#moringotto

[wisesnail]

And finally here I come with a Moringotto aka the guy who thought it was a good idea to work with a giant spider…🙈

Prints and other stuff on my RedBubble and Threadless

[last-capy-hupping]

Well, here’s the beginning of the Angband/Helcaraxë fic. It’s definitely a dead dove deal, at least for the Angband chapters.

[thepinkseat-askthemoonbunny]

Fingolfin marching up to the Lord of All Evil's castle to tell him to square up like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uwAgBK8VUmA

[weepylucifer]

According to my research, Tolkien believed that the appreciation of certain languages was connected to inherent human essence, which would mean that all humans would consider the same languages beautiful or ugly. I can prove him wrong, however, very easily wrong: i think Quenya sounds like shit

[that-angry-noldo]

i rember when i first read the silmarillion i really only cared about Melkor. anytime he was mentioned i was like that di caprio pointing meme. like MY SON LOOK AT MY BABY GO MY BOY GO

but now i'm like. Melkor? Do you mean Morgoth Bauglir, Moringotto, The Dark Enemy? The Lord of Slaves? The guy who got his ass kicked by High King Nolofinwe? The dude who got roasted to hell by Hurin Thalion? The man who got so lost in his greed he got devoured by the same darkness he loved so much? Yeah what a loser. What a noob. It's so sad, Alexa play Noldolante.

[maja0678]

How people that did not read the Silmarillion see Silmarillion fans and their lovely conversations:

Silmarillion fans are like: "No your reasoning is completely incorrect because Tolkien wrote in his 293383782th version of the Lay of Leofingolfearielien that Folblorfindriel was NOT at Nargothrondiath during the 344th year of the First age so you are completely wrong."

And the other one replies with: "but in the earliest version, hobbit Blorbingus created light and hit Moringotto with a stick, and the man Berengornambar helped him. So that explains why I thought yhat Folblorfindriel was in fact at Nargothrondiath during the 344th year of the First age."

"But I am completely sure that Fëanofinwëdrielsfinwë said that Fongofonfin died fighting for his peoples freedom, ect ect ect..

[the-quiet-fire-of-defiance]

There was a post going around for a while about how kana means chicken in Finnish, making Kanafinwe = chicken Finwe. The thing is, a lot of Quenya names have te reo Māori meanings or can have funny meanings when transliterated into te reo. I've made a little list.

The most important thing to know is that 'wh' is pronounced 'f' in most dialects. Also, I took several liberties with the transliterations - when there were multiple options, I picked the one whose meaning I liked the best.

Translations

Maitimo: Māītimo means sour gardening tool. (Māī = sour, timo = a tool used to dig up sweet potatoes.) But if you're willing to mess around with the vowel sounds a little ... Māī-iti-mau [my-ee-tee-mo]* = to be a little sour to be captured.

*'au' is usually pronounced like the o in no.

Kanafinwe: Kana = wild stare / to stare wildly, making him Wild Stare Finwe.

Kano: either 1) colour or 2) bean.

Turukano: tūru means chair, so Tūrukano means chair bean

Ingo means desire, yearning, wanting. (Ingoldo becomes Ingoroto, a desire/yearning within.)

Amarie: Amārie = of peace, tranquility.

Arafinwe: ara means the waters breaking in childbirth. It also means path, but the first option is funnier.

Arakano: path bean

Angamaite: anga = to face, māī = sour, and tē = fart.

Curufinwe: Kuru has a lot of meanings including to hit/punch, to be tired, a piece of greenstone jewelry, or a mallet. So I guess that makes his name Tired Finwe, Ornamental Finwe, Mallet Finwe, or Punch Finwe. The last one would be in the imperative, making it a command.

Moringotto: we have to take out one of the t's to make this Mōringoto. It means either 1) intense unimportant person or 2) unimportant person to penetrate.

Transliterations

Feanaro: The best transliteration would be Wheanaro, which is pronounced the same as in Quenya. But my favourite interpretation is Whaea-ngaro; mother lost/missing.

(Edited to add that 'ng' is a soft sound pronounced like in sing. I'm cheating a bit here, because it's actually the equivalent of the Quenya ñ, not n like in Feanaro.)

Nelyo: We don't typically have l or y sounds. My preferred option for this would be Ngērō, meaning to scream inside.

Nelyafinwe -> Neriawhine or Nerawhine. Nera can mean nail (as in a metal nail) or to nail. Whine [fee-neh] isn't a word in most dialects, but in some very small areas it's the word for woman/women.* (In most areas the word is wahine.) So uhhhhh interpret that as you will, but this may be the single most ironic name on the list.

*Another possible transliteration of Finwe would be Whinewē, meaning woman liquid. This is physically painful to me so I'm sticking with Whine.

Findekano: In the same vein, Whinekano means bean woman or woman bean. If you prefer Whine-te-kano or Whine-tē-kano, the former means Woman The Beans and the latter means women fart beans.

Turko is Tūrukau: chair cow / nothing but a chair.

Makalaure could become Makarōre. Maka = to throw/fling and rōre = lord, making the full name Yeet Lord. A prophetic mother name.

Tyelkormo would become Terekomo. Tere= swift/fast. Komo... um. This is mostly used to describe putting on clothes. But it can also mean to thrust or insert. So basically the same as the Quenya

Moryo = Mōriau, a firm unimportant person / a howling unimportant person.

Curvo: if written as Kuruwau, in certain dialects it would mean hit me.

Pityo would be Pitiau: defeated smoke/mist.

Findarato: rātō means western, so Whinerātō = western woman.

There are also names that are pronounced the same in te reo Māori as they are in Quenya but have no Māori meaning, e.g. Anaire or Curumo.

Take this whole thing with a pinch of salt, because obviously we don't usually make word-for-word translations of transliterated names. Like I said, I've also taken some liberties with the transliterations. But to the best of my knowledge, all of these are accurate translations.

It's the House of Finwe uwu smol beans

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Fingolfin and Fingon discuss trust, betrayal and the crown, T, 735 words

On Ao3

Fingon stared at the wood burning in the fireplace and did not speak. The fire died slowly. Dull red embers were taunting him. He turned away and met his father’s gaze. He wondered if Fingolfin was thinking about the same thing he was. Red embers on the horizon like specks of blood, making a mockery of brotherhood and friendship.

“Do you trust him?” Fingolfin asked.

Fingon lips were stuck together as if dried by the cruel sea wind.

“Makalaurë says he did not burn the ships because he wanted to return for us,” he said finally.

“Makalaurë will say anything his brother tells him to.”

“Such a lie would be easy to uncover.”

“I suppose.”

“I cannot find any sinister motive in his decision to waive his claim to the crown,” Fingon said. “His brothers’ reaction surely proves his sincerity. I do not believe he is capable of plotting just yet.”

“A Fëanárion plot against our house is not what worries me.”

The embers had died down. The windows were shut, but Fingon could still feel the wind sawing through him. Standing on the shore as the blood specks on the horizon faded, leaving ashen silence behind, he had felt emptied of everything, a shell that had once housed a person.

“What then?” he asked quietly.

Fingolfin looked into his eyes.

“You were with me when the Sindar told us of the thralls that came back—”

“He did not come back. I brought him back. I freed him. He was not set free. He would stay there forever if the Enemy had his way.”

“We cannot know all the tricks of the Enemy.”

Fingon had rebuffed every attempt at conversation after the ships burned. Back then, he still could afford it. Or he had thought he could. Now he knew he could not turn away.

“Manwë’s eagle came for us,” he said. “Is that not a proof?”

“It might be.” Fingolfin sat by his son and squeezed the hand that was gripping the armrest tightly enough to crack it. “Do you trust him?” he asked.

“What would Moringotto gain by putting you on the throne? If Maitimo is in thrall to him as you suspect, it would make more sense for the Enemy to have Maitimo claim the crown and divide us further.”

“It would make more sense for him to Sing in harmony with the other Valar and take joy in Arda. But that is not what he did, is it?” Fingolfin waited until his son looked at him. “I am merely suggesting that we need to be prepared for every possibility.”

“Make sure to avoid suggesting it in front of his brothers lest we risk another bloodshed.”

“One would think they would be eager to jump at the opportunity to declare him unfit to make such decisions.”

Perhaps it was Fingon’s brisk tone that had angered his father enough to make such an unkind statement. 

“No matter what, they will not price the crown higher than their own brother,” Fingon said.

He did not mean it as a barb against his father, but Fingolfin’s eye still twitched. 

“They will let love blind them then,” he said in a deliberately even voice. “Will you?”

Fingon wrenched his hand away and strode to the door.

“Do you trust him?” Fingolfin asked.

Fingon stopped with his hand at the handle.

“I trust he will not want to live as the Enemy’s weapon,” he said without turning to look at his father. “So I will not allow it to happen. I am a kinslayer already. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No, Findekáno.” Pain colored Fingolfin’s voice and made his hand that gripped his son’s shoulder tremble. “I will not let the responsibility fall to you. You have already shouldered burdens greater than you should have to.”

“It has to be me. He would want me to.”

“I care not.”

“If what you fear comes true,” Fingon said, turning to look at Fingolfin, “and anyone else raises a blade against Maitimo, I will not ever forgive them. Not even you, Father.”

Fingolfin inclined his head. It was not acquiescence but simply a decision to delay the discussion. For now, it was enough for Fingon. 

When Fingolfin looked away, Fingon slipped the dagger he had placed on the table back into his sleeve. He said his goodbyes to his father and went to sit by Maedhros’s bedside. 

[actual-bill-potts]

PROMPT TIME can I have some m&m and “enduring grief and anger in silence” please!!

hehe yes beloved <3

TW for discussion of death and funeral practices

Nelyo had not cried once after Atar’s death.

He had wept, bitterly and without comfort, after Atyarussa had died. There had been a kind of grim satisfaction in Tyelko’s face; Curvo and Moryo had been silent, Curvo tall and straight at his father’s shoulder; Minyarussa had simply stood, swaying, eyes so bright he looked like a sick animal. Makalaurë’s own eyes had been dry; he had been full of fear so hot he felt as though he were burning along with his youngest brother, and in his mind only one thought had circled, round and round like the wheels of an organ-grinder: at least one of us is now safe.

But Nelyo had cried and cried, doubled over on the ground like he was playing again on Atyarussa’s little drum-set, and Minyarussa had stared at his shaking eldest brother with a dull sort of relief on his face. Atar had half-heartedly said, “Get up,” then shook his head and strode away as Nelyo behind him gasped, “the baby, our littlest one - the baby -”

He had raged at Makalaurë, after. “Why did you not weep? Little Atyarussa! My brother the musician, composer of dirges, can still weep for a pet rabbit lost these hundred years, but not his smallest brother, who we were as fathers to -”

“You were, perhaps,” said Makalaurë, not caring that he was being cruel, not wanting to think about it, “but I had other matters to attend to. In any case, brother, at least he is not here.”

Nelyo’s face had frozen in open shock; but all he had said was a quiet, “It should have been me.”

Only - only now Atar was gone, and it seemed to Makalaurë that some rotted abscess within him had torn open and was draining, for he could not stop crying. There was grief for the father who had lifted him upon his broad shoulders when he was tiny, and swallowed his dislike of the Vanyar long enough to send Makalaurë to Valimar for tutelage - for a little - and taught him his letters. And there was grief for the days of his youth, the bright happy house and his mother’s unshadowed eyes; and finally, finally - where had it been before? - there was grief for his littlest brother, for whom he had fashioned a little violincello and whose piping voice had lifted with him in duets.

It was his turn, now, to lift his voice in mourning; but Nelyo was silent, and refused to help spread what they could gather of Atar’s ashes in the fields that were taking shape by the lake, laying him to rest as close to Cuiviénen as they could manage. He and Minyarussa stood on and watched, twin shadows of Ammë.

Does she grieve for us, he wondered. Will she know he is dead, and did not know whether he meant Atyarussa, or Atar, or himself.

But after, Makalaurë could bear it no more. “Why will you not weep for him? Our father is dead!” he demanded in a whisper in their tent. And then, pouring out of him, “you wept more for Findekáno, who is alive! Atar will not see the hills of Tirion on Túna again, nor Finwe his father; he is Doomed, and all of us with him! Will you not weep! For us, if not for him!”

“He murdered my brother,” said Nelyo, quite casually, “why should I weep? As for the rest, we have been Doomed a long time since, and I shall not grieve twice what I was commanded not to grieve once. I will fulfill our Oath; is that not enough?”

Makalaurë blinked back tears, again, and said, “Not for me; where is my brother?”

“He died on the ships,” said Nelyo; and they did not speak again until the messenger from Moringotto came.

[fabulous-feanorians]

Elrond, the last Feanorian

sounds contradictory, doesn’t it? After all, how can kind as summer represent a bloodline that was so violent that it destroyed itself before it could even truly rise and brought whole kingdoms down with it?

picture this for me: maedhros and maglor, more accustomed to war than peace, wearied by centuries—millennia—of discord, of death, of their curse of an oath, of being the villain in history’s tale. Picture the heaviness beneath their zeal, of their countless sins and yet—

and yet here they have elrond and elros. Something new. Something young. A chance, maybe, for a side of them that was forced into hiding since their pursuit of moringotto to slip out.

and so under their influence, would not elrond and elros be a different side of their same coin? The oath brought out feanorian violence, but the twins are a product of feanorian mercy as elured and elurin were not. As elrond and elros could have so easily followed them into death at the feanorians’ hand.

would they not have steered the twins in the opposite direction of where maedhros and maglor had gone? Would they not have tried their best to spare the twins of that heavy, heavy fate?

is that why elrond is known to build homes instead of burning them? To end wars and not begin them? To heal life and not end it?

alright, you may say elrond is not truly a feanorian. But let him be a product of their influence. If they cannot be redeemed through Mandos, let him be the evidence of their regret and repentance. Of their humanity.

let him be what they were not.

[eccentricmya]

You've heard about the Oathless Fëanorion (chosen by popular vote to be Caranthir)... Now get ready for:

The Allergic Fëanorion

While one Fëanorion was off missing the Oath swearing due to urgent business, our boy—the one with pollen allergies—was very present and zealous about his father's words.

He was the first to leap up to join in repeating after his father, and would've doomed himself to everlasting darkness in the process, if not for his ill-timed sneezing.

As it happened, the season Fëanor had chosen to rebel was a bit... not good for our allergic boy. Though, Fëanor would argue that it was Moringotto who had done the choosing when stealing his Silmarils, and murdering his father of course, may he RIP.

Whichever the reason, pollen season meant that when the words—"our word hear thou, Eru Allfather"—were uttered, a sneeze took over our miserable allergic Fëanorion and what he ended up saying was this:

"our word hear thou, E-achoo-father!"

Embarrassing as it was, in that moment of frenzy it mattered little; nobody seemed to have noticed amidst the clamour. So our allergic boy kept quiet and pretended nothing was amiss. For indeed, he felt nothing had gone wrong, how could he know?

It wasn't until they were on the ships and the allergic Fëanorion was in conference with two of his brothers that he realised everything was not going according to plan!

Oathful Fëanorion: the Oath™ has bound us for eternity.

Oathless Fëanorion, solemn: Oh yes, the oath. Terrible business that.

Oathful Fëanorion, morose: I can feel its shackles pulling me towards certain war with the enemy.

Allergic Fëanorion, confused but pretending not to be: Ahahaha yeah. The chains are surely sturdy and masterfully crafted. Almost like I can't feel them!

Oathful Fëanorion: ???

Allergic Fëanorion: It's because I'm one with the Oath you see.

He oh-so-smartly got out of that awkward conversation but now, he had to fix his mistake!

Our allergic boy's time comes when Fëanor was self-combusting (RIP dad but he needs to properly swear the Oath™ before his brothers find out!). So he's a little bit too enthusiastic when they start reciting the Oath™ once again, except this time, there's Fëanor's ashes swirling in the air....

And would you look at that? There goes our allergic Fëanorion again!

"Be he foe or achoo"

Oh.

"neither law—achhhooo—league"

Oh no.

"hideth or hoardeth, or—achoo—teth"

But he's determined dammnit!

"This swear we aaaall: death weeee will deal him eeeeerrrre Day's ending, woe unto world's end! Ouuuuur word hear thou—'don't sneeze, don't sneeze, don't you dare sneeze!!!'—E-achhhhhhhooooo-father!"

Allergic Fëanorion: 😶 😢

Oathless Fëanorion: 🤝

Oathful Fëanorion no. 1: ...

Oathful Fëanorion no. 2: ...

Oathful Fëanorion no. 3: Sigh. It's alright. You swore it before.

Allergic and Oathless Fëanorion: 💀

Who do you think is our poor little achhoo boy?

[last-capy-hupping]

It’s another Angband chapter, and it’s a rough one, folks.

[outofangband]

(Just some more free form Maedhros post Angband thoughts as I work on revising my more detailed trauma posts! As always more can be found in the post Angband tag

Note: I now have a specific tag for the status and conditions of former prisoners in Beleriand in addition to my post Angband tag. It’s “but ever the Noldor feared”. There’s obviously overlap between this and my post Angband tags because the ways trauma manifests and how it’s understood or misunderstood contributes to the dynamics but I wanted to have a specific tag for it!

Semi related post

Written in part for @nelyoslegalteam for always being so kind about my Maedhros content

but the shadow of his pain was on his heart

This is one of the only lines we receive with regards to Maedhros’s ordeal in Angband. Despite how brief it is I find it so poignant and evocative.

Beleriand lies in the shadow of Angband and that shadow lives in the hearts of those who know intimately that place of horror

A shadow darkens, it envelops, it obscures, and it does everything. Maedhros’s pain, the fear and grief and anger and shame that now live within him, can at times seem to eclipse all that he does and is.

Maedhros’s memories are glass and he cannot hold them without bringing blood, sharp and fragile as though contained something that would shatter around his thoughts and feelings when they came close to the surface. Often pieces would dig in so one word spoken, one finger upon his neck, one whiff of the suffocating smell of blood and heat and iron would embed itself in him until he wanted nothing more than oblivion. The throne room floor, the chains around his limbs and his neck. The voice of the Moringotto.

It could take him as suddenly as the sun obscured, the weight of his body as the ghost of his chains choked him.

And to others. The shadow of his pain is in his heart and upon his bearing; even years after there is pain in his steps on certain days, if you know how to see it.

(just a side note: the description of Tulkas's feelings seeing Melkor in Morgoth's Ring, how it "clouded his mirth" is genuinely such a good description of trauma even if it was intended that way)

The scrutiny that former thralls are subjected to becomes another shadow over him, one that he is perpetually aware of. Even when he has done nothing to cause any to doubt his loyalty, even when he pushes himself to the brink of collapse to fight and plan against the enemy, there are those who will never trust one who has returned from the pits of hell, who hold that he still lives against him or believe he simply wears the face of one of the Eldar

And for all that he is still fundamentally Maedhros, there are those who will see only the ways he has changed from the memories or stories of him that came before

The ways that one survives in Angband do not fade once one is no longer physically confined there. Angband seeks to strip away everything that one is and the fight to reclaim it is vicious, agonizing, and unsightly. The shame that weighs upon survivors is melded with the mistrust and hostility with which they are viewed with by others.

Survivors are known to steal (because nothing can be theirs and they do not trust that they will be given anything without a terrible price), to lie (because they have been forced to choke down the truth when it might lead to further pain, and so much leads to pain), they are known to attack even their own kin (because they are so very afraid).

Maedhros is not like this. He does not lie (not that might be detected) or steal and if he does not any longer attack others out of the fear they might not see

And his status, both before and after his imprisonment absolutely ease this particular burden. He might be among kinslaying nobles but they are nobles nonetheless and the mistrust and even hostility that is felt towards him, specifically regarding his captivity, is certainly mitigated by this. But it still reaches him.

His kinship to others who have been in the Hells of iron is a precarious thing. He can use it to his advantage at times and it can be used against him.

And as another shadow, post Angband there is always the ever present fear of imprisonment again. It ranges from a creeping dread to a visceral, desperate panic that can override all strategy and reason. Especially after some years of recovering and of recovering himself, there is the profound resolve that he cannot return to what he was there and that any violence or death, including and at times perhaps especially his own, is preferable to imprisonment and powerlessness to the extent that he suffered in Angband.

He will not go back to that again even if it means becoming unrecognizable in new ways.

[thelordofgifs]

WIP ask game: Sore must be the storm, obviously. WHY must the poor storm be sore? What sins has this mere (fictive!) air pressure differential wrought against you, that you should so callously doom it to pain unceasing? Shall none bring it some painkillers?

(WIP titles ask game) also for @polutrope!

Why must the storm be sore? Well, because I am a chronic pain girlie and SPITEFUL. Or rather, because Emily Dickinson says so:

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm -

—"Hope" is the thing with feathers

Anyway! These lines suit Fingon quite well to me, that great hopeful hero of the Noldor, the Eagle-rider. And the storm that can abash him, here, is the Dagor Bragollach; also his boyfriend, who will simply not shut up about how Doomed they all are.

Fingon drew a sharp breath. There was nowhere to turn away, nowhere to look but at Maedhros’ grave and beautiful face. “I would have stopped him,” he said at last, “had I been here.” He had to cling to that, had to believe that if he had been in Barad Eithel instead of fighting in the northern arms of the Ered Wethrin, that if his father had seen his eldest son’s face before he set out on his desperate charge it might have stayed him. “Yes,” said Maedhros. There was a strange look in his eyes. Fingon’s own eyes were stinging again. “Think you that he was right, then? That our cause is hopeless, and the Moringotto will win, and we might as well all make such an ending as he did?” “I think,” Maedhros said quietly, “that it might – it might not be such a poor thing, to end in such a way.” Now Fingon could see the look in his grey eyes for what it was: envy. Maedhros had twice begged for death, on Thangorodrim; the first time Fingon had set an arrow to his bow and prepared to give it to him, when hope unlooked-for had come in the shape of a great Eagle and borne him up to the top of the cliff; the second time Fingon had struggled hopelessly with Morgoth’s iron shackle, and Maedhros in his thin tormented voice had begged him to slit his throat, but Fingon had ignored him, and set his blade to Maedhros’ wrist instead.

This is not supposed to be a very long fic, and yet to my shame it has apparently been languishing in my WIP folder since 6th March 2023. I am GOING to finish it in time for Russingon week that is a PROMISE. Bite me if I forget.

[that-angry-noldo]

Finarfin stands in the dark.

His face doesn't change. He doesn't flinch. He purses his lips.

The darkness is around him; it can't touch, it cannot claim him, because Finarfin glows with the power of Trees. He looks darkness in the eyes.

"I know it's not real," he says, calm and collected. "I know it's a game you inflicted on my mind."

The darkness snarls. A game, you say. Try to leave then, elfling.

"It's pitiful," Finarfin says, unmoving. "Your power weakens by the day; your bark is far too loud for your bite."

Pretentious, Morgoth hisses, and the darkness shifts. You haven't seen even the fraction of what I'm capable of.

"Oh," Finarfin says. His mind reaches to touch his illusory cage, and he hums. "I do believe I did, and I am going to give you credit: you managed to disort everything you could touch. My father, my brothers, my family. Aman and Beleriand alike. The thing is - you became weak."

An elfling, teaching me of my ways, Morgoth laughs. Finarfin smiles.

(It is not kind.)

"An elfling, yes," he says, voice laced with honey. "An elfling, the last of his brothers, half-Vanya."

Finarfin moves forward. The darkness shifts again. The king smiles.

"An elfling, a coward, a failure. You can't call me a thing I hadn't called myself yet, Moringotto."

So much anger, and for what? For the beef between the Gods?

Finarfin's mind has a thight grip on enchantments already. It will take nothing to break out.

"Maybe," he says, and his eyes are the colour of skies on a bright day. "Maybe for the Gods' beef. Maybe for my sons' death. Maybe for my own grief."

He reaches in a weil of his emotions. His fingers tremble with power.

"Maybe for the spirit locked inside me. Maybe for the souls of the fallen weeping in my ears everyday. Maybe for the darkness that devours me, for the light that shines through it."

Foolish, Morgoth says. You won't achieve a thing.

Finarfin grins. His grin is sharp, predatory, dangerous. He raises his hand.

His song is the sound of thousand bells, of million thunders, of hundred wails.

I am standing at your door, he laughs. I am burning with fire that cannot be put out, oh Jailcrow of Doom. I am knocking at your gates! Hear me and accept my challenge, oh Lord of the Slaves!

I'm the eagles in the sky, I'm the roar of the storms, I'm the fire of the rage - hear me and fear, he who had Fallen from Power, hear me fear, for I am your doom, for I am your fall, I am your DEFEAT!

Finarfin laughs, and the prison breaks.

... He gasps and wakes up. His tent meets him with silence.

[silmforrookies]

Chapter III. Of the Beginning of Days, or the Valar Are Making Me Feel

Well, fellas, congratulations! We are now officialy done with Ainulindalë & Valaquenta and are diving right into the main course, Quenta Silmarillion - or the History of Silmarils. Prepare your swords, napkins, and whatever else should you need on your endeavour.

It's an old song! It's an old song from way back when; it's an old song, but we're gonna sing it again! It's a sad song; it's a sad tale, it's a tragedy! It's a sad song, but we sing it anyway... (©Hadestown)

The first chapter of the Quenta Silmarillion is called "Of the Beginning of Days". In short:

Sigh. Alright. Let's see what we could have and what Melkor made us loose.

The chapter starts with what we already learned: that Melkor and Valar were at war, and that the Valar were losing drastically. Melkor was dominating Arda, and most of its land were under his power; of course, the Valar couldn't shape the world as intended in those anti-creative circumstances and were slowly starting to despair. However...

In a small hole in the wast fabric in the Universe, just under Eru's throne, lived Tulkas. And Tulkas looked down at the Little Kingdom of Arda, and saw Melkor, and said: "Nice little dominion of darkness you have over there. Would be a shame if something... happened to it"

(Quenta Silmarillion, Tulkas, sometime before the Age of Lamps, probably)

Tulkas spared a glance towards Arda, saw that things were not looking great for his buddy Manwë, and decided to single-handedly turn the tide of the war. What a fella. What a pal. What a chad. Seriously, get yourself a friend like Tulkas, you won't regret it.

Anyways, the second Tulkas stepped into Arda, Melkor had no choice but to turn and run. Tulkas' laughter was like a wind that cleared everything dark from its way, and his face didn't promise nothing but a good old ass-whooping. Melkor was so scared of Tulkas he didn't just run away - he abandoned Arda completely. All hail Tulkas. All hail my man.

So, Tulkas was busy searching for Melkor (I expected a good fight, man, come on), Melkor was busy sulking in the Outer Darkness (space?) and being number one Tulkas hater, and Valar were just happy that they finally, finally were able to create, unbothered by any abomination of anger, hate and envy. They happily accepted Tulkas into their ranks and got right to work.

Of course, they had to deal with the hell of a mess left after Melkor. They fixed lands and oceans, moved mountains, stabilized volcanoes and so on. Then, Yavanna could finally bring to life her most sacred project: plants. Well, not then exactly - plants need light to grow, after all; so the Valar came together and created two lights, two magnificent Lamps - Illuin and Ormal. They placed Illuin in the North of Middle-Earth, and Ormal - on the South; they were the work of Aulë and Varda, blessed by Manwë, and loved by all. And when the light of the two Lamps filled Arda, seeds that Yavanna planted started sprouting. Multiple mosses, grasses, bushes, trees - it all came to life, and the most beautiful they were in the middle of Arda, where the light of two Lamps mingled - and the Valar decided to live there. That time is called the Spring of Arda.

Those were happy times, and the Valar finally thought they could rest. Their home was an isle in the middle of a Great Lake, named Almaren; and Manwë called all the Valar and all of their servants to a grand feast, to celebrate their work and their victory. Tulkas wedded Nessa, Oromë's sister; and she danced before the Valar, and they were merry, and they all lived happily ever after...

... is what would I say if it wasn't for our good old friend, Melkor, Moringotto, the Dark Foe of the World. Who was sulking in the Outer Darkness. Or so we thought.

In reality, Melkor was busy recruiting spies and gathering intel, because Melkor can't simply let people be happy - he's just silly like that. It came to his knowledge that Ainur were planning a grand feast, and that Tulkas and Aulë would be tired as hell (because they, unlike someone, were busy helping others) - and he decided that there would be no better day to attack and to destroy the Valar once and for all.

So he started preparing for a new war - and his first step was to build an indestructible underground fortress, Utumno. His presence was so vile that Arda started marring - the plants started vaning, swamps - appearing, animals in the forests became ugly dangerous abominations who were out for blood. And the Valar, looking at this, knew that Melkor was back, and that they should brace for an attack.

Melkor striked faster than they could manage to do so. He destroyed the Lamps, and the places where they stood turned into oceans, and underground fire came forward, devouring Arda - that great was their fall.

Melkor fled - he achieved a victory, but was still too much of a coward to face Tulkas or Manwë; so he ran away and hid deep in Utumno, confident in its durability.

Valar were too busy preventing multiple major apocalypses to chase him or to vage a full-scale war; the balance of lands and waters was ruined, plants were dead, and the Lights - gone. Their home in Almaren was destroyed; everything they worked so hard on was wiped away by Melkor's sick whim, and they, yet again, had to start over.

They traveled to Aman, the most western land of Middle-Earth. Since Melkor was back to Arda, and they couldn't defeat him, they decided to fortify their positions; they surrounded Aman with Pelóri, Mountains of Aman, the greatest mountains in all world. Its highest peak, Taniquetil, is where Manwë and Varda reside. Behind Pelori, the Valar founded Valinor - their secure kingdom. It was a collection of most fair and beautiful things in Arda, its most wonderful place; so they built their palaces there, and founded a first city - Valimar, the City of Thousands Bells.

Near Valimar, there was a hill called Ezellogar; and one day, Yavanna came there, and sang. She was sitting there for a long time, singing and singing about plants, about her creations; and Nienna was crying, silently watering the ground with her tears, and the other Valar were listening.

Then, two sprouts came to being.

It is told that no sound was heard during that time - only Yavanna's song. Those two sprouts, fuelled by her voice and will, started growing - higher and higher, mightier and mightier; until they became two Trees, the greatest Trees ever created - Laurelin and Telperion.

Telperion's leaves were dark green, and they were glowing with silver, and from them the silver dew was ever falling; Laurelin's were bright, glimmering with gold, and her branches ended with golden flowers, glowing with yellow flame and spilling yellow rain, and they produced light and warmth. Those were the great Trees of Valinor, Yavanna's most magnificent creation, catalysts of Arda's history - in life and death.

Each Tree would glow for seven hours, and each would start glowing an hour before the other would start fading; so twice a day the Lights would mingle. A day in Valinor was twelve hours long.

Alright! Back to Earth. Let me remind you, Melkor is still roaming Arda, and Valar aren't fans of Melkor roaming Arda, though they can't do much about it.

Aulë's palaces were in the middle of Valinor, and he started creating metals, minerals, etc. He is called the friend of Noldor, for he was the one who taught them crafts.

Manwë, however, dwells on Taniquetil, and his thoughts are always with Middle-Earth. He established the first news agency - he gets his own newspaper in form of spirits who look like birds and travel back and forth, from Valinor to Middle-Earth. His favourites are Vanyar: he loves their poems.

Ulmo ditched Valinor and lives in the ocean, where he governs the waters. He thinks of his own music, great and terrible, and it echoes theough the whole world. His faves are Teleri, though he's also the only one to regularly check on those who live in Middle-Earth, as we learned already.

Wait.

Is it just me, or...

... AS I WAS SAYING, the next one is Yavanna, who left most of her work in Middle-Earth, and who would visit it sometimes to heal the wounds Melkor did; every time she would return, she would claim they needed to finally defeat him, until the Children of Ilùvatar come. With her, Middle-Earth was often visited by Oromë; he would hunt the dark servants of Melkor, and they would scatter from him, but come together once he would leave.

This was the state of Arda as it awaited Elves and Men. None of the Ainur knew when will they arrive, for Eru kept it secret. Similarly, only he knew the difference between them.

Elves were to be fair and wise, skilled in all arts and crafts, immortal and untouched by age or illness; their fates, however, would be forever bound to Arda, similar to Ainur, and if they die, they would heal in the Halls of Mandos and live again. Sorry, elves. No escaping the narrative for you.

Men, however, had the opposite gift - Death. Their days in Arda were limited, and their souls would long to go away from the Circles of the World. They were short-lived, but it was them who would finish the world the Ainur started, and it was them who would sing in the Second Song of the Ainur.

The tragedy of it all was, death was meant as blessing; as libertation, as a way to new possibilities; Melkor, however, in his hatred made humans fear it, and made it associated with him instead of Eru. This is why some claim Men are Melkor's servants, though he hated humans greatly.

However, let's leave the Children of Ilùvatar for another occasion. Let's relax in the Bliss of Days, and lets not think of all the upcoming tragedies.

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