#Elrond: Now how about we go back to Valinor to make amends for your many other crimes

[aotearoa20]

Maglor: How did you do it? How did you find peace? I took away your parents, everything! I scarred you for life!

Elrond: That’s the thing, scars heal

Maglor: No they don’t. wounds heal

Elrond: (a healer) Fine! And scars fade when you take ca-

Maglor: I don’t care what scars do

Elrond: Well you should, Maglor, you gotta let go of all that stuff in the past, it just doesn’t matter

Elrond: The only thing that matters is what you choose to do about it now

Maglor: You’re right

Maglor: (resting his head on Elrond’s shoulder) I chose this

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - February 16th

This is the day when the Fellowship leave Lothlórien and begins their journey down the River Anduin. Quite a lot fits into the day, so I’m going to track it chronologically.

First, in the morning as the Fellowship is packing up, elves of Lothlórien come and bring them lembas and elven-cloaks. Both are an example of the value and dignity of practical crafts within elven society; Galadriel personally works on making the cloaks of Lothlórien (“she and her maidens wove this stuff”), and of the nature of “elf-magic” being tied to their close relationship with the natural world (“leaf and branch, water and stone: they have the hue and beauty of all these things under the twilight of Lórien that we love”; and “grey with the hue of twilight under the trees they seemed to be; and yet if they were moved, or set in another light, they were green as shadowed leaves, or brown as fallow fields by night, dusk-silver as water under the stars”). It’s quite possible that this is the first time non-elves have been given lembas since the time of Túrin Turambar, and the second time in all Elven history.

After having breakfast, the Fellowship are preparing to leave the site where they have camped for the last month. Haldir comes to meet them as their guide (he’s come a lomg way from the borders, so it’s likely that the “guide” thing is an excuse and he’s come to say good-bye). He tells them that “The Dimrill Dale is full of vapour and clouds of smoke, and the mountains are troubled; there are noises in the deeps of the earth” - likely consequences of the battle between Gandalf and the balrog.

As they walked through Caras Galadhon the green ways were empty; but in the trees above them many voices were murmuring and singing. They temselves went silently. At last Haldir led them down the southward slopes of the hill, and they came again to the great gate hung with lamps, and to the white bridge; and so they passed out and left the city of the Elves. Then they turned away from the paved road and took a path that went off into a deep thicket of mallorn-trees, and passed on, winding through rolling woodlands of silver shadow, leading them ever down, southwards and eastwards, towards the shores of the River.

They had gone some ten miles and noon was at hand when they came on a high green wall. Passing through an opening they came suddenly out of the trees. Before them lay a long lawn of shining grass, studded with golden elanor that glinted in the sun. The lawn ran out into a narrow tongue between bright margins: on the right and west the Silverlode flowed glittering; on the left and east the Great River rolled its broad waters, deep and dark...One the bank of the Silverlode, at some distance up from the meeting of the streams, there was a hythe of white stones and white wood. By it were moored many boats and barges. Some were brightly painted, and shone wuth silver and gold and green, but most were either white or grey.

New word for me: hythe. Even my 1950s OED doesn’t know it! Fortunately, Google knows everything, and tells me it is an “archaic” word meaning “a small harbour or landing-place,” which is what I expected from the context.

There are thee boats for the Fellowship, and elves provide them with rope, to Sam’s satisfaction. The Fellowship practice with the boats by rowing a ways up the Silverlode. They meet Galadriel and Celeborn in a great swan-ship:

The water rippled on either side of the white breast beneath its curving neck. Its beak shone like burnished gold, and its eyes glinted like jet set in yellow stones; its huge white wings were half-lifted.

This matches the description of the swan-ships of the Teleri that Fëanor stole and destroyed, described in the Silmarillion: “Their ships...were made in the likeness of swans, with beaks of gold and eyes of gold and jet.” Galadriel’s mother is Telerin, and so the ship, as much as her song of lament (“What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?”), is a sign of her homesickness.

The Fwllowship, Celeborn, and Galadriel return to the green lawn at the angle of the two rivers for their parting meal. It is a fitting place: still within Lothlórien, but looking across the rivers to the mallorn-less shores beyond its southern and eastern borders. Galadriel seems changed to Frodo, and it may be not only his perception, but the result of her choice, refusing the Ring, to “diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel”:

She seemed no longer perilous or terrible, nor filled with hidden power. Already she seemed to him, as by men of later days Elves still at times are seen: present and yet remote, a living vision of that which has already been left far behind by the flowing streams of Time.

Celeborn gives the Fellowship advice on their onward journey, speaking of the Brown Lands and the Emyn Muil, of the rapids of Sarn Gebir and the falls of Rauros, of the Dead Marshes and the plains of Gorgoroth, of Rohan and the Forest of Fangorn. Since all this territory is likely familiar to Aragorn, this is likely as much for the reader’s benefit as the Fellowship’s. He warns them not to become entangled in Fangorn, “a strange land, and now little known”; with the spread of Men across the plains of Rohan, it is likely now many years since the Elves and the Ents have spoken.

Boromir, showing more warning signs, though subtler than the previous night, dismisses the stories of Fangorn as “old wives’ tales, such as we tell to our children”, and then digresses to brag/complain about his difficulties in reaching Rivendell: “A long and wearisome journey...and it took me many months, for I lost my horse at Tharbad, at the fording of the Greyflood. After that journey, and the road I have trodden with this Company, I do not much doubt that I shall find a way through Rohan, and Fongorn too, if need be.” He is clearly feeling both proud and aggrieved. Notably, Aragorn, with far broader experience and travel of Middle-earth that Boromir, says no such things.

Galadriel then gives gifts to the Fellowship. To Aragorn, a scabbard overlaid with tracery of leaves and flowers of silver and gold, with words in gemstones spelling out that it in Andúril, reforged from Narsíl, the blade of Elendil. And along with this, the Elessar, the elfstone, which Arwen gave her to give to him: “a great stone of a clear green, set in a silver brooch that was wrought in the likeness of an eagle with outspread wings.” The Elessar is, from some versions of Unfinished Tales, an enhancement to healing abilities; the fact that Galadriel gave it to Celebrian and Celebrian to Arwen suggests that Celebrian and Arwen may both have used healing abilities as well. (Arwen, as Elrond’s daughter, would be particularly likely to be trained in it. Wouldn’t it be neat if the gemstone she gives to Frodo at the end, to help him in times of sickness and ill memory, was one she made herself, a combination of jewel-craft and healing?)

And, for all the fandom focus on how many people Elrond has lost, it’s worth remembering here that Galadriel is parted from her father and mother, her brothers are long dead, and her daughter departed for Valinor terribly ill and broken-spirited after having been captured by orcs; and unlike Elrond, at this moment she does not know if she will ever be able to see them again. Elrond at least knows he will see his parents and his wife again, in time. Galadriel also knows she is going to lose her granddaughter; indeed, she had a hand it it, practically matchmaking Aragorn and Arwen on the occasion when they became engaged.

Galadriel’s gift to Sam, of the earth and the mallorn-nut, is particularly touching: she knows from his vision in the mirror that the Shire will likely not be untouched by the war, and that the loss of the trees in particular distresses Sam; and she gives him a gift that can amend it.

And Gimli, of course, asks for a strand of Galadriel’s hair, and recieves three. I could say more on the interactions between these two, but I’ll try to keep it to this: in all the language concerning Gimli and Galadriel, Galadriel’s beauty is not used simply or even mainly to mean physical appearance, but to stand in for goodness, kindness and understanding. Gimli’s answer for what he would do with the hair is “treasure it...in memory of your words to me at our first meeting,” when she understood and defended the dwarves’ love of their home and spoke their place-names in the dwarf-tongue. Similarly, when he demands Eómer “acknowledge Galadriel as the fairest of ladies” if ever he sees her, he is responding to Eómer insulting Galadriel’s character, not her looks. Beauty here means something more than beauty.

And to Frodo she gives the Phial of Galadriel, holding the light of Eärendil’s star that is the Silmaril; a parallel and inverse of the Silmaril, a gift to be given rather than a possession to be clung to; and fitting for the end of the Noldor’s presence in Middle-earth, as the Silmarils drove their arrival there.

The Fellowship at last departs from Lothlórien, and Galadriel’s song in Quenya flows down to them on the wind.

So the Company went on their long way, down the wide hurrying waters, borne ever southwards. Bare woods stalked along either bank, and they could not see any glimpse of the lands behind. The breeze died away as the River flowed without a sound. No voice of bird broke the silence. The sun grew misty as the day grew old, until it gleamed in a pale sky like a high white pearl. Then it faded into the West, and dusk came early, followed by a grey and starless night.

[macabretrees]

Summary: The brothers make amends.

@gabriel-seven! You wanted something w/Fingolfin! Hope you didn’t mind me adding Feanor! Angst with a happy ending! Set in the 4th Age in Valinor. also i’m my own beta so beware! please reblog if you liked it!

He had never stepped foot into Feanor’s forge before, not until now at least.

Though to be fair,  he was never allowed to, as Indis had feared he and his siblings would sustain some kind of freak injury. As a child,  he’d always thought it was dark and full of fire, like his brother (that was after his childhood dreams of working beside Feanor had been crushed with the older elf’s obvious dislike of him).

Adulthood hadn’t changed his perception either, certainly not when the Silmarils had been created and all but his son’s had been barred from entering the workshop. Consequently he’d adopted his mothers same mindset, and had attempted to  keep his own children away from the Forge as long as possible.

It didn’t work of course. Fingon got attached to Maedhros, and Aredhel wanted to hunt. They’d done what they could to dispel the myth about Feanor’s Forge, but Fingolfin had never bought into their reassurances.

Not until today, at least.

Fate must have led him to his brother’s workshop, because he wouldn’t have come on his own accord. Of course there was the fact that he’d been yearning for a confrontation with Feanor  the moment he’d found out he’d been reborn. There was so, so much to talk about. The boats...goodness the boats, their childhood...there were so many thing Fingolfin needed to--as his son said-- ‘get off his chest.’

It was clear that his brother would not move to make amends, and in the past Fingolfin would have been bitter, but things had changed.  This new age was about peace and forgiveness. All in Valinor, old wounds seemed to heal over, old enemies embraced one another like brothers.

Yet Nolofinwe and Curufinwe couldn’t even dine with one another. In all honestly Fingolfin was tired of it.   

So he steeled his nerves and squared his shoulders as he stepped up on his brother’s doorstep. Come in, say his peace, and leave. He repeated this mantra over and over again, musing how he was more nervous at the prospect of speaking to his brother than he’d ever been on the battlefield.

The door seemed to open before he could even knock, the heavy wood creaking slowly and revealing sparking light in the dark corridor. He peaked his head in slowly as the rest of his body followed, and announced himself with a ‘hello’. There was no response, but the enticing demeanor that fell about the workshop was enough to make up for that. Fingolfin found his hands tingling with the need to touch the jewels on display, and some unforeseen force gradually lured him deeper and deeper into the work station.

It was like being in a museum of priceless artifacts, and he elf found himself completely entranced. Time passed slowly as he wove himself deeper and deeper into the maze of art

“No wonder Feanor spend hours in here,” he observed  “It’s hard to get out.”

“And he spent time in here because it was one of the few places he could call home.” From behind an empty station--or at least what was an empty station--stood Feanor, hair up and apron tied around his body. If the stains on his apron said anything, he’d been there for hours.

Only Fingolfin hadn’t heard him, and had just now noticed him.

“It’s a spell.” Feanor answered his brother’s question, “I use it to keep….people out.” He averted his gaze then, and returned to the ring he was making.

“I see…” Fingolfin muttered, catching the hidden meaning, “It’s very effective.”

There was a pause that stretched about them, and Fingolfin watched as his brother pretended to return to work. He was no doubt waiting for him to leave. When he didn’t, Feanor sighed.

“Tell me why you’re here?” he demanded, “You’ve never visited before. In fact I didn’t even think you were allowed to come here.”

“I’m no longer a child, The younger elf leaned against one of the cool workstations and crossed his arm, “And is it wrong to want to visit my brother? It’s been years now, and we’ve yet to speak to each other.”

“We spoke together in Mandos,” Feanor reminded him, “We made amends.”

“More like we were forced to speak together, we didn’t make up, we hardly made amends,” Fingolfin hopped off of the table and made his way slowly to his brother, “If we really made amends, then why did your Forge try to keep me out?”

Feanor groaned and let his tools clank on the table, “What do you want?”

“I want to get to know you, the real you,” he said the words without fully processing them, catching the look of shock on Feanor’s face, and feeling his own heart skip a beat. Well, there’s no use in stopping, he thought to himself, you’ve put all your cards on the table now.

So with his brother’s full attention, he continued.

“It’s been years and we are still as close to each other as we were when you threatened to kill me that once. Every day, Elrond tells me of what an amazing elf you are, and if not Elrond, than Fingon. If not Fingon, than Aredhel,” he cried, “But me...I’m the only one who’s not allowed to know you, because for some reason you loathe my--”

“I don’t hate you--” Feanor was quick to interrupt him, much to Fingolfin’s surprise, “I have never hated you. Or your mother or siblings for that matter.” The older elf looked very disturbed at the mere suggestion that he could hate another elf, and  his dark brows furrowed against his tan skin as his eyes gleamed with worry. No doubt it conjured up old wounds,

But nevertheless, the younger elf persisted.

“Then if not hate, what?” Fingolfin tried again, “You’ve always seemed lament our very existence.”

“I didn’t ‘lament your existence’,” Feanor explained as he looked towards his brother, “I was grieving.”

“For our entire lives?” The younger elf raised a brow, “When father died, I grieved, we all grieved. But--”

“When father died we were adults and heads of our respective families,” hissed the elf, “We had our families and our friends to rely on. Even with father dead , you had your mother. When my mother died, I had no one. Father was too concerned with wedding your mother to aid me like he should have, I was supposed to move and and act like nothing happened. Can you blame me for acting how I did? And I apologize for how it might have made you, but I won’t apologize for grieving.”

He turned quickly back to his work, though his hands shook with rage and sadness, and he worked quickly and harshly.

The taller elf’s heart dropped. He hadn’t meant to taunt his brother like that, nor had he meant to unnerve buried feelings that should have been left forgotten.

Feanor was right, and he supposed if their situations had been switched, if it were Indis whom had died and he’d been forced to life alone and cope by himself, he would have acted the same. He wanted to slap himself for how stupid he’d been. They’d both been clouded by grief, and had unintentionally hurt the other.

“Fean--” “Please leave my Forge,” he cut  him off, expecting his younger brother to protest, “I don’t have the energy now.” “Then you won’t need to use it,” Fingolfin said, “I’m not going to argue or negate what you said. I just want to apologize....apologize for what you went through. I don’t think anyone apologized to you, did they? I think you were forced to accept things too quickly, when you weren’t ready.”

“Thank you, but it’s not your mistake to apologize for.” He grumbled, then added, “But I really am sorry for how I made you and the rest of your siblings feel. I was grieving, but you were children. I never intended to direct my anger towards you all. And if your children are a testament to who you are, it’s a shame I never got to know you. I’ve been blessed to have known Fingon, Aredhel and Elrond as much as I do.”   He was honest and sincere, though reluctant to show it. He bowed his head, using his work as an excuse to hide his blush. Yet Fingolfin couldn’t help but smile.

“I can’t speak for them, but I can speak for myself. Knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t have acted differently,” he said, honestly, “but nevertheless, I accept your apology. Though I wish there was something I could do to alleviate what you went through.”

No matter how Feanor had acted towards him, Fingolfin had a happy childhood. In fact his brother’s relationship with him had been a small part of a happy life. Though knowing what the older elf  experienced, he sought to help how he could.

Part of him debated on having a serious talk with his mother and father, though figured Feanor wouldn’t take well to the two being reintroduced into his life. Since he came back, he’d cut them off completely. Though he was never fond of Indis to begin with, his distance from Finwe was unexpected.

The older elf simply nodded in understanding,  and went back to his work--or attempted to.

“That’s really pretty,” Fingolfin said, eyeing the metal work that his brother tended to, “looks hard.”

Feanor smiled brightly, “It’s actually quite simple. If you’re not busy...I could show you.”

Fingolfin’s heart nearly stopped in his chest as he looked at his brother in disbelief. As a child, he wanted nothing more than to work beside Feanor and learn his craft. As he grew older though, and Feanor’s opinion of him had become obvious, it became silly fantasy.

But now, his brother stood, inviting him to work with him. Genuinely wanting him to work with him.

Fingolfin couldn't help but smile.

“Of course,” he grinned gleefully.

I almost named it after one of Ben Howards songs , but I wanted to save the title for something else. anyway relog if yall liked it!