#and making said dark hair black same as regards the Noldor

[waitingforsecretsouls]

Forget about Celegorm hair colour discourse, my controversial take (in the sense of going against the main depiction found in fandom) is that Maglor and Curufin are brunettes (as is the Noldorin standard*).

Maglor is the only son of Fëanor without any kind of physical description whatsoever, implying he doesn't deviate from the norm in that regard, and Curufin is only ever said to resemble Feanor "very much in face" (HoME XII), i.e. sharing his fathers facial features, but is never noted for black hair the way Finwë ("he had black hair", HoME XII), Fëanor ("his hair raven-dark", The Silmarillion VI) and Caranthir ("he was black-haired as his grandfather", HoME XII) are.

The same also goes for Fingolfin and his children.

*I take dark brown (at most) as the "default", since every instance of black hair is specifically mentioned, similar to the other deviations from the norm such as Mahtan, Maedhros and the Ambarussa, or Míriel, or the Arafinwëans. So I find reading a simple "dark" (or lack of any description to the contrary, regarding Noldor) as "brown" the most plausible.

[tolkienhorror]

In Sauron’s Lab: File #5

Another oneshot about one of Sauron’s torture methods.

Warnings: Abuse, torture, non-con, flaying, public humiliation, cannibalism, medical torture.

Please note: This was created on a tumblr prompt given on my main blog. Prompt: Fingon/Sauron, Audience, Crying, Collaring, Public humiliation

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I asked for a King to replace the one you lost, Lieutenant, and all you bring me is this, Morgoth had told Sauron when the orcs had dragged Findekáno into the throne room of the enemy’s base.

You have a week to break him, the Dark Lord had told his minion, interrupting Sauron’s almost nervous sounding explanations about how very useful the son of the new High King would be in their hands for their cause, black eyes uncaring, greyish skin glowing like the destructive flash of lightning in the shine of the Silmarils wrongly crowning that terrible, hollowed face. You make him kneel for me, or you can go right back to that mountain I pried you and feed another of your bodies to the crows.

  Then they’d taken him away, and Findekáno remembered wondering if it would even take him a week at the mercy of someone who’d long given up on all empathy along with his sane mind, only to serve this monster who didn’t even bother caring about him in the presence of a prisoner, before he would wish for death. For a quick end, rather than clinging to the foolish hope that someone would come to find him here.

  No one would. No one even knew he was here and they wouldn't for several weeks, not before he was expected home from his journey to Himring to surprise his husband. By the time, they would start to wonder in Hithlum, it would be too late.

  Maitimo would probably learn last, and even he would not come. Findekáno had made him promise, made him swear on everything safe for what would have bordered on an oath that neither of them needed another one of. More than that, Maitimo would know, better than anyone, that Findekáno had been lost the moment his escort and he had been overwhelmed with the help of countless black arrows and half a dozen of fiery whips from behind. A year, he had once told Findekáno. If you could hold on to your will to live or your sanity or both for a year of being a prisoner in Angband, you were counted among the lucky ones.

  As it turned out, for Findekáno, it was two days before he started to regret that he hadn’t tried to bite through his own wrist arteries in these few minutes that he’d spent alone in a pitch-dark, moldy cell, damned to wait for whatever what was to come. And that was before anyone had even touched him.

  Findekáno had no doubt that a lot of them wanted to. Two of the boldest creatures reaching out for him had died already when another of Morgoth's highest ranking Lieutenants had dragged Findekáno from his cell to lead him towards a huge hall at the end of the dungeon wing that had already echoed with the screams of more than one of his people at that point. And dozens orcs more were very clearly waiting for their chance, lurking in the corner of that torture chamber, scarred faces distorted into sneers. The scornful whispers about all that they would love to do to their most precious prisoner given half a chance were only interrupted by the occasional brawl or by the sounds of two or more of those despicable bastards starting one of their perverted, brutal mating rituals, high on watching their master use his songs and evil instruments and cruel skill on yet another elvish prisoner.

  But they would not be allowed to approach. And the one person Sauron would not lay hand on, was Findekáno himself. The former maia might long be beyond a sane mind, but if there was one thing he was not, it was stupid. Very well aware of Findekáno's relationship to the prisoner that Findekáno had robbed him of under his very nose not too long ago, not least thanks to everything Sauron had seen in Maitimo's mind in decades of not only physical but also mental torture, Sauron must know that there was very little he could have threatened Findekáno with that he didn't expect. Spending night after night with talking Maitimo through his nightmares and memories had made sure of that. Repeat performances were very obviously not among the maia's twisted preferences. So he chose to confront Findekáno with the only thing he could truly hurt him with: the suffering of his own soldiers. Which would have been bad enough on its own, but it still wasn't the worst.

  Findekáno would gladly have borne every pain, every humiliation if he could have saved any of his warriors by that, even if it was only by the blade to their throats. The uncertainty of what would come for exiles like them afterward was better than even an hour under the clawed hands of Morgoth's lapdog. If they'd let him, Findekáno would have taken the place of every single of the elves and she-elves he had to watch scream their lives out and yet not being allowed to die in the first days of his captivity; and that, too, was something Sauron knew, of course. The worst was that being the only choice Findekáno could not make. This was the promise he had given his husband in return. That he would not give in. That he would not trade his soul for a couple of lives that were forfeit anyway, weakening his own mind by letting the cunning spirit of the maia enter it to rip it wide open and put into it whatever Sauron thought suited to bend Findekáno to his will. They could not have him as long as he did not give himself to them, they said, Maitimo said, so he would endure. For he knew, if his mind would no longer be his own, if he would go back to his people in the fashion Morgoth doubtlessly wanted him to, no longer himself but merely a vessel … A vessel like they had had to eliminate so many who had allegedly escaped their thralldom, coming to either his father's or Maitimo's doorstep for assault rather than refuge … Then the first person they would set Findekáno to kill would be his own husband. By refusing to give his enemies this chance, therefore trading the life of the person he loved most for the one of dozens – almost a hundred, in the end – other elves, Findekáno thought, maybe he had actually sold his soul already.

  A high-pitched yell, quickly cut off by the choked gurgling of blood blocking the throat it had emerged from, tore him from the useless circle of self-hate that was his mind.

  "As I was saying before you so rudely started to disassociate," Sauron sighed in that honey-laced voice of his while throwing the tongue he'd just cut from his victim's mouth in a bowl nearby, "I'm starting to think, that useless husband of yours made the wrong choice, relinquishing his claim to the throne. If all people from your side of your kin are as breakable as your unit, Your Highness, the Noldor might have been better advised living even under those kinslaying, crippled hands of your lover. Or rather, the one you haven't cut off when you were too weak to break a single shackle, that is."

  Findekáno still did not give the bastard the satisfaction of an answer. He hadn't addressed the maia a single time since they'd taken him and very carefully avoided even regarding that black-clad, delicate shape with more than a fleeting glance from the corner of his eyes. It was better, not staring into those flaming eyes for too long, Maitimo had used to tell him, for you never knew what might stare back at – into – you. Besides, he was too busy, trying not to throw up when his torturer yanked the head of that elf who was firmly chained to a narrow wooden table, to the side by his red-matted blond hair, catching the streams of blood from the victim's mouth in that same bowl before handing it to one of the orcs without even looking twice, leaving the delightedly screeching creatures to fight over their breakfast. Once more, Findekáno wished he could have told the elf – his captain – that it would be over soon, at least, but judging by the last three scenes of this kind he'd already had to watch, chained to a chair of metal himself in a way that left no inch of a room to try and free himself, that would have been a blatant lie.

  Sauron hated being distracted by too much talk when he was working but he very much enjoyed hearing his victims scream, that was all. So this was always how he started. "Let's see if we can get a little more fight out of this one, shall we? It would be a shame if you had to do without the leader of your escort once you'll promise yourself to the Lord of this world."

  The Never was on the tip of Findekáno's tongue, but it never came, and maybe not only because he refused to acknowledge the numbing poison that was Sauron's words with anything but a blank stare. It was hard, holding on to resistance when you had to watch your enemy reach for a diamond-sharp knife and put a first clean, deep cut to his newest victim's body, right around the wrist, in front of the broad shackle holding the captain's arm in place, and then start to peel off the first layers of skin inch by inch, finger by finger, more patches of flesh and skin carelessly thrown towards the drooling audience. It was a mercy, one that Findekáno shouldn't be half as thankful for as he was, that the elf's voice was soon too sore from screaming to produce more than a hoarse noises, hardly even able to drown out the mirthful whistling on Sauron's lips that was a most basic healing spell to keep blood loss and infections at bay. And it was an irony that wasn't lost to Findekáno, that he'd spent almost two years, trying to convince his husband that he had no reason to hate himself for what he'd seen and been forced to do during his own captivity, and that he could feel the same blackness of loathing wash over his own soul now; thick acid trying to bury every memory of light and love and friendship especially to these people he had to see suffer right in front of his eyes, maybe never to be revived. It was far easier to believe in innocence when you weren't the one watching silently. That heaviness of shock and any missing rest for days, that had started to take hold of his soul, was spreading, creeping over his skin in droves and leaving it numb, so that he did not realize, there were tears rolling down his cheeks, until Sauron was suddenly standing right in front of his chair and grabbed his cheek to slowly lick the salt off his face with his forked tongue, laying hands on him for the first time. The nausea grew instantly, a gagging sitting in the back of Findekáno's throat that he didn't want to let his enemy hear either, so he just jerked his head away and bit his tongue bloody to keep silent.

  "You taste sweeter than your lover, little Princeling," Sauron murmured huskily, blood-covered, spidery hands brushing through Findekáno's messy hair. "You might want to rethink your priorities. You could have a life so much better by my side than being the useless son of a lesser King. The only thing you're doing right now is hurting everyone in this room." Findekáno's ongoing silence seemed to be loud enough, because he backed away with a shrug. Ridiculously gentle for what he'd been doing to every of Findekáno's soldiers for a few days now, he tugged two of the golden ribbons from his braids and went back to his current victim. After handing his minions another bowl full of red to slurp that had been filled by that skinned hand of a barely conscious elf in the last few minutes, he wrapped the ribbon around the mess of twitching, bared muscle and pressed the captain's wrist down against the table with his elbow while reaching for a long nail and a hammer. "Now, now." An admonishing noise came from Sauron's cherry-red lips when Findekáno turned his head away, unable to stand the sight of that nail being pressed right in the middle of that ruined palm, with only the fabric of the ribbon between, the sight of a usually so proud, brave warrior arching up against his chains in fear. "Is that a way to honor your people's sacrifice for you, Your Highness? You won't even look at them while they're suffering for you?"

  A sob that he could no longer hold back came from Findekáno's lips but could never make it past the echo of the new, broken scream from one of his oldest friends when the hammer drove the nail through his flesh in a single strike.

  It didn't last long, because the elf had finally blacked out which didn't stop Sauron from repeating the same cruel process on the other arm so that his victim came to even more inhuman pain. With the second nail in place, the chains were no longer necessary to hold that marred, infection-weakened, writhing body in place as Morgoth's butcher reached for his knife once more. "Did you know, my precious Prince," he said calmly while he put the blood-smeared tip to the elf's left side, right under the ribcage, "there's at least four organs a Firstborn body can survive without? And a dozen others of which you can take at least half away before you need to sing the rest back together to function? You should know. I've fed a couple of your husband's parts to my wolves. I think they might get some more elvish dinner tonight." The knife started to cut. With a disgusting, meaty sound, a mess of red and yellow was dropped in a bucket below the table.

  But this time, it wasn't the captain's scream that filled the room the loudest but a sound Findekáno hadn't known he was about to make before it came, his resolve shattered into pieces.

  "What was that?" Now it was Sauron, not even looking up but reaching for needle and thread instead to close the crude cut he'd just made before his victim could bleed out on him. "Anything you want, my precious Princeling? All you have to do is ask, you know."

  "Please." This time, the word came quietly, but clear and unmistakable. Apparently, after all this time that Findekáno had thought he would be the rock in their relationship, had to be, because Maitimo didn't have the strength anymore, it was time to admit, that his husband had been the stronger one between them from the start. Perhaps, when it came to it, if Findekáno would only ever leave this fortress again an enemy of his own people, no longer the master of his own mind and thoughts and will, his husband would even be strong enough to kill him before Findekáno could beat him to it. "Stop. If it is me you want, release my people."

  "Is that an order, Your Highness?" Wholly unimpressed, Sauron moved to his victim's other side and caressed the quickly, panicked heaving chest with just the tip of his knife, as if trying to make out the best spot to continue his gruesome work. "I do not need more food for my troops and beasts. I need a servant loyal to me and my master. Is that what you want, Prince of the Noldor? To serve the Dark Lord?"

  "Yes." It became easier, Findekáno found dully, once you had given in to your fate. He did not even shy away from that triumphing, flickering stare of his enemy any longer. Maybe it would hurt less if he let himself fall for it quickly.

  "Yes, what?" His hand wandering lower, Sauron thrust his knife deeply into his victim's loins, spearing a kidney, impatiently wiping blood of his cheek, both from the new horrible wound and from the captain's mangled hand, from its useless, mindless attempt of freeing itself from the nail crucifying it.

  "Yes. Master." Findekáno never lowered his head. There was no use, trying to look away now.

  "Better. We're getting there." Sauron just left his tool right where it was, impaling his victim's body in a third place, and went to the back of a room to open a silver box with the symbol of his eye on it that had been waiting there from the first hour on. A flash of gold and obsidian shone in the bright candle light as he slowly approached Findekáno, dangling from a lazy finger a broad collar with sharply carved tips at the top and the bottom. In the hand of a fire maia, the horrible adornment quickly started to heat, a dangerous orange glow matching the hair of Findekáno's torturer, pulsating right in front of his eyes when Sauron stopped by his chair and grabbed his chin, forcing him to surrender to that black stare again. "Ask for it, my sweet little pet, then I might think about allowing your incompetent captain over there to die."

  The last of tears dried on Findekáno's skin as he left a part of him behind that he knew would not return, no matter how his life would look from now on and for how long. I'm sorry, Russo. "Please, Master, put your collar on me. Let me serve you."

  "So easy." With a lazy snap of fingers, the chains holding Findekáno clicked open, allowing his knees to give out under him all by themselves when an ice-cold hand was wrapped around his braids, shoving him off the chair.

  He thought, he could fight, for a moment. But he'd also thought that when they had first brought him into this room, and the rest of that day, he'd spent watching fifty orcs raping one of his best friends to death, so that spark died down as quickly as it had come. It had been too late to fight the moment he'd let himself be foolishly raided from behind instead of securing the area well enough.

  "Your father should thank me that I'm taking the weakling that calls himself his firstborn from him," his enemy chuckled, a clear hint of arousal mixing into the purr of triumph in his voice as Findekáno winced and gasped for air, in vain, as the collar was closed around his neck. Melted into one by a single hummed tone, the heated metal was scorching his skin, the first exhausted attempts of breathing, of swallowing leaving marks and cuts on him. "This does look a lot prettier on you though than on your lover, my new favorite pet. Why don't you show me how you like to please him?" Under the approving cheers and leering of the orcs, laces were opened without haste. Thick, crooked hardness brushed Findekáno's tight lips, with ridges and barbs adorning the misshaped appendix that he knew he would soon feel somewhere entirely else and be forced to pretend and love it. If nothing else, at least Sauron was predictable.

  But Findekáno didn't move, not yet, ignoring that hand in his braids that was grabbing him harsher by the second. His eyes wandered to the table in the middle of the room that was dripping blood on the ground in a slowly growing pool.

  The sounds of searing agony from there still hadn't fallen silent.

  Sharp fingernails scratched over his cheek, prying his mouth open with ease, the first brutal bump of hardened flesh against the back of his throat cutting off any protest before it could come. "If you worry about him so much, I suggest, you hurry to please your master, pet. It's only up to you how much more your people will have to take before I let them go."

It was another lie, of course, but one, Findekáno thought, he could live with. None of his soldiers would leave this fortress alive. If he could keep Sauron's filthy paws off of them for the rest of what was their ruined life, he would, at least, have done something right in the mess that his life had become. Findekáno had given up.

[hildorien]

A Rom-Com in Dom-Lomin.

Ataniweek Day Two: Edain. 

I wrote this because Morwen and Hurin deserve a whole lot of love. They aren’t a fairy tale romance, they don’t get a happy ending, but they were deeply in love and deserved a happy ending. Only the best for the true Gomez and Morticia of Arda.   

@ataniweek

A03 LINK (X)

It was no secret who Hurin, son of Galdor, loved more than any jewel in a noldor's private coffers. She was black as night and a true beauty. Sadly, she was colder than ice and had a tongue sharper than the best sword but Hurin only saw his whole universe in her. Even from the age of six, he met her dark brown eyes and that sealed his fate. He had always tried to impress her. 

He climbed trees he shouldn’t have, to impress her.

He picked fights he couldn’t win, for her. 

He wrote a love letter after love letter, each one more dramatic and bad as the last.

Morwen, for her part, had adored him too then and until the end of her days. It was said she regarded him as her first friend in a new and scary land she had to flee to in rags. She did not see pity in his eyes, only the shine of the sun and a mischievous tint and that meant everything to her. After that small act of kindness, it was like God, himself, granted them his blessing to go and be in love. 

They had been together for years, not once did one’s heart wander away from each other. Not even the flowers found during his entrapment in Gondolin could make Hurin wander. When he returned from that place, his brother at his side, the cold rain of north east Beleriand bearing on him, he saw her on the battlement like a spirit of war with only a lantern and a cloak. He made his way through the gate, leaving his brother in the dust and ran to where she stood. 

He smiled, “you waited for me.” 

“You are late.”

“I’ve always been late, my lady,” he laughed stalking closer to her to cup her cold cheek in one hand. “But I hope you can forgive me.” 

In her grey eyes was a fire as she spoke, “make it up to me then, Hurin.” 

He smiled and kissed her, dipping her slightly despite the rain, he felt so warm as her arms wrapped around his neck. Pulling away and gazing on her soft, smug smirk, Hurin realized something. 

He wanted to marry her. 

Now. 

But the words didn’t escape his lips before Morwen started pulling them down the stairs towards her house. 

-

It had been a month since he returned from Gondolin and he still couldn’t find the words. He stalked around his house, his brother giving him tired look. 

“I think if you just asked, she’d say yes.”

“I can’t, everytime I see her, I just freeze.”

“Fearsome Hurin, son of Glador, taken down by the steely gaze of his true love,” Huor mocked as he bit into his apple. “What a horrible things to have bard write about you, utterly pathetic.” 

Hurin smacked him, “I’m being serious and don’t mock me when you can’t even talk with Rian.” 

“She’s just too nice!” He whined out, his words slurred by pieces of apple that flung out of his mouth onto the table. 

“Whatever,” Hurin snorted and sat down, his head in his hands. It was then that a tired Galdor came walking through the door; despite his disposition, he looked amused at his two young sons. 

“I heard your hennish squawking from outside boys. What are you fighting about now?” He asked. 

It was noted that Huor resembled his father more than Hurin did. He was tall like Galdor. Huor often spoke like Galdor, respectful and metaphorically. It was something among the Edain that was labeled as very Elvish; as to hide your feelings behind words and riddles rather than giving a straight answer. Even sometimes as they grew older and older, people mistook Huor for Galdor if he was looked at from the back. Most days this minded Hurin not, he did not mind being smaller than most (even smaller than Morwen), or that he was loud on the border of being too loud, or that he was blessed with his mother’s Haladin features but there were others were he wondered if his father wished the two brothers had been born with Huor as eldest (therefore heir to his legacy ) and him as youngest (the spare). 

“It’s nothing important father, just,” Huor gave him a smug look. “Hurin’s just being a ninny about asking Elfsheen to marry him.” 

He picked up an apple and lobbed it at him. “Don’t call her that she hates it.” 

Galdor laughed, “it’s a complement to her beauty.” 

“She hates it, so I hate it.” 

“Devotion is a good trait to have,” his father said absentmindedly, “but please stop lobbying apples at your brother.”

“I will when he stops being an ass.” 

Huor stuck out his tongue like a child. 

“Then that will be like waiting for the sun to rise in the west.” 

Hurin’s face broke out into a smile while Huor's turned to horror. “Father!” 

Hurin imitated his words in a whiny tone, “One-Almighty! Sometimes you're so pretentious. You never called him father before Gondolin, just say Da, like a normal person.” 

“The Elves in Gondolin call their Da’s ‘father,’” the younger boy mumbled munching on his apple. 

“You aren’t an Elf, Huor,” Hurin rolled his eyes. 

“Okay, enough boys,” Galdor put his foot down. “So you are serious about Morwen?”

“I’ve been serious since I was a babe, Da.” 

Galdor smiled, “that may be true. But have‘ye asked Emeldir yet?”

“Emeldir?” 

“She is Morwen’s keeper, is she not? That bear of a women,” he said with a roll of his eyes almost out of habit, though a friendly and loving lent never left his voice. Galdor and Emeldir butted heads, but it was like Hurin and Huor, a sibling relationship. The strong chieftess of the Beorians had enamoured the settlement of Dom-lomin with her striking inability not to die, not from illness, or grief. She watched over every child she brought with her as if they were her own. No one was more enamoured by her than Hurin’s own mother Hereth. The two were thick as thieves. Hurin imagined it was because Emeldor reminded his mother of the women from her youth in Brethil, who she missed dearly. 

“I have not,” he gulped. 

“I think it would be best if you asked her before you did anything impulsive. You wouldn’t want to upset the bear women of the Beorians by asking the hand of one of her favorite wee ones without even so much as a notice?” 

Hurin could see his body very clearly thrown in a ditch somewhere where no one would find it if he did that. Nodding to his father, he made plans to visit Emeldir in the coming days. 

-

Emeldir’s house was uttermost east of the main village of Dom-Lomin. It was located near the land designated for holy sights where festivals would happen, the highest vantage point of the whole main village. Now it was called the Grey Corner, or the Beorian Quarter since that's where the refugees located themselves. His father had given them full range to live wherever they wished, but they wished to remain almost separate from the rest of them all. Some found it odd, other a little insulting, but Hurin somewhat understood, the best he could. They had lost so much. All they wanted was a place to rebuild and remain Beorians rather than just another section of the people of Marach or Hador. He grew to see as a very Edain way of doing things; coming into a new land and making it yours despite someone else threatening to overcome you and make you them. It was early that morning when he went, the sun had barely came over the peaks of the mountains when he reached the steps of the Beorian’s chieftess' house. It was given the name “white-den” by him and some other children back in Hurin and Morwen’s youth because it was made of white wood and some children had been sure Emeldir had been one of those Bear shape changers. Hurin wasn’t one of them, but if he was going to find out if he was wrong, it would be now. 

Knocking on the large door, he heard a soft “come in!” 

He opened the door, he saw Rian coming down out from the kitchen area. The house was rather dark still, silent. He hoped Morwen wasn’t home. 

“Oh! Rin-rin,” she cooed, her clothes were covered in dirt and she held a hoe in her hand. Hurin gave her a small smile and gave her a small hug. She refused to call him anything less than the name she gave as a babe. “Morwen isn’t home.” 

“Ah,” Hurin smiled, “I am actually here to talk to Elemdir?” 

Rian blinked, and cocked her head to the side, “why?” 

“I needed to ask her a question.” 

“Ah, I see,” Rian smiled, her smile was soft and shiny; utterly polite and coy. It was a ‘princess’ smile, Morwen called it. Sometimes it was hard for Hurin to understand that she came from the same family that produced Morwen and Elemdir. She was more of a flower than the cold rock the rest of her family was. She was somehow still soft, sweet on the eyes and the ears, more interested in singing and dancing than politics. She was a folk tale princess come to life, that is what his brother always said about her. He had always fancied her, respectfully from a distance. The two of them dancing around each other, constructing their perfect folk tale romance.  It all seemed like too much work for Hurin’s take rather than to be not subtle about his feelings and have a constant bedmate. For that reason, she was never Hurin’s type. 

“She’s in the barn. You can go around and see her.” 

“Thanks Rian.” He turned. 

“Oh and Hurin,” she called after him as he walked off. 

“Yes?”

“Don’t let her scare you,” she winked. “She’s all bark and no bite.” 

Hurin laughed. She may have been more a flower than a rock, but she was still a Beorian. 

-

If there was ever a moment that defined who Elemdir was as a women, it was right now, Hurin thought to himself. She was wearing her typical black dress (that she either wore for mourning or she wore to be even more terrifying than she was), her hair was outfitted with beautiful beads and clips, her face was lined with wrinkles and her hair was looking more silver each day and yet she looked like a chieftess, no, a true Queen worthy of the throne. However, it was juxtaposed against the fact that her hands were stuck in the guts of a deer as if she was common hunter. She barely looked at him when she grunted welcome at him at him. 

“Hello Hurin.”

“Hello Chieftess.” He bowed, still, respectfully as his mother had taught him. 

“Why are you here?”

“I have a question for you,” Hurin squirmed. 

She ripped the heart out of the animal, “and that would be?”

“I would like to ask Morwen’s hand in marriage.” 

She threw the heart into a bowl, the blood splattered onto Hurin’s face. There seemed to be a chill in the air the moment the words left him. She looked at him as if examining his very soul, not a single emotion on her face. Hurin frowned. 

“Is you're silence a no ma’am?” 

She raised up a bloody gloved hand. “I have a question for you before I give you my answer.”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Do you love her?” 

“More than the sun, moon, and stars. She’s my best friend.” Hurin spoke his cliche words with sincerity. It was the truth, and for that, he was not ashamed. 

Softly a smile appeared on her weathered face, “then the answer from me is yes.” 

Hurin knew he wanted to cry but he kept his face stoney as to not embarrass himself. “Thank you, Chieftess.” 

“I cannot say she will say yes, though,” Emeldir said evenly.

“Even if she does not,” he smiled. “I will have her know she is the only woman who will have my heart.” 

With that he turned to leave, before Emeldir called out for him, so he turned back to her. 

“Your a good man, Hurin. You remind so much of my husband and my son, both of whom are lost to us all now, please,” she pleaded. “Don’t gamble away your life away for stupid reasons and leave my little one heartbroken and weathered like I am.” 

“I will try not to, Chieftess.” That was all he could offer her in these times. 

“That is all I ask you to do.” 

-

It was a rush of happiness since that moment. He tried to ask Morwen to wed him so many times it was almost a joke by now but each and every time they fell short. Every time something was wrong. They were either failures on his part put to get the words out or nature ruined the moment. It just had to be the rainy season when he got his okay from Elemdir. Though sometimes much worse ruined any goodwill and happiness in Hurin. The pyre he stood in front of said it all. 

“The smell of burning flesh is horrible,” Hurin said to himself as he watched his father’s body become ash with the rest of the fallen. He was chief now, and yet he still felt like a child. Too much like a child to lead his people, too much of a child to have lost his father. He felt as if someone had extinguished his flame with ice water and left him to languish in the bitterest winter blizzard. He couldn’t even comfort his mother or brother, he could barely comfort himself. He was being hailed as a hero, but what kind of hero couldn’t save his own family? 

He cursed everything when he lifted his father’s body to the wise women and men to clean his body. He wondered why the One Almighty would take good men like his father away them but keep Morgoth and his monsters around to kill those good men. 

In his anguish, he felt something touch his shoulders. It was fur. 

“Standing here in the cold doesn’t bring them back,” Morwen was stoic as always as she stood next to him. She had left the mob of wailing women still singing funeral songs that had long had the Edain sung when they lost someone too early. Her grey eyes staring into his soul. 

“Fighting didn’t do anything either. Nothing does.” 

“You did what you could.”

“Then why do I feel so cold?” Hurin asked, his voice was rough and mean and he practically barked at her. She didn’t seem very impressed. 

“Because you love so strongly, and you care, and you hate to lose. But loss is a part of our life, Hurin, that’s the fate of mortals like we are. We cannot linger with what we did, what could have been done, the what ifs, we can only keep going. Let the dead be dead, but do not die with them. That is what I have learned.” She it all like it made sense. 

“But I, too, have lost my father, my mother, cousins, aunts, and uncles. I know loss, Hurin. This is a new experience for you, but the pain will always be fresh no matter how many times it happens. He was your father, you are allowed to feel pain, allowed to feel cold, allowed to cry. I never allowed myself to cry, and it only brought more pain. I was in so much pain before I met you Hurin, but you taught me that crying and that the pain I was feeling wasn’t weakness and neither is yours now.” 

“Chiefs shouldn’t cry.” Hurin said weakly, his eyes shadowed and glossy. 

She looked at him, a soft and warm hand went to his cheek. “But Hurin, son of Galdor, should.” 

With only a few words, she had unravel him. He broke down; ugly wet streaks came down his face, he scooped her up in his arms and sobbed. Her arms tangled around him like wisteria on a wall. He slept with her that night, nothing happened, it rarely did these days. They weren’t kids anymore and he was increasingly more busy. Eventually being Chief got easier after a year, the pain dulled, and then after two he was finally starting to get the gist of this thing he was groomed his whole life for. It helped that Morwen was at his side constantly, a beorian through and through her mind was made for this kind of work. She could neogate and organize with the best of them. She was often the logic to his emotions, his blue to his red, often just smarter than him.

One night, they sat together late into the night piecing together Taliska and Sindarin documents and talking about crop rotation under candle light when Morwen paused and stared at Hurin. 

He laughed, “was it something I said about the peas?” 

“I’m tired of waiting, Hurin.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Hurin, will you marry me?” She reached inside her cleavage to pull out a ring. 

His jaw fell open. 

[diversetolkien]

Eöl, Maeglin, and “The Brute Caricature”/Or Tolkein’s racist coding of Men of Color (and the dangers of negative coding):

Earlier this year I spoke about how Maeglin and Eöl fit the narrative of the man of  color (coded or otherwise) being predatory towards the white woman (coded or otherwise). I wanted to expand on that narrative more, aside from victimizing white women, the narrative in general is one made to demonizing men of color. 

While the narrative has many names, the one i’ll be using in this meta is the “Brute Caricature” (and we’ll use this since Maeglin and Eöl are coded as ‘black*’).

So what is the “Brute Caricature” anyway? According to ferris.edu, it is:

The brute caricature portrays black men as innately savage, animalistic, destructive, and criminal – deserving punishment, maybe death. This brute is a fiend, a sociopath, an anti-social menace. Black brutes are depicted as hideous, terrifying predators who target helpless victims, especially white women. 

However, I want to stress that while the “Brute Caricature” refers specifically to black men, it’s important to realize that most men of color have been historically portrayed as savages by white media, so the caricature applies to them as well.

For instance, Native American men went through it as well:

The most prevalent negative images of Midwest Indians in the 18th and 19th centuries showed them killing and/or capturing White people, especially women. Captivity images (often accompanying novels or “captivity narratives”) showed brutish Indian males overpowering terrified White women who, it was implied, would experience unspeakable horrors. 

Sound Like Eöl and Maeglin, huh? 

But Ink, they aren’t men of color ! How does this concern Eöl and Maeglin (And other men of color, as you say?)

Well this is where coding comes into play. Coding is essentially applying real life skin colors, stereotypes, etc., to fictional characters, in such a way that they mirror our world. So of course Eöl and Maeglin aren’t “black”, but they are the black elves of Tolkien’s world, and have negative stereotypes that have been applied on real life black people slapped on to them.

It’s like having a fictional race of people that are either Black or Brown, and making them thieves and gangbangers. Yes, they’re fictional, but with their skin color and actions, the mirror real life issues in black and brown communities, as well as races. 

Essentially, they are inspired by real life races. 

Why is coding an issue if its fictional? Because it draws inspiration from real life races, and when applying harmful stereotypes on said races, it often leads to negative perception on said races in real life. The larger the media, the bigger the issue. And Tolkien’s negative portrayal of poc coded characters, in itself, is an example of what coding does. He hears that people of color are bad, he writes us as bad (this will be explained more later on). 

But again, how do we know they are coded? What’s my evidence. Well, let’s take a look:  “Less fair was he than most of this goodly folk, swart and of none too kindly mood, so that he won small love, and whispers there were that he had Orc’s blood in his veins, but I know not how this could be true (The Book of Lost Tales Part Two, Part Two).”

Now there is a “contradicting” part, as later on Maeglin is described as pale, which is a Noldor attribute. That said, we can assume that he gets his “swart” skin from Eöl , and coupled with “less fair” we can assume that like many mixed children, Maeglin is just light skinned. 

And I’d like to point out that aside from skin color, there is an emphasis on Maeglin and Eol being dark beings, they are called the Dark Elves, as opposed to their Sindar kin who are called more commonly called Grey Elves (but are also called Dark too), they life in the dark, their forest is dark. And while this “darkness” doesn’t necessarily refer to their skin color as swart does, but it emphasizes that there is something off about these characters. 

And while their kin are called Dark Elves as well, it doesn’t have a ‘negative’ effect, as opposed to Eol. 

That all clarified, let’s relate this to the issue at hand. The brute caricature.

Personality Wise/Character Traits

I think it’s clear to see how both Eöl and Maeglin relate to the brute caricature, in terms of personality. And in all honesty there’s no reason to go too, too into it. But just for the sake of providing information that certain people might suddenly forget existed,  I’ll do it. 

Here’s the quote (from above) I’ll be referencing: 

The brute caricature portrays black men as innately savage, animalistic, destructive, and criminal – deserving punishment, maybe death. This brute is a fiend, a sociopath, an anti-social menace. Black brutes are depicted as hideous, terrifying predators who target helpless victims, especially white women.

So how do Eöl and Maeglin actually play into this? 

Destructive/Savage/deserving of death/punishment? How about Maeglin indirectly causing the Fall of Gondolin, or Eol killing Aredhel (keep in mind all of this is to be coupled with their coding). 

Anti-social menace? Eol living in the woods, isolated from everyone. Demonized when he emerges looking for Aredhel, and causing problems when he gets into Gondolin (even before he goes to Gondolin). Maeglin slowly becoming reclusive in Gondolin , so much so that he leaves Gondolin alone and bumps into Morgoth: But often Maeglin went with few of his folk beyond the leaguer of the hills, and the King knew not that his bidding was defied)

Fiend:..I mean do I really have to go on? Save for sociopath and hideous, Maeglin and Eol fit the criteria (and with rumors surrounding Maeglin about having orcish blood, then hideous may be a thing). 

Men of Color vs. White Women 

I want to specifically highlight the bit about  men of color victimizing white women for this portion, and talk about how Eöl and Maeglin’s narrative plays into this. We see this concept of men of color victimizing white women  clearly with both Aredhel and Idril. Aredhel and Idril are essentially the personification of “whiteness”.  Aredhel is known as the White Lady: 

Ar-Feiniel she was called, the White Lady of the Noldor, for she was pale though her hair was dark, and she was never arrayed but in silver and white.

Idril being blond, and a Noldor (which are described as pale skinned) I feel is self explanatory. 

Essentially these two embody the image of white, European women in every way possible. Just for clarification, Idril and Aredhel being white coded in general, isn’t bad. It’s how their coding is used to demonize Eol and Maeglin, coded men of color, that is.  

And how are they used to demonize Eöl and Maeglin, coded men of color? How does it play into the brute caricature trope? 

It speaks for itself.

Maeglin and Eöl are written into the narrative for the purpose of targeting our pure, white, female coded elves, by either victimizing them in a dubious consensual way regarding sexual advances (Maeglin’s attraction towards Idril which is viewed as a sexual advance, which is viewed as a bad thing, Eöl and Aredhel’s dubious marriage), or being plain barbaric towards them (Eol chasing Aredhel to Gondolin, forbidding her to leave, killing her and Maeglin trying to take Idril by force).

That all said, it’s very evident to see how  Eöl and Maeglin fit into the narrative.  

Why is this an issue? Why are we even talking about this?

As I said before, “ it draws inspiration from real life races, and when applying harmful stereotypes on said races, it often leads to negative perception on said races in real life.”

This is a trope used to humiliate and demonize men of color, and has been used in the media before (Birth of a Nation, To Kill a Mocking Bird, Kid in Africa regarding Black Americans and Black Africans, movies such as Pocahontas, The Searchers, and others regarding Native American Men (also there’s a nice paper here about Native American stereotypes in early literature. Here’s  an excerpt emphasizing how “dangerous” they were to white women:

White women captured by Apaches could expect sexual abuse, and though they would not be subjected to torture, they were likely to be mutilated after death out of sheer disregard for their dignity.

This idea that men of color are savages has real life effects. Dangerous ones. Historically we can look at the case of Emmitt Till , Gloverland Four,  George Stinney, and the Scottsboro Boys. And in our more recent society, we can see examples Donald Trump calling Mexican immigrants who come over the border rapist (you know that would not have been said had Europeans been coming over the border), Germany lying about its refugees, and social movements such as Black Lives Matter as consequences of men of color being savages.

What Other Examples Aside From Eol and Maeglin? 

There’s Celebrian and the Orcs, orcs who are descibed by Tolkien as mongol type. Same thing applies to them:

Tolkien’s Orcs have been a subject of criticism of racism. Tolkien described Orcs as “squat, broad, flat-nosed, sallow-skinned, with wide mouths and slant eyes: in fact degraded and repulsive versions of the (to Europeans) least lovely Mongol-types”.

Misc: 

Before anyone says well swart can mean personality too, The only other time Tolkien refers to swart is when he’s referring to skin color, specifically the Easterlings. So it’s safe to assume that it doesn’t suddenly change it’s meaning then.  He knew what he was doing. 

While I headcanon Maeglin and Eol as black, they are just said to have dark skin which refers to most men of color. That said, the above doesn’t change, as the meta refers to a trope that has been used to demonize all men of color. 

While the relationship between Eol and Aredhel is up for interpretation (as it states that Aredhel was not wholly unwilling, and their relationship was said to be that of love ) more often than not Fandom takes it as rape. And while Maeglin never confessed his love for Idri (in the updated version), vocally, fandom still believes he does. His mere attraction to a white woman is viewed as bad. This is an example of what the narrative does, we typically try to favor the worse of men of color when the “worse” is often open ended. This was most likely done on purpose, as the book was written around a time when men of color were demonized. Tolkien may’ve left it ambiguous knowing white society would have interpreted these coded men of color badly.  

I can talk more about Maeglin being a child and Idril being an adult, and this issues with that in relation to this trope, and how it’s been used to target young men of color by putting them against white women, but you get the point. 

Lastly, white women are not the victims in these tropes, at all. Men of color are. 

And this concludes this meta :D I have more to do after this! If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, my asks and messenger are open. If you liked this and want to support my blog REBLOG! 

If you disagree, please do so respectfully, this is not a discourse blog nor do I want to start any sort of fandom discourse. 

[silmarilz1701d-blog]

Míril and company made their way quickly inside out of the snowy air. A Vanyarin warrior stood to either side of the gigantic mahogany doors. These door wardens nodded at Eldir, Ruivë, and Maglor, recognizing each of these familiar faces immediately. They allowed the group on inside, deep into the side of the mountain.

As the rich, dark wood doors were heaved open, Míril noticed they were intricately carved with scenes from somewhere beautiful. She felt it safe to assume that it depicted places in Valinor.

“Impressive,” Elladan breathed.

The indoors was bustling with activity. With its vaulted ceilings and carven pillars, Mindelossë would have been impressive even had there not been several hundred guests roaming about in beautiful clothing, drinking glasses of fancy wines while munching on little dishes of food.

The majority of the elves were Vanyar. Their golden tresses gleamed beneath the bright lamps inside the mountain. But there were also dark-haired Noldor, one which Míril recognized immediately due to the golden ribbons in his hair.

“Fingon is here,” she told her husband excitedly, causing him to chuckle at her reaction. Yet even he was excited to see the elf again.

Maglor began wandering in the direction of Fingon who was speaking to an elf with golden hair whose back was turned. Beside this elf stood a maiden who Míril suddenly recognized as the lady Amarië. Fingon caught sight of them and smiled. He gestured over for them to join the small company. Finrod and Amarië turned to see them and Finrod grinned widely.

“Friends! I am pleased you could make it!” Finrod took hold of Amarië’s hand and together they waited for them to join.

“Thank you, Lord Finrod,” Ruivë curtseyed. “As always, we appreciated the invite.”

“You know I prefer you drop the formalities, Ruivë,” he chuckled. “Now, Míril, Elladan, Elrohir. I do not believe you’ve been formally introduced to my wife. This is Amarië, my beloved.”

Amarië smiled and chuckled lightly at her husband, her laugh as pleasant as falling water. Her golden hair was decoratively situated on her head and her fair face was full of kindness. Míril liked her immediately.

“Greetings, friends,” Amarië bowed. “Welcome to Mindelossë!”

“It is incredibly beautiful!” Elladan looked around. “Thank you for having us.”

Finrod nodded. “Of course. You are family, after all.”

Ruivë looked around and caught sight of someone she evidently knew. “Ammalië!”

The Vanyarin woman turned around and caught sight of Ruivë. She smiled and hurried over to the little group. “Ruivë! Sister!”

The two women laughed and hugged in their reunion. Everyone chuckled at their reactions. Eldir hugged her next.

“Míril, Elladan, Elrohir,” Ruivë smiled. “This is my sister, though I’m sure you gathered as much.”

The other woman nodded and introduced herself, shaking their hands. “Ammalië.”

“Pleasure’s ours,” Elrohir nodded in response once introductions were all made. He started to joke. “So does every Vanyar know each other here?”

The others all laughed and Amarië responded quickly, “Nay, nay, we do not. Ruivë and Ammalië are noble born.”

“We run in the same circles as Finrod and Amarië,” revealed Ammalië. “Hence why we’re here.”

“Makes sense,” Míril smiled. “Well, what’s to do first?”

“Please! Let us show you around Mindelossë.” Finrod insisted this.

Fingon agreed, piping up. “It’s quite a sight.”

Finrod and Amarië both cheerfully looked around. They decided to take the group to the grand living areas. As they walked, groups of Vanyar and Noldor and the occasional Teleri moved aside and bowed. The grand halls contained high vaulted ceilings, and beautiful rugs of scarlet and gold. The walls were made of some kind of sandy colored stone, and the outermost walls seemed carved into the rock wall of the mountain.

“So how many people are at this gathering today?” Míril asked Finrod Felagund.

“A few hundred. Mostly from the nobles of the Vanyar and Noldor, though there are some Telerin elves here as well,” the blonde elf explained to her as they wandered down the corridors. “We hold these parties every once and awhile. Today is to celebrate you and your two companions.”

Míril looked at him in surprise. “Us?”

Finrod nodded with a smile. “You are highly regarded in Valinor, you know. All three of you. The retrievers of the Silmaril.”

“They are willing to forget the transgressions of the other Fëanorians?” She looked at him in surprise.

“Well, no.” He shook his head. “But few hold their deeds against you. Only the Teleri of Alqualondë are hesitant of you.”

“Are Galadriel and Celeborn here?” Elrohir asked, coming up alongside Finrod to his other side.

“Ask them yourselves,” Finrod laughed, gesturing ahead of them inside a new, large room filled with couches and chairs, decorated with tapestries, and drinks and food scattered around.

Elladan and Elrohir chuckled as they spotted their grandparents and parents. Next to them was a woman with raven black hair and grey eyes. She was incredibly beautiful with her pale, almost white skin, and her dark hair. She seemed to resemble Arwen.

It was Celebrían who caught sight of the little group first. She smiled and waved, gesturing for them to come over. It was then that they fully caught sight of the woman they didn’t know.

She was tall and pale, but she had a smile on her face and a light in her eyes that told of one who, though suffered much hardships, has come to love life. Elrond stood and took the woman’s hand in his as she joined him. They walked forward.

“Elladan, Elrohir,” Elrond smiled. “This is Elwing, your other grandmother.”

The twins stared at her, open mouthed in shock. Elwing chuckled at their reactions went towards them looking for a hug. They responded in kind.

“My, you two look so handsome,” Elwing said, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Oh how I envy Galadriel and Celeborn for being there during your childhood.”

“It is an honor to meet you,” Elrohir smiled, feeling a tear in his eye. “I see where our sister got her looks from.”

Elrond’s face fell slightly but he nodded after recovering quickly. “Indeed.”

“And you must be Míril,” Elwing smiled, turning her face towards the woman. “Welcome to our family.”

“Thank you,” Míril bowed. “It is such an honor to meet you!”

Elwing shook her head and took Míril’s hands in her own. “The honor is mine, bearer of a Silmaril. You are like my husband, you know.”

“I cannot be considered in such company as Eärendil the Mariner!” Míril objected immediately, blushing.

Galadriel laughed, coming over. “You underestimate yourself. You always have.”