he recollects the life and death of Doriath and its people, keeping alive that memory, faint as it might be.

#it's just so interesting how this naming tradition becomes a tie to Iathrim culture!#and a kind of claiming of the heritage of Doriath #this is one of many reasons I cannot vibe with Elrond takes where he is disinterested in or doesn't id with his mother's culture #he literally named his kids after Elwe #clearly he feels a connection there #mine #elrond #dior #elwing #the silmarillion #lotr #tolkien tag #meta #elwing defense #earendil defense

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kathrins-sketchbook · 8 months

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Oh, brightest sun (TRSB 2023)

A hommage to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss. Acrylic paint on canvas, with gold acrylic colour, 45x45cm. This scene had fascinated me ever since I read about it in the Nature of Middle-earth, and even more so when I became obsessed with Mîm as a character. While the ship of Mîmrod was born in a discord server I am in as a joke, that joke led to me originally drafting the sketch for this painting.

@goschatewabn has taken up this prompt- in a pinchhit no less - and has written, a beautiful, beautiful, fic that also absolutely tears my heart out. Find more info & the link to the fic below!

The elf shone more brilliantly than the purest gems they had unearthed, and his kind face crowned with a wreath of white lilac was like the first rays of dawn after a long night.

The gentle sun had risen in the east, and had brought spring into Nargothrond.

5180 Words

Rating: T Archive warnings: None Characters: Mîm, Finrod Felagund, the petty dwarves, various inhabitants of Nargothrond, dwarves of Nogrod https://archiveofourown.org/works/49927210/chapters/126046690

@tolkienrsb

#trsb23 #trsb 2023 #Mîm #Mim #Finrod #finrod felagund #silmarillion #silm art #tolkien #tolkien fanart #nature of middle earth #nargothrond #petty dwarves #illustration #painting #gustav klimt #acrylic painting

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ladysternchen · 2 years

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Just to clarify something: no one forced Beren to go after the dwarves. No one would realistically even have expected him to. He had no duties regarding Doriath and its people. Not even Dior had by that time, not really, as he was yet uncrowned and had never before been named crown-prince (he got the epessë ‘Eluchíl’ only after he had become just that), at least not officially.

So Beren going to battle against the host of Nogrod was his own decision, his own free will. And this is important, because forgiveness plays such an important role in Tolkien’s works.

#silmarillion #doriath #beren erchamion #nogrod #unpopular opinion perhaps

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silm-lore · 5 months

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Caranthir riding through Dor Caranthir

Caranthir was born in Valinor to Fëanor and a Nerdanel, their fourth son. He swore the Oath of Fëanor and followed his father to Middle Earth, aiding in the first kinslaying and burning the ships at Losgar. After Dagor-Nuin-Giliath, Caranthir established his own realm in Thargelion, Dor Caranthir. He hated the Sons of Finarfin after Angrod asked King Thingol for land and accepted his kingship for the Ñoldor. Dor Caranthir land bordered the dwarves of Nogrod and Belest, and Caranthir established an alliship with them, and as Caranthir controlled the trade routes he grew very wealthy. Elves generally did not like Men when they started entering Beleriand, but Caranthir rescued the Edwin house of Haladin from raiding orcs, and Caranthir respected them for their valor. Caranthir offered Haleth and her people a place in Dor Caranthir and his protection. However she declined. In Dagor-Bragollach Caranthir lost his lands and fled to Amon Ereb with Amrod and Amras and they defended the fortress. When Easterlings came to Beleriand Caranthir welcomed them and Ulfang swore allegiance to him. Caranthir joined the Union of Maedhros and led the easterlings. However Ulfang was an agent of Morgoth and they betrayed the elves, and the elves lost Nírnaeth Arnoediad, suffering many casualties. After this battle the Sons of Fëanor were scattered through Osseriand, till they learned King Dior of Doriath had Lúthiens Silmaril. The Sons of Fëanor attacked and Caranthir, along with his brothers Celegorm and Curufin were slain in the second kinslaying.

Father name: Morifinwë, meaning “Dark Finwë” for his black hair, and possibly for his temperament.

Mother name: Carnistir, meaning “Red Face” for his ruddy complexion.

Born: 1299 Y.T.

Death: 506 F.A.

Age: 2,431 in the Second Kinslaying

Associated with: Fëanor, Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Curufin, Ambarussa, Ulfang & Haleth.

#caranthir #carnistir #silmarillion #silm art #silm fandom #sons of feanor #fanart #lotr #digital fanart #lord of the rings #the silm fandom

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warrioreowynofrohan · 5 days

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Silmarillion Daily - Of the Arming of the Sindar

And ere long the evil creatures came even to Beleriand, over passes in the mountains, or up from the south through the dark forests. Wolves there were, or creatures that walked in wolf-shapes, and other fell beings of shadow; and among them were the Orcs, who afterwards wrought ruin in Beleriand: but they were yet few and wary, and did but smell out the ways of the land, awaiting the return of their lord. Whence they came, or what they were, the Elves knew not then, thinking them perhaps to be Avari who had become evil and savage in the wild; in which they guessed all too near, it is said.

Therefore Thingol took thought for arms, which before his people had not needed, and these at first the Naugrim smithied for him; for they were greatly skilled in such work, though none among them surpassed the craftsmen of Nogrod, of whom Telchar the smith was greatest in renown. A warlike race of old were the Naugrim, and they would fight fiercely against whomsoever aggrieved them: servants of Melkor, or Eldar, or Avari, or wild beasts, or not seldom their own kin, Dwarves of other mansions and lordships. Their smithcraft indeed the Sindar soon learned of them; yet in the tempering of steel alone of all crafts the Dwarves were never outmatched even by the Noldor, and in the making of mail of linked rings, which was first contrived by the smiths of Belegost, their work had no rival.

At this time therefore the Sindar were well-armed, and they drove off all creatures of evil, and had peace again; but Thingol’s armouries were storied with axes and with spears and swords, and tall helms, and long coats of bright mail; for the hauberks of the Dwarves were so fashioned that they rusted not but shone ever as if they were new-burnished. And that proved well for Thingol in the time that was to come.

This is anothing thing that highlights that the Valar urging the elves to come to Valinor wasn’t something that was really necessary - prior to Melkor’s parole, the dangers of Middle-earth are something that the Sindar and dwarves working together are able to deal with.

It’s also worth noting that, dating from this time, the Sindar had a good 170 years of experience defending themselves before the Noldor arrived in Middle-earth. The Girdle of Melian doesn’t exist yet at this point; that only goes up when Morgoth returns to Middle-earth.

Interestingly, the Sindar - out of necessity - actually learn weaponsmithing and the making of armour well before the Noldor do, though they mostly don’t have the same level of interest or expertise in metalworking. And additional point is that, while Beleg’s speciality is archery, the Sindar as a whole are not mainly fighting with bows and arrows, but with axes and spears and swords.

It also means that Lúthien is not nearly as sheltered and insulated from the wider world as as is sometimes imagined. She’s met dwarves; she’s likely responsible for some of the tapestries in Menegroth; she’s likely seen most of Beleriand at various times; and she’s aware that dangers exist.

All of this is going on while, in Valinor, the grandchildren of Finwë are still growing up. Turgon and Finrod are still a little shy of adulthood.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #silmarillion daily #sindar #thingol #luthien

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nothinghereisworking · 10 months

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I go to find the Sun

for @tolkiengenweek day 1: Family _____________________________________________________________

“What has darkened your joy?” Celeborn asked, seeing the concern drawn over Galadriel’s features like a veil.

“My brother,” she replied, clutching the pages to her chest, twisting them in her hands even as her heart did likewise. “He always writes the most uplifting letters. Almost poetry.”

Celeborn frowned and touched her cheek gently. “Then why look you as though reading the blackest report?”

She managed a brief, sad smile and took a deep breath. “He tells me too long has he lain beneath the hills and feels anew the desire to know the wonders beyond the mountains to the east. He asks whether I might be persuaded to travel on his behalf and send him reports of those distant lands, that he might see them through my eyes and smile.”

Tears were already welling in her eyes and her throat closed around her words. “He has sent me messages of introduction to Nogrod and says his friendship of old with the Dwarves there will be of great use to me.”

Celeborn turned her face to his, searching out what meaning hid behind her words, confused as to what had caused her such grief.

“I know him well enough to know what he does not say,” she said, laying the letter aside.

“Will you not tell me?” Celeborn pressed.

“Do you not yet understand?” she asked softly. “The Bëorian is my brother’s subject - of course he would seek his king for aid.”

Celeborn’s eyes widened for a moment in shock, then exhaled a soft ‘ah’ as the full weight of it settled on him.

“What bitter end must he foresee that he would bid me depart this land entirely and be spared its coming?” She wiped at the tears that would no longer be resisted before pressing her face to Celeborn’s chest, twisting her fingers in his tunic. “I will lose him as well. Oh, what cruelty! Not a drop of blood did my brothers spill unjustly yet doom claims them even so!”

His soothing touch could not wash away the ink on those pages, though he ached to see her grieve before that doom of which she spoke had even fallen. But he could offer one thing; there had been enough foolishness, let wisdom now guide.

“Then let us depart,” he whispered against her hair. “And send him reports of what lies beyond the mountains, that he might smile again under his hill.”

#author: cuarthol #tolkien fanfiction #tolkiengenweek #celeborn #galadriel

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in-the-glow-of-a-silmaril · 4 months

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I had completely forgotten that the Silmaril is cursed by the Lord of Nogrod. He curses it as he dies, slain by Beren reclaiming the jewel (and by extension the Nauglamír that it is now attached to).

Also. Wait a minute. On the next page we have "the wise have said" that the silmaril may have "hastened" the deaths of Lúthien and Beren, bc the "flame of the beauty of Lúthien as she wore it was too bright for mortal lands." Was this related to the curse? Unknown. Was it related to Fëanor? The use of the word flame is interesting to me. Fëanor also did not last long in mortal lands. Either way, the Silmaril once again is speculated to have a negative effect on the one who holds it.

#i genuinely love that tolkien leaves the impact of this curse unclear #and the powers of the silmaril also #silm #the silmarillion #luthien #beren

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ardafanonarch · 3 months

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Heirlooms of the Númenoreans: Aranrúth and Narsil

Swords of the First Age, Part 2 of 3

[This is a continuation of the response to this ask.]

Aranrúth

Meaning: King’s Ire. Sindarin.

Maker: Unknown. (See discussion.)

Owned/wielded by: Thingol, [Dior?], Elwing, Elros, the Kings of Númenor. (See discussion.)

Fate: Did not survive the downfall of Númenor (Unfinished Tales, ‘A Description of Númenor’, note 2).

Aranrúth. ‘King’s Ire’, the name of Thingol’s sword. Aranrúth survived the ruin of Doriath and was possessed by the Kings of Númenor. Index of The Silmarillion

‘I ask then for a sword of worth,’ said Beleg; ‘for the Orcs come now too thick and close for a bow only, and such blade as I have is no match for their armour.’ ‘Choose from all that I have,’ said Thingol, ‘save only Aranrúth, my own.’ The Silmarillion, ‘Of Túrin Turambar’

Discussion

We do not know who made Aranrúth. We do, however, know that the Sindar’s first weapons were forged by the Dwarves:

So potentially Aranrúth was forged by Dwarves, perhaps even Telchar.

There is another curious passage about Thingol’s armouries in The Children of Húrin:

Now Thingol had in Menegroth deep armouries filled with great wealth of weapons: metal wrought like fishes' mail and shining like water in the moon; swords and axes, shields and helms, wrought by Telchar himself or by his master Gamil Zirak the old, or by elven-wrights more skilful still. For some things he had received in gift that came out of Valinor and were wrought by Fëanor in his mastery, than whom no craftsman was greater in all the days of the world. The Children of Húrin, ‘The Departure of Túrin’

Dwarven smiths, including Telchar and Gamil Zirak, are mentioned again; but according to this passage, at least, Thingol also possessed Noldorin weaponry, including objects wrought by Fëanor himself!

And, of course, we know Eöl, formerly Thingol’s subject, was a weaponsmith so it’s not like none of the Sindar possessed this skill. We also do not know when it was forged, save that Thingol definitely possessed it by the time Anglachel passed to Beleg. In sum, there are myriad possibilities for the maker of Aranrúth.

Was Aranrúth ever used in combat? Yes: While we do not see Thingol fight much in the Silmarillion, he was involved in combat in the First Battle (The Silmarillion, ‘Of the Sindar’). In an unwritten Canto of Lay of Leithian, Tolkien wrote the outline of a battle between Thingol’s army and Orcs who were searching for Lúthien on the borders of Doriath. It is said that “Thingol himself slays Boldog,” the Orc captain, in their victory (The Lays of Beleriand, The Lay of Leithian, ‘The Unwritten Cantos’ 12). So Thingol did engage in combat, and it’s reasonable to assume Aranrúth was his weapon in these battles.

Unfinished Tales (‘A Description of Númenor’, footnote 2) tells us:

The King’s sword was indeed Aranrúth, the sword of Elu Thingol of Doriath in Beleriand, that had descended to Elros from Elwing his mother.

This is one of those places with frustratingly, and tantalisingly, few details and gaps in the narrative. First of all, we do not know how Aranrúth passed from Thingol to Elwing (presumably via Dior, but not confirmed). Second, we don’t know how Aranrúth was saved from both the sack of Doriath and the sack of Sirion. This is complicated by the fact that Elwing was a child at the time of the former, and Elros her son was a child at the time of the latter. Surely an adult would have been involved in the transportation and transferral of this mighty weapon, but who? This is where you’ll find some interesting possibilities explored by fans: Was Oropher perhaps involved, the Iathren father of Thranduil never written into the Silmarillion? Or Galadriel, whose whereabouts at this time are inconclusive? Did Gil-galad find it in Sirion and pass it on to Elros later? Or did Maglor bring it with him out of Sirion and pass it on to his foster Elros? Up to you! Canon does not tell us.

Finally, all we know of Aranrúth’s fate is that it did not survive the Downfall. But if Ar-Pharazôn had it on him when he went ashore in Valinor, might it have been buried with him?

Narsil

Meaning: Red and White Flame (according to LotR index). Quenya.

Maker: Telchar

Owned/wielded by: Unknown; Elendil, who wielded it in the War of the Last Alliance; shards borne by Isildur, Valandil and his line; reforged as Andúril and wielded by Aragorn in the War of the Ring.

Notable for: cutting the Ring from Sauron’s hand.

Fate: broken in the War of the Last Alliance; shards borne by Elendil’s heirs through the Third Age and eventually reforged as Andúril.

But at the last the siege was so strait that Sauron himself came forth; and he wrestled with Gil-galad and Elendil, and they both were slain, and the sword of Elendil broke under him as he fell. But Sauron also was thrown down, and with the hilt-shard of Narsil Isildur cut the Ruling Ring from the hand of Sauron and took it for his own. The Silmarillion, ‘Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age' 'Here I set it,' he said, 'but I command you not to touch it, nor to permit any other to lay hand on it. In this elvish sheath dwells the Blade that was Broken and has been made again. Telchar first wrought it in the deeps of time. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, ‘Chapter 6: The King of the Golden Hall’

Discussion

Narsil is a fascinating sword of the “First Age” because the only reason we know it even existed that early is Aragorn’s one mention of Telchar in The Two Towers, quoted above. The problem is, Elendil is the first confirmed owner of Narsil — at the end of the Second Age! This leaves over three-and-a-half millennia of history unaccounted for. Nothing in canon tells us how Narsil got from the smithies of Nogrod to Elendil. (Until I did this research, even I was certain that Elros was confirmed to have owned Narsil; not so.)

This mention has led fans to do some imaginative mental gymnastics devising a history for the famous Blade that was Broken. One popular interpretation is that Elros received Narsil from Maedhros, and this is not without basis in canon. For one, we know that Elros was fostered by Maglor and presumably knew Maedhros also (in some versions, it is in fact Maedhros who fosters the half-elven twins). There is also a canonical link between Maedhros and Telchar, recounted in the Narn i hîn Húrin in Unfinished Tales (the story was not reproduced in the Children of Húrin): when Maedhros saves the life of Azaghâl lord of Belegost in an Orc raid on the Dwarf road, Azaghâl gives him the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin — another work of Telchar — as guerdon. Could Azaghâl have given him Narsil at the same time? Of course, there are plenty of other ways Maedhros might have received Narsil besides, this is just one of the more direct links.

There are also countless other ways Narsil could have come to Elendil. Another equally plausible explanation would be that it was one of the weapons in Thingol’s armouries, saved, like Aranrúth, from the sack of Doriath. And we don’t even know that Narsil was ever in Númenor! Could it have been Elrond’s sword, that he gave to his cousin many-times-removed when he came to Middle-earth? There are many, many tantalising possibilities.

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#weapons #aranruth #narsil #thingol #numenor #elendil #elros #the children of hurin #the lord of the rings #anon

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