jrrt-native-languages-fest

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

A partir de entonces fue ella quien mandó en el pueblo. Restableció la misa dominical, suspendió el uso de los brazales rojos y descalificó los bandos atrabiliarios. Pero a despecho de su fortaleza, siguió llorando la desdicha de su destino.

---Cien Años de Soledad by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

eng:From that time on, she was the one who ruled in the town. She reestablished Sunday masses, suspended the use of red armbands, and abrogated the harebrained decrees. But in spite of her strength, she still wept over her unfortunate fate.

@jrrt-native-languages-fest

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

—Bueno —dijo Aureliano—. Dígame qué es.

Pilar Ternera se mordió los labios con una sonrisa triste.

—Que eres bueno para la guerra —dijo—Donde pones el ojo pones el plomo.

eng:“Well,” Aureliano said. “Tell me what it is.”

Pilar Ternera bit her lips with a sad smile.

“That you’ll be good for war,” she said. “Where you put your eye, you put your bullet.”

for @jrrt-native-languages-fest

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

Pronto adquirió el aspecto de desamparo propio de los vegetarianos.

---Cien Años de Soledad by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

eng: He soon acquired the forlorn look that one sees in vegetarians.

for @jrrt-native-languages-fest

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

Fuego soy apartado y espada puesta lejos. A los que he enamorado con la vista he desengañado con las palabras.

---Marcela's Speech , Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

eng:I am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside. Those whom I have inspired with love by letting them see me, I have by words undeceived.

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

Uno no es de ninguna parte mientras no tenga un muerto bajo la tierra

---Cien Años de Soledad,Gabriel Garcia Marquez

eng:A person does not belong to a place until there is someone dead under the ground.

for @jrrt-native-languages-fest

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

Si no temes a Dios, témele a los metales

---Cien Años de Soledad, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

eng:If you don’t fear God, fear the metals

for @jrrt-native-languages-fest

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

El mundo era tan reciente, que muchas cosas carecían de nombre, y para mencionarlas había que señalarlas con el dedo.

---Cien Años de Soledad by Gabriel Garcia Marquz

only saw the @jrrt-native-languages-fest yesterday and was too late, because I think a year is too long to wait imma do these anyways

english translation(based on the official english translation for the book):The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point.

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

Tolkien Native Language Appreciation Week 2025 - Till next year

Hi all!

Hope everyone is doing well, and I hope you have enjoyed the first edition of the Tolkien Native Language Appreciation Week!

It is officially past midnight in my timezone, hence I am here to tell you a big THANK YOU for participating and making this week amazing!

I have seen many great creations in many languages, and I hope that next year you will be even more!

But if you still wish to post your works in your own language, I am tracking the #jrrtlanguagefest tag :) Feel free to post your works with this tag and I will reblog it asap!

You can still use the prompts - new ones will be added for the 2026 edition!

I shall see you soon, and hopefully next year as well, always in the week between the 16th June and the 22nd June!

Again, many compliments to all works and artists/writers/passionate people who participated!

Have a great one!

Yours Truly

@jrrt-native-languages-fest

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

Forgot it was @jrrt-native-languages-fest week until a couple of hours ago so have this humble last minute sketchbook offering: a scene from my Silm fic, Prayers to Broken Stone, set in Kerala, where a teenaged Elrond tells Maedhros that he wants to be a writer one day… translated into Malayalam, specifically the literary-poetic form (which this section is “meant” to be written as in the story).

Translations provided below, and the text in the image reads “my father let me swallow him whole”, and the dialogue reads “my Elrond will be a writer.”

ആ നിമിഷത്തിൽ, ഞാൻ മൈത്രോസിനോട് ഒരു ദിവസം പുസ്തകം എഴുതുമെന്ന് പറഞ്ഞപ്പോൾ, ഞാൻ അവനെ നോക്കി നിൽക്കുമ്പോൾ ആരെങ്കിലും എന്റെ ഒരു ചിത്രം എടുത്തിരുന്നെങ്കിൽ — എണ്ണവിലക്കിന്റെ തളംകെട്ടുന്ന വെളിച്ചം ബാബയുടെ മുഖത്തിന്റെ മൂലയിലേക്ക് പതിച്ചുകൊണ്ടിരുന്നു, ഒരു നിഴലുമില്ലാതെ, അവന്റെ ആനന്ദം തികച്ചും ഉജ്ജ്വലമായി കനലുന്ന പോലെ — അത് ഞാൻ തന്നെയാണെന്ന് ഞാൻ തിരിച്ചറിയുമായിരുന്നില്ല. മൈത്രോസിന്റെ മുഖഭാവം എങ്ങോ എന്റെ മുഖത്തിലേക്ക് പടർന്നിരുന്നത് പോലെ — കണ്ണാടിയിൽ കാണുന്ന തന്മാത്രം അല്ല, ഒരുതരം പ്രതിഫലനം — എൻ്റെ മുഖം തീർച്ചയായും അലസമായി തുറന്നിരുന്നു, കൂടുതൽ ഒരു ആശ്വാസം പോലെ, പതിയെ പൊങ്ങിച്ചെല്ലുന്നവിധം.

അയ്യോ, എനിക്ക് ഇങ്ങനെ പ്രകൃത്യാ സ്‌നേഹം കിട്ടുന്നുവല്ലോ.

Had anyone taken a photo of me as I looked at Maedhros, the moment I told him I would write a book one day, the flickering oil-lamp lighting up the corners of my father’s face, not a single shadow marring his sheer delight, I would not have recognised myself. Maedhros’ expression was cast onto my own, I'm certain, not a mirror-image but a refraction, turning my face almost slack with a newly-surfaced relief. Oh, I am loved so instinctively.

ഇങ്ങനെ നേരെത്തന്നെ പൊള്ളയായ മാതാപിതൃ സ്‌നേഹമെന്നും നിലനില്ക്കുമെന്നു ഞാൻ അത്ഭുതപ്പെട്ടു

എന്നിലും, പാതിയെങ്കിലും അതിന് അർഹതയില്ലാത്ത എന്നിലേക്കും. അതും ആശ്വാസമായിരുന്നു: ഏത് ലോകത്തിലായാലും, എൽറോസിന് സംഭവിച്ച പോലെ സംഭവങ്ങൾ നടന്നിട്ടും, മൈത്രോസ് ഫെനോറിയന്റെ മുഖം ഇങ്ങനെ രൂപ���്പെടുമ്പോൾ, അവന്റെ മകന്റെ ചെറുതായൊരൊരായ ഭാഷാ വിജയം മാത്രമാണ് അതിന് കാരണം എങ്കിൽ, എൽറോണ്ട് പെരെദെലിനും ഒരിക്കല്‍ ഈ അർവെൻ വിടവാങ്ങിയ ലോകത്തും ജീവിക്കാൻ കഴിയുമായിരിക്കും.

I had been amazed that such barefaced parental devotion could still exist, even for me, who did not deserve it by half. And yes, relief: for in a world where what happened to Elros had happened, if Maedhros Feanorian's face could still form such remarkable shapes, unprompted by anything other than his son's minor linguistic achievement, then maybe there was hope for Elrond Peredhel too, to survive in a post-Arwen world.

ഒരു നല്ല അച്ഛൻ എപ്പോഴും മക്കളുടെ വിശപ്പിനെയാണ് മുൻഗണന നൽകുന്നത്. എന്റെ അച്ഛന്മാർ ഇങ്ങനെ ആയിരുന്നവർ. എപ്പോഴും ഇങ്ങനെ തന്നെയായിരുന്നു.

ആ രാത്രി, മലിപ്പുറത്തുള്ള വരാന്തയിൽ, ഞാൻ മൈത്രോസിനോട് പറഞ്ഞു —

"ഞാൻ നമ്മുടെ കോഴിക്കോടിനെ കുറിച്ച് എഴുതണമെന്ന് ആഗ്രഹിക്കുന്നു, നമ്മുടെ നദികളെക്കുറിച്ച്."

അവൻ മനസ്സിലാക്കി, ഇത് ഒറ്റപ്പടി അതേപോലെ എഴുതാനല്ല, ഈ പുസ്തകത്തിൽ നദികൾ ഒന്നുമില്ലെന്ന് — നദികൾ വെറും പറക്കുന്ന മീനുകളുടെ മറ്റൊരു രൂപം മാത്രമാണ്,ബാബയ്ക്ക് ഞാൻ സമ്മാനിച്ച മറ്റൊരു വേഷം.

അവനും അവന്റെ സഹോദരനും ഞങ്ങൾക്ക് ഈ ഭാഷ പഠിപ്പിച്ചു, അതിലൂടെ ഞങ്ങൾ അവരുടെ ഒരു അംശം ഉൾക്കൊണ്ടു.

A good parent will always put their children’s hunger before their own. My fathers were like that. They have always been like that. That night on the porch, I told Maedhros I wanted to write about our Kozhikode, our rivers, and he had known even then that it was simply a way to write about the cliff-house. That this book, in truth, has no rivers at all. Rivers are but another species of flying fish, another disguise I have shoved onto my father.

“എന്റെ ബാബ, ഭീകരവാദി", എന്നെഴുതാൻ ഞാൻ നിർദ്ദേശിച്ചപ്പോൾ, അത് ഉപമയാക്കാനും വിരുദ്ധതയാക്കാനും, അവനെ ആഖ്യാനസാങ്കേതികതയാക്കി വിഭജിക്കാനും, അവന്റെ കഥയെ ഈ വാക്കുകളിലേക്കു മാറ്റാനുമൊക്കെ അവൻ എതിർവാദമൊന്നുമില്ലാതെ സമ്മതിച്ചു.

അവൻ ഇരുന്നു, പുതഞ്ഞു വരുന്ന കണ്ണീരോടെ, ഉറഞ്ഞ പുഞ്ചിരിയോടെ എന്നെ നോക്കി, പിന്നീട് പറഞ്ഞു:

"ഞാൻ ഓരോ വാക്കും നൂറ് തവണ വായിക്കും."

അവൻ എന്നെ അദ്ദേഹത്തെ മുഴുവനായി വിഴുങ്ങാൻ അനുവദിച്ചു. എൻ്റെ ഉള്ളിലിരുന്നത് ഇത്ര സ്നേഹപൂർവമായിരുന്ന മറ്റൊരു ധാന്യവുമില്ല.

He and his brother taught me and mine this language, and in doing so let us consume a part of them. He let me turn “my Baba, the terrorist” into metaphor, into juxtaposition, let me dismantle him into literary technique and cycle those words across these pages. He didn’t say a word against it. He sat there, smiling at me for so long that tears rose in his eyes, and told me he would “read each word I wrote a hundred times”.

My father let me swallow him whole. No other grain has sat so gently within me.

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

@jrrt-native-languages-fest

Here is a translation of the verse part of Tolkien's 'The Complaint of Mîm the Dwarf' into French. As far as I'm aware, this poem was first published in a German translation ('Mîm's Klage') by Hans J. Schütz and it's only recently become available in English with the publication of the Collected Poems so it seems fitting to include for this event! But mostly it's become I love it. I first became aware of it thanks to this beautiful art piece by @helyannis

also I didn't have enough time to spend on this so the meter and the rhyme scheme are pretty nonsensical - ah well!

Sous une montagne, dans des terres sauvages, S’ouvrait une caverne au sol sablonneux. Un soir Mîm se tenait devant l’huis : Barbe comme givre, dos gibbeux. Bien loin il avait erré, sans foyer et sans feu, Mîm le petit-Nain, deux cents ans passés. Tout ce qu’il avait bâti, tout ce qu’il avait fait - A la hache, au burin, à la pelle, au marteau - On lui avait volé ; ses ennemis ne lui avaient laissé Que sa vie, quelques outils, et un couteau A la lame venimeuse, sous une houppelande Loqueteuse. Ses yeux rougis par la fumée, Cillaient. On avait enflammé ronces et brande Jetées dans ses tunnels, pour l’enfumer Le chasser. Graillonnant et toussant, Mîm cracha dans le sable, en disant : Tink-tink-tink tink-donk donk-donk tink ! Pas le temps de manger, pas le temps de trinquer ! Tink-donk – pas le temps – donk-tink de jouer ! Pas le temps de dormir ! Ni nuit ni jour ! Seul restent l’argent niellé et l’or filigrané ; Menues, âpres, froides, les gemmes Tink-tink, vertes et jaunes, tink-tink blanches et bleues : Sous mes doigts s’épanouissaient Feuilles, et fleurs ; parmi ronces et racines Brûlaient comme braise les yeux des bêtes et des oiseaux.

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

breton folk songs lyrics associated with rings of power moments n°7/7 for jrrt language fest :

"Roue! roue! lakit evezh barzh an disurjoù a ren Ahes,

rak tremenet vo an amzer, pa skuilho Doue e gonner."

gwerz Ker Iz, trad. breton

(o king! pay attention to the disorders your daughter sows, because it will be too late when God's wrath come upon you)

i'm finishing those quoteposts for jrrt language fest with this lament about a legendary lost city engulfed by the sea (Is). Hope you liked this ride in my land!

@jrrt-native-languages-fest thank you for having this wonderful idea

listen to it here

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

@jrrt-native-languages-fest

For JRRT Native Languages Fest, I'd like to introduce Ponniyin Selvan, a historical fiction novel based on the period before the golden era of the Chozha Empire in Tamil Nadu. The story revolves around conspirators of other kingdoms tangled in a very personal manner to the lives of the Chozha royal family, and hence, trying to get revenge and power.

My favourite character from the series is Aditha Karikalan, the heir apparent to the Chozha throne. He's very tragic, and I can't help but draw many parallels with Boromir and him.

Both he and Boromir are heirs apparent to the respective positions held by their fathers. Their fathers have problems of their own, Aditha's father being an invalid with paralysis, and Denethor being, well, Denethor.

Each of them has a younger brother, who is considered the more gentle brother (and ends up getting the position originally meant for them).

Although Boromir's death isn't entirely connected with his lust for the Ring, it's a conclusion to his character, and there is no other way his character arc could've closed in the novel, considering the rest of the story.

And although Aditha didn't really die in the arms (or by the hands) of his lover-turned-enemy-because-he-killed-her father-thinking-it-was-her-lover-but-he-was-going-to-kill-him-anyway-because-he-happened-to-be-the-enemy-king (because he didn't have any in history :P) fiction is, of course, romanticised. He died growing mad for her (at least in the movies). He begged her to run away with him and then killed himself in front of her.

Kind of sacrifice, really. Either of them had to die, and he killed himself. A bit like Boromir, who also sacrificed himself.

Their biggest tragedies, however, are their love for their kingdom, and their want to protect them. But this is where they differ; Boromir tries to take the ring from Frodo in hopes that he can save Gondor, and then repents and dies, protecting Merry and Pippin.

Aditha actually kills his ex-lover's father because, as mentioned above, he was the enemy king. He was doing it to protect his kingdom. Eventually he does go mad. And dies.

This is a little incoherent, actually, and I couldn't find any of Aditha's quotes that might relate to Boromir. Sucks to be travelling and writing all this off the top of my head. I did, however, remember the song that was composed for his funeral procession.

வீரா ராஜ வீர

சூரா தீர சூர

வீழா சோழ வீர

சீரார் ஞாலம் வாழ

வாராய் வாகை சூட

தொடுவோர் பகைப்போரை

நடுகல் சேர்க்கும் வீரா

மாறா காதல் மாறா

பூவோர் ஏங்கும் தீரா

பாவோர் போற்றும் வீரா

Romanised:

Veera raja veera

soora dheera soora

Veezha sozha veera

Seerar gnyalam vaazha

Vaaraai vaagai sooda

Thoduvor pagai porai

Nadukal serkkum veera

Maara kaadhal maara

Puvor yengum dheera

Pavor potrum veera

Meaning:

O royal warrior, O brave and strong one,

Invincible [chozha] warrior,

May your world prosper. Hail to your victory.

Those who dare to oppose you,

You send to their graves.

O, angel of undying love, Lovely damsels yearn for you.

We sing your glory, o brave one.

This is just the first stanza, but I think it fits him well, don't you?

@valar-did-me-wrong I thought you might be interested?

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

For Tolkien Native Language Appreciation Fest Hindi + English text post memes @jrrt-native-languages-fest

^Eng: God has blessed me with a lot! of struggles ._.

^Eng: Everyone likes me, noone can tolerate me -_-

^Eng: Personality development has stopped recently, I need another heartbreak @_@

^Eng: In search of love I keep finding life lessons :((

^Eng: Someone, anyone call me stuff like 'baby' 'darling' too, this is not a joke anymore :|

^Eng: Now it's time to learn from my past mistakes, to make new mistakes! :3

^Eng: Aura got fucked guys! ;_;

^Eng: Mother is right, nothing feels as heavenly as our home's toilet :')

My other Desi Tolkien stuff

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

For the Tolkien Native Language Appreciation Fest.

Day: 21st of Jun.

Title: Baba's boy.

Used language: Arabic.

Type: Short story.

Featuring: Fëanáro(Feanor), Nilyafinwe(Maedhros), Maglor(Macalaure), Tyelkormo(Celegorm), Carnistir(Caranthir), Nerdanel(mentioned).

لمهرجان تولكين لتقدير اللغة الأم.

التاريخ: 21 من حزيران.

العنوان: أبن أبوه.

اللغة: العربية.

النوع: قصة قصيرة.

بطولة: فيانارو(فيانور)، نيردانيل، نيليافينوي(ماييذروس)، ماكالوري(ماغلور)، تيليكورمو(كيليغورم)، كارنيستير(كارانثير)،

لم ينم فيانارو لأشهر بعد كل ولادة لأطفاله، ليس بسبب صخبهم، بل على العكس، ينامون الليل كله نومًا عميقًا، لا يستيقظون أحيانًا حتى يوقظهم فيانارو أو نيردانيل، بإستثناء ماكالوري.

لكن هذا ليس ما نتحدث عنه، سبب سهر عزيزنا فيانارو هو الخوف، الخوف من أن تغلق نيردانيل عينيها الجميلتين ولا تفتحهما مجددًا.

لكن هذا لم يحدث، مايتيمو، ثم ماكالوري، يليهما تايلكورمو، وأخيرًا كارنيستير، كانوا جميعاً مثاليين لأبعد الحدود، نعم كانت نيردانيل متعبة لكنها لم تذهب إلى لورين.

لكن يبدو أن حظ نيردانيل قد نفد هذه المرة، إذ لمع الخوف في عينيها، وعاد شبح ميرييل إلى المشهد.

فبينما يلف الظلام نيردانيل ويتلاطم الذعر حولها كموجة تهدد بأغراقها، يضيق حلق فيانارو ويسود شعور بالاختناق والرعب، يعتريه شعور غريب بالإنفصال ويدركه ان هذه هي النهاية.

لافرح ولاسعادة ولانور يضئ آل فيانارو هذه المرة.

صار أكثر شحوبًا من أي وقت مضى، كما لو أن جوهر الحياة قد انتزع من جسده، كانت عيناه في يوم من الأيام مشرقتين كتيلبيريون، والآن أصبحتا أغمق من حدود فالينور المظلمة.

في أكتئاب موحش ، إِعتزل فيانارو الجميع وجلس لأسابيع أمام الأبواب، نفس الأبواب التي لم تمر بها والدته قط، نفس الأبواب التي يبدو أن نيردانيل لا تعبرها أبدًا.

يأمل ألا يطول الانتظار، ويأمل أن تعود.

ساكن في بحر من الهموم إنفصل فيانارو عمن حوله، أحزان جعلته لايعي ولايسمع ماحوله. إرتعد كيانه عندما وضِعت أيادٍ دافئة على كتفيه،

انسلّت "نيليافينوي" ضعيفة من بين شفتيه الجافتين المتشققتين، "عليك أن تعود" ساعد نيليافينوي والده على الوقوف ويده حول خصره محاولاً جره إلى منزلهما.

علىٰ الرغم من ضعف جسده قاوم فيانارو ولده وبصوت أجش عارض طلب نيليافينوي "عليَّ إنتظارها هاهنا"، بلمح البصر أو أسرع شَعر فيانارو بأن الكون يدور حوله وأُلقي على كتف ولده كأنه مجرد ريشة طائر.

يكافح بما تبقى له من قوة للنزول عن ولده طويل القامة "أرجوك... عليّ... أن أبقى هنا" توسل، لكن توسلاته لم تَجد آذانًا صاغية.

"عليك أن تعود، ليس من أجلك فحسب، بل من أجل إبنك أيضًا". لو لم يكن فيانارو يحاول التشبث بولده، لعاتبه على جديته معه وخارج بلاط جده.

إبنه، فرحته المنتظرة التي تحولت إلى مأساة مؤلمة، شعر بنفس الضيق والفراغ في قلبه، حتى أنه لم ينظر إليه، وكيف له أن يفعل ذلك ونيردانيال ليست بجانبه؟

بدىٰ أطفاله مختلفين، أضعف وأرق مما كانوا عليه من قبل. من غير ريب إبتعاده ونيردانيل عصف بأرواحهم الهشه، تيليكورمو أمسىٰ اهدأ وكارنيستير الصغير صار أصغر، أحس فيانارو ان مقلتي ماكالوري الداميتين تحدقان بروحه وشعر نيليافينوي الملتهب تحول لمجرد شعلة على وشك الإنطفاء.

لم يتركاه تيليكورمو و كارنيستير طرفة عين بينما كان نيليافينوي يعد المائدة، لم ينطق ماكالوري بحرف عدا همهمة ضج تردد صداها جدران الغرفة.

لم يُسمع بالغرفة غير طقطقة الملاعق بالأطباق، بصمت أنهىٰ فيانارو و أولاده طعامهم، أحس فيانارو ان الطعام سار بشرايينه بدل أمعائه، كم مضى من الوقت على هذا الشبع كم يوم مضى ولم يذق غير مرارة الشوق؟

يحارب نفسه ودموعه بينما يسمع نواح الطفل وتوسلات كل من ماكالوري و كارنيستير. كم يتمنىٰ ان يساعدهما لا بل يعفيهما من واجباتهما، أليس هو والده؟ أليس هو من أراده؟ أليس هو من تسبب بفقدانهم والدتهم؟ ووالدته.

دخل عليهم ولايزالان يحاولان إسكات أخوهما، أشار لماكالوري بتمرير الرضيع إليه بعد أن حضن وقبل خدي كارنيستير الأحمرين، بلطف أخرجهما وأغلق الباب.

أشاح نظره الباهت المتعب إلى ولده، بدا الأمر كما لو أن عينيه تبحثان في رضيعه عن مهرب من ألمه، عن لمحة أمل في عالم خانق، لكن لا شيء يمكن العثور عليه، فقط المزيد من الأسئلة والشكوك.

هدأت دموعه وخفَ صوته المبحوح، حدقت عيناه السوداوين كالعقيق في عيني فيانارو لوهلة. تبسم ضاحكاً كما لو إنه وجد ضالته.

"أهلاً وسهلاً بك كوروفينْوَيَ".

Fëanáro never slept for months after each birth if his children, not because they were loud they were the opposite, staying the whole night sleeping soundly not waking up sometimes until Fëanáro or Nerdanel wakes them, except Macalaure.

But that not what we are talking about, the reason why our dear Náro stays awake is fear, fear of Nerdanel closing her beautiful eyes not opening them again.

But that never happened, Maitimo then Macalaure and Tyelkormo and finally Carnistir were all perfect, yes she was tired but she never went to Lorien.

But it seems that Nerdaniel's luck ran out this time, as fear flashed in her eyes and Míriel's ghost returned to the scene.

As the darkness envelop Nerdanel, panic rises swiftly like a wave threatening to consume him, Fëanáro's throat tighten, there is a sense of suffocation dread and in these final moments there's a strange detachment.

A realization dawns that this is the end.

No joy, no happiness this time and no light illuminates the house of Fëanáro.

Paler than ever as if the very life essence has snatch away from his body, his eyes once were bright as Telperion now dimmer than the dark borders of Valinor.

In his lifeless state Fëanáro for weeks sat in front of the doors, the same doors his mother never walked past them, the same doors Nerdanel never seem to pass.

Hoping the wait won't be long, hoping she comes back.

Detached from the world and living in a sea of worries that made him neither aware nor hear whats around, Fëanáro shudder as warm hands placed on his cold shoulders.

A weak "Nelyafinwë" slipped past his dry cracked lips,

"You have to come back" Nelyafinwe helped his father to stand up with a hand around his waist he tried to drag him to their house.

No strength left in his body but he had to fight "I have to wait here for her" huskily Fëanáro refused his son offer.

In a blink of an eye Fëanáro felt like the universe spun around him, as if he was like a feather Nelyafinwë throw on his shoulder.

struggling with what left of his power Fëanáro tried to climb down the tree-talled son he fathered, "please....I mu...st-tay here" he begged but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

"You must return, not only for you but for your son" If Fëanáro hadn't been trying to cling to his son, he would have scolded him for using his serious tone on him and outside of his grandfather's court.

His son, his long-awaited joy turned into a painful tragedy. He felt the same squeeze and emptiness in his heart, He did not even glance at him, and how could he do that when Nerdaniel was not by his side?.

His children seemed different, weaker and more fragile than before. His and Nerdaniel's absence had undoubtedly ravaged their fragile souls. Telecormo grew calmer, and little Carnister grew smaller. Fiannaro felt Macalori's bloodshot eyes staring into his soul, and Niliavinwy's burning hair was a mere flame about to go out.

Tyelkormo and Carnistir didn't leave him for a moment as Nilyafinwe set the table. Macalaure didn't speak, except for a murmur of noise that echoed off the walls of the room.

Nothing could be heard in the room except the clinking of spoons on plates. Silently, Fëanáro and his children finished their meal. He felt as if the food was coursing through his veins instead of his intestines. How long had he been so full? How many days had passed without him tasting anything but the bitterness of longing?

He fought back his own tears as he heard the baby's wailing and the pleas of both Macalaure and Carnistir, how he wished he could help them, even relieve them of their duties. Wasn't he his father? Wasn't he the one who wanted him? Wasn't he the one who caused them to lose their mother? And his mother?

He entered while they were still trying to quiet their brother. He gestured for Macalaure to pass the baby to him after he had cradled and kissed Carnistir's red cheeks, h gently led them out and closed the door.

He turned his pale, tired gaze back to his son. It seemed as if his eyes were searching in his infant for an escape from his pain, a glimpse of hope in a stifling world. But nothing could be found, only more questions and doubts.

His tears subsided and his hoarse voice softened. His agate-black eyes stared into Fëanáro's for a moment then smiled and laughed as if he had found what he was looking for.

"Welcome home, Curufinwé."

Tags: @jrrt-native-languages-fest

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

breton folk songs lyrics associated with lord of the rings moments n°6/7 for jrrt language fest :

"keno dit ma zi balan, kuzhet barzh an draonienn,

tachenn c'hlas war behini, bugel, e c'hoarien"

farewell of the soldier, trad.breton

(farewell my cottage, hidden in the valley,

green meadow upon which i played as a child)

(i'm just gonna stop saying sorry atp)

@jrrt-native-languages-fest

listen to it here

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

Fingon for @jrrt-native-languages-fest

For day 4 prompts: Purple, Noble, Valiant, Fading

The poem is by Matsuo Bashō and is in Japanese, which is one of the languages that I am learning.

My rough translation -

Though it is soon to die,

The cicada's cry

Holds no sign of it.

[jrrt-native-languages-fest]

@jrrt-native-languages-fest

Color of the day for jrrt native language fest 🩵💙💚🌿🌊🌀🦚

Glas

(prononce it glaz)

Is the name of a color in breton, and it's particularly interesting because it is as much a concept as it is a color.

Glas means blue, but also green, and sometimes grey. Some languages have different frontiers between the words they put on their perceptions of color.

So glas means blue but also green and grey as far as natural elements are concerned. It is the color of nature, leaves, moss, sea and sky. Nature is a fondamental element of breton culture.

In Tolkien's world in general, and in Rings of Power in particular, those colors take a central place. Between the importance of the sea, the omnipresence of nature and the wonderful palette of the costumes design, we can slide across all the color spectrum encompassed into glas.

From the eyes of young Galadriel ,

The artwork of old Nùmenor,

And its surroundings,

The wonderful costumes of Galadriel,

The colouring of our darling Bronwyn,

And her dear, beloved Arondir,

Elrond's whole color scheme,

But also the lush forests of Lindon,

The bright green of the moss,

And even the greenish blue of Celebrimbor's robes, provided they were dyed using natural colors,

All of it is the same color !

Isn't it fascinating?

so a bit about breton :

Breton is spoken in the western part of Brittany, France, though it is quickly fading, much as the elves in Tolkien's world in the third Age.

It is a sister langage to welsh, having the same celtic roots. Another tie to the professor, who studied and drew inspiration from welsh quite a lot. A lot of the vocabulary is similar.

it is classified as "in serious danger of extinction" by the UNESCO, and the number of speakers is dwindling. It was forbidden in schools for the best part of the last century (Hello Quenya?) and though it is not forbidden anymore, the number of real speakers is so little that the harm is all but done. Still, me and my friends work with it everyday to teach it to children because we love it dearly, and i am going to finish this sentimental post with a TroP quote for Galadriel :

" Protecting that which is most fragile, most dear, is a task entrusted to all Elves."

This langage is beautiful, rich, full of poetry, and virtually dead in a lot of Brittany's parts.

It is my life's task to protect it. Even if I fail, I will have loved getting through life speaking and hearing it.