I Think A Lot About How Thingol And Finwe Were Great Friends And What A Betrayal It Must Have Been To

“nothing much dog, what’s up with you?”

-with new group members comes more opportunities-

+bonus

Just thinking about the absolute gut-punch that Elrond and Elros must represent to Maedhros.

The text is pretty clear that they take after Elwing’s line in looks, not Eärendil’s. There’s not another dark-haired, grey-eyed ancestor in the twins’ paternal line since Turgon. But Turgon also looks like his brother Fingon, and I think Maedhros would have seen that resemblance easily.

And what’s more, Elrond fully grown is supposed to look like his daughter, who looks like Lúthien. The first of many generations of her descendants who the sons of Fëanor destroyed. Dior, Eluréd, Elurín, Nimloth, Elwing.

And, of course, we cannot forget they are twins.

I can’t imagine what it must be like for Maedhros, seeing that. A neat summary of his sins; reminders of his most badly wronged victims all bundled up into one. And there isn’t a damn thing about it that he doesn’t see as his fault.

Random person: You do know that romantic and sexual attractions are what make us fundamentally human-

Aros, turning to Aces: Gods?

Aces, nodding: Gods

this looks like love

~ This was Beleg’s knife. It was more beautiful than any knife he had seen before, the blade covered with intricate designs of leaves and stars and the crossings of rivers and trees.

‘This looks like love,’ his father would have said. He said that about beautiful things wrought with care: knives and swords, baskets, shawls, quilts, jackets. His broken harp. Túrin still didn’t know what it meant. Not entirely. ~

***

Túrin woke to find himself alone. Beleg’s bed was made up, so were the others'. He got up and washed. He was close enough to Menegroth that there was no real danger if he did not run off alone. He drank sweet water and ate lingonberries and cheese and bread.

Beleg had not woken him early, so he would not study to hunt that day. Beleg had let him rest. Perhaps Beleg had gone to hunt without him. Túrin stepped out onto the small porch of the cabin in his nightshirt.

There Beleg sat, making arrows.

‘You’re awake,’ he said. Túrin nodded. He sat cross legged beside Beleg and stared at the sun. It was midday.

‘I slept a long time.’

‘You were tired.’

Túrin nodded again. He bounced his fingers on the bruises on his knees. He liked how his fingers felt as they bounced off his skin. Beleg did not ask him why he did it or call him strange. Túrin swept his hands up and down, turning his hands in the air, so that his fingers came down first facing his knees and then turned from them, again and again.

‘Do I go back to Menegroth today?’ he asked. He reached for mint leaves from the ground and pressed three into his mouth.

‘No,’ Beleg said. Túrin turned his face up to the sun.

‘When then?’

‘In two days.’

‘And then you will go far afield?’ Túrin said. ‘For all the winter?’ He let his hands fly again, bouncing off his knees. He chewed the mint leaves and swallowed their taste.

‘Not for all the winter, I don’t think,’ Beleg answered. ‘I would miss you.’

Túrin stopped bouncing his hands to pick mint leaves for Beleg. He handed them to him. Beleg took them and nodded his thanks. He ate them and kept making arrows.

‘Do you want to speak of which you dreamt?’ Beleg asked.

‘No,’ Túrin said. He waved his hand, letting it spin at his wrist. ‘I think everyone was dead. I was dead.’

Beleg patted Túrin’s knee gently. Túrin brushed the spot when Beleg had pulled his hair back. He didn’t like the lingering touch that seemed to tingle on his skin, even from those he loved. He tried to do it when Beleg wasn’t looking. He had brushed off his father’s touches and kisses. Sometimes he let his mother’s stay, but it agitated him to have a part of his skin even a little wet or a bit different from the rest. He didn’t know why being touched left an impression of the touch on his skin, but it did. He had asked Beleg if he could feel a touch after it was gone. Beleg had said yes, but he hadn’t been bothered by it.

Túrin looked at the yard. It was green and damp. Mud was spreading though. It must have rained a little when he slept. It was quiet, and it smelt like cold rain. Soon the leaves would change colour.

‘Are we alone?’ Túrin asked.

‘Yes,’ Beleg said. ‘The others left last night. They are needed farther North.’

‘Where you will go.’

‘Yes, where I will go.’

Túrin shoved his bare feet down onto the ground. It was soft enough that they sunk a bit into it. It was cold. The grass tickled his skin. Túrin stood and took a large step into the yard. His foot sunk down again, the ground giving a bit beneath him. He walked the yard around like that, in long strides, watching his feet leave impressions in the wet earth, feeling the cold of it.

He liked that the grass was green and not brown. He liked that the ground was wet and not frozen. He ran back to the porch and stood on it with his muddy feet.

‘Wash up,’ Beleg said. ‘You can’t go inside like that.’

‘I know.’ Túrin stood on his tiptoes to touch the very top of the porch where the two slanted roofs met each other.

Beleg patted his leg. ‘Wash. Then put some clothes on. Thingol and Melian will not be pleased if I bring you home ill.’

Túrin wrinkled his nose but threw some cold water from the rain barrel onto his feet and wiped them clean with a rag. He went back inside and came out dressed and with shoes on.

‘Don’t you look darling,’ Beleg said. Túrin had put this underneath ‘strange things that Elves say to each other and sometimes to you but that don’t need a response’ so he tramped off without a response to pee.

He came back to Beleg after and stared at his muddy footprints on the porch where he had been sitting. Beleg gave him a pointed look. Túrin wiped them up with the same rag and hung it over the side of the rain barrel to dry. He sat down again and took the knife that Beleg gave him.

This was Beleg’s knife. It was more beautiful than any knife he had seen before, the blade covered with intricate designs of leaves and stars and the crossings of rivers and trees.

‘This looks like love,’ his father would have said. He said that about beautiful things wrought with care: knives and swords, baskets, shawls, quilts, jackets. His broken harp. Túrin still didn’t know what it meant. Not entirely.

‘This looks like love,’ he said, for maybe Beleg knew the answer.

Beleg studied him. Beleg’s face was ancient but barely lined. It was his eyes that made it ancient. They were like the night sky and all the stars in it – maybe just as old, or maybe younger, but not enough that it would it matter to Túrin when he thought of the ages of the world.

‘Yes,’ Beleg said. ‘Care is love.’

Túrin said no more.

Full-sized image here.

Breaking news of the day! Most characters who die in the Quenta Silmarillion die violently! I expect zero people who have read The Silmarillion to be surprised by that.

In other news, if you’re a Silmarillion character, simply knowing Túrin Turambar at some point in his relatively brief existence is just about as deadly as getting involved in the centuries-long pursuit of the Silmarils.

This is all in good fun, folks, because I can’t be the only person who likes crunching Silmarillion death stats on a Friday. But if you want the dull details on how I determined what went where, it’s below the jump.

Keep reading

“Long before, in the bliss of Valinor, before Melkor was unchained, or lies came between them, Fingon had been close in friendship with Maedhros.” 

Okay honestly I am fascinated by this line and I feel like it doesn’t get touched on much in fanon. The implication here (”lies came between them”) seems to be that whatever friendship Maedhros and Fingon had was already deteriorated to some degree by the time of the Flight of the Noldor, that they had begun to mistrust and be in opposition to each other which in a way, makes Maedhros’ apparent betrayal in Alqualonde/Losgar worse for Fingon–it may feel like the nail in the coffin to a friendship that was already on ice. It also makes it potentially more powerful for Maedhros that Fingon comes for him anyway, in spite of everything that had broken between them.

It also sets up a more awkward dynamic going forward in Beleriand. These are not necessarily two bosom friends reunited after a single misunderstanding. Clearly this relationship had issues before the Exile and while Fingon’s rescue of Maedhros was a grand gesture (although far from lacking in political considerations) recovering trust from someone you’ve lost it with is not easy, especially if they don’t yet realize the hand Melkor played in what went down in Aman.

It would also be fascinating to examine a more contentious and possibly even competitive dynamic between Fingon and Maedhros in Tirion, as their friendship goes downhill and they begin to mistrust each other as Melkor works the knife in between Feanor and Fingolfin. Which makes Fingon’s kingship in Beleriand even more interesting, particularly in light of the fact that by the Maedhros Rule (rule by the oldest/most experienced of the royal family), he could make a second bid for the crown, and Fingon has to be aware of that.

There just seems to be a lot of room for exploring a more complicated friendship between these two and how that affects them going forward.

People can be so quiet about their pain, that you forget they are hurting. That is why it is so important to always be kind.

— Nikita Gill

I think one of Turgon's weakness and greatness is that he loves too deeply. He doesn't have many who he deems "close," but once he accepts someone inside his boundaries, they become "his people," someone who he carves a part of his mind for. And when he loses them, his grief is too great; so much that sometimes it will clouds his reasons. (This also applies for inanimate objects)

When Elenwe dies, Turgon forms a great hate towards the Feanorians (totally understandable) - his love for her hurts so much that he has to channel it into another emotion; and I think his hate was the answer. Likewise, when Aredhel was killed by Eol, Turgon executes Eol, ignoring Aredhel's last plea to show him mercy. Losing a loved one to Turgon leaves him... more violent, I should say.

And I think that Turgon's love and guilt towards Aredhel was passed on to her son Maeglin; it was the partial reason as to why in the later years Turgon came to favor his nephew's council more so than his daughter's. This needless to say did not work so well for Gondolin. (you should always listen to Idril) As for Gondolin, he loved it too greatly. He did not heed Ulmo's counsel till late. Thus his love for it drove its destruction.

Of course this is not 100% negative; if you love someone/something like that, they tend to be loyal back to you - so maybe that's why so many followed him to Gondolin; him, a secondborn son under an already existing great king. Think of Glorfindel and Ecthelion, all the mighty names and remember that they followed him into unknown lands for a secret city. And he was not High King then.

if anyone cares, Putin is not officially stepping down. Only news source as far as I can tell that’s reporting that is the NY Post, which is basically a tabloid, and that report is based on a second hand source. Putin had said nothing, and no reputable news orgs have weighed in as of yet

I have a lot of Thoughts about the framing of classic fantasy stories that are actual specific published works as Ye Olde Folktales of no particular origin. especially given the most common modern understanding of “original fairytale” as “didactic story intended for children”

(same goes for stories where the most common modern understanding of the story is based on one particular published version)

like. I don’t know. Beauty and the Beast owes a lot of tropes to earlier tales that occupy the nebulous ~folklore~ space we usually assign it to, but the actual story itself is a novel. a full-on fantasy novel intended for adults, with a known author (Gabrielle Suzanne Barbot de Villenueve), published in a definite time and place (1740 France)

the most popular modern version of Cinderella- with the fairy godmother, glass slipper, single ball, and so on -was written in 1697 by Charles Perrault. that’s not the oldest known version of the story, and DEFINITELY not the only one out there, but it’s the one that most informs our cultural ideas about what Cinderella is. in the west and honestly, in most of the world

(luckily most people know by now that The Little Mermaid started life as a story written by a particular author. but it sometimes falls prey to these misconceptions, too)

this is all really hard to articulate, but it just feels weird to say “Beauty and the Beast was meant to teach girls to accept arranged marriage!” when you wouldn’t try to sum up, say, The Fellowship of the Ring so neatly. or “well, in the ORIGINAL Cinderella, birds peck out the stepsisters’ eyes!” when that comes from a version published in 1819- over a century after the version we’re most familiar with today

I think it also takes away important context when analyzing these stories, to completely sever them from the very specific points in history that created them and make them seem the product of a murky, generic Olden Time™ that never existed