#taniquentil

[greenishness]

Gods perfect silmarillion adaptation would be a 300 episode series animated in the style of the last unicorn (1982) with a bibliography for each episode and a soundtrack that beams me straight onto taniquentil

[eri-pl]

Another alliterative verse

While seeking Feanor's speech, I found this gem from Lays of Beleriand and I will again do a very ignorant analysis (sorry I cannot internalize the more subtle rules of how this should work, Jirt seems to ignore them and it makes this even harder)

(Early Silm, so Noldor=Gnomes, and there are 9 male Valar and so on and so forth)

Lo! slain is my sire | by the sword of fiends,

his death he has drunk | at the doors of his hall

that Gnome and Elf | and the Nine Valar

and deep fastness, | where darkly hidden

the Three were guarded, | the things unmatched

not Fëanor Finn’s son | who fashioned them of yore –

can never remake | or renew on earth,

recarve or rekindle | by craft or magic,

the light is lost | whence he lit them first,

\ * ??? proto-Taniquentil? (or whatever it's called)

the fate of Faërie | hath found its hour

Thus the witless wisdom | its reward hath earned

of the Gods’ jealousy, | who guard us here

to serve them, sing to them | in our sweet cages,

to contrive them gems | and jewelled trinkets,

their leisure to please | with our loveliness,

while they waste and squander | work of ages,

nor can Morgoth master | in their mansions sitting

at countless councils. | Now come ye all,

who have courage and hope! | My call harken

to flight, to freedom | in far places!

The woods of the world | whose wide mansions

yet in darkness dream | drowned in slumber,

the pathless plains | and perilous shores

no moon yet shines on | nor mounting dawn

in dew and daylight | hath drenched for ever,

far better were these | for bold footsteps

than gardens of the Gods | gloom-encircled

with idleness filled | and empty days.

Yea! though the light lit them | and the loveliness

beyond heart’s desire | that hath held us slaves

here long and long. | But that light is dead.

Our gems are gone, | our jewels ravished;

and the Three, my Three, | thrice-enchanted

globes of crystal | by gleam undying

illumined, lit | by living splendour

and all hues’ essence, | their eager flame –

Morgoth has them | in his monstrous hold,

my Silmarils. | I swear here oaths,

unbreakable bonds | to bind me ever,

by Timbrenting* | and the timeless halls

of Bredhil the Blessed** | that abides thereon –

may she hear and heed – | to hunt endlessly

unwearying unwavering | through world and sea,

through leaguered lands, | lonely mountains,

over fens and forest | and the fearful snows,

till I find those fair ones, | where the fate is hid

of the folk of Elfland | and their fortune locked,

where alone now lies | the light divine.’ 

** I guess that's proto-Varda?

[searchingforserendipity25]

@finweanladiesweek | day one. miriel/indis

in the last year of miriel's life as she counted her life, the one before she grew heavy with child, the noldor had been the ones to host the competitions.

miriel remembered it only vaguely now, through a summer's haze - the bright clarions ringing, the pressing irritation of setting aside the project she had been working on in exchange for the hot light of laurelin and the duties of state - the deep satisfaction of seeing her own banners flying boldly, her husband clad by the work of her own hand.

after death, and in the time before death, she forgot about it all - the colour of the fabrics, the words spoken in praise and adoration to the valar upholding the celebration.

of the last days lived in shadowless felicity, miriel remembered best the minyar's youngest champion, the best and first of their begotten children born in aman.

tall and graceful and very swift, wrestling quendi twice her size in the games, distinguished among the rest of the golden-haired plenty of valmar only for how she laughed at the finishing line, when she won victory for her people or otherwise.

that was what miriel recalled: indis of the vanyar, dust-spotted and freckled, tall and dangerous and joyful, throwing the flowers of her success at the embroidered slippers of the queen of tirion.

finwë had been all for his friends then, turned towards ingwë's clasping hand and olwë's counsel, sitting away and above, so thickly wound together elu's absence was not an absence at all. other athletes had honoured the three kings already, offering their hard-won laurel crowns.

these flowers were for miriel alone, gathered beforehand, the sort of generosity that would become a gesture of friendship, a queenly offering, merely because indis was dust-spotted, tall and dangerous and kind.

osmantus, jasmine, the purple violets that grew upon taniquentil - miriel had had to bend down to pick them up. she remembered that, very clearly - the petals crinkling between her reaching fingers, the sweetness of indis' smile.

the robes she bore were among the best she had produced so far, as fair as the gauzy guise vána donned for the occasion, a glory of the noldor wore about her body in much the same way as tirion was dressed in its banners. the violets had stained them irreversibly.

she might have loathed someone for that, once.

enclosed in the halls of mandos, weary even as a shade and wearied of nothing so much as herself, miriel sought back their sweetness instead. there was little else to do. the perfumes of lórien and the proud, blooming lilies finwë had brought for her rooms during her weakness had grown to be so much ugliness to her.

miriel shed them all, along with her flesh. the smell of joy had become the laughing solemnity of indis vanyarin, to whom she had never spoken; and that much she wished to have as a memory.

finwë's choice never did surprise her; serindë would have chosen so herself, if life had been something she were willing to carry.

[lovefairymina]

(Hi. I felt motivated because it is my birthday and I saw this scenario somewhere and thought it was perfect. I hope it's good enough)

“Nelyo—! Come on, we’re gonna be late!” you call out after waiting for him to get ready for some time. “Five more minutes! I will be soon down!” he answers from upstairs. You sigh and wait patiently for your beloved elf to get ready for your little date.

You smile at the thought of spending some time with him. He made your heart soar higher than Taniquentil and it was like standing beside the warmth of Laurelin. You could only wish to bring out such poetic words for him. You weren’t nearly as talented as his minstrel brother despite being an Ainu and very tuned with music. 

Things were going so nicely between you two despite his father’s obvious objection to your relationship. Feanor didn’t quite like you for being an Ainu and especially for who your father was. 

“Spawn of Melkor, can we have a little talk?” you hear the familiar voice of Nelyo’s father behind you. He was standing there, glaring daggers at you like usual. 

“Yeah, sure. What is it, sir?” you put up a respectful smile. 

He suddenly grabs you by the front of your shirt. “Listen here. I want Maitimo back before Telperion’s fall. Is that understood?” he demanded while looking down into your eyes with that usual look of scorn. 

“But, sir. The play starts in the evening. I’m only learning how to manipulate emotions and spirits, not time,” you answered. 

“Do I look like I care? I do not care if your mother is Nienna, and I do not care if you’re the perfect match for my son. I do not like you, and I’m certain you do not like me either,” he glared at you. 

“Actually, sir. I do like you–” You smiled at him. 

“Huh?” Feanor tilted his head at you in confusion. 

“I admire your determined nature, and I think Nelyo is very lucky to have a father like you,” you said before looking away sadly. “I can only imagine what it's like to have a father that actually cares about you,” you nearly muttered as you thought about your broken relationship with your father. 

Feanor stares at you after you said that.

He said nothing as he watched you extend farewell and retreat to reunite with his son. Fëanor still didn't like that you were the child of the Ainur; good, bad or indifferent. It didn't matter. At least you had manners and respect. Until then, a watchful eye would always be kept on you around his children.

[atanes-universe]

Sav`s Universe/ Chapter 2: Ikarus

First page Chapter 1: Prelude

First page Chapter 2/ <previous/ next>

[atane-is-here]

Sav and his vanya friends who are the littlest of shits on Taniquentil

I'm back at it with my comic ^^ tomorrow I'll post the cover of Sav's Universe and the story will start on the 25th of march in celebration of the gondorian new year

[chechula]

after year there is again my Tolkien themes landscape series, now for Silmarillion ♥ revious years: Hobbit The Fellowship of the Ring The Two Towers The Return of the King

[searchingforserendipity25]

The Look Or The Words | Anairë/Fingolfin.

ON AO3. For @nolofinweanweek

The courtship between young Arafinwë and Eärwen, the best-beloved daughter of Alqualondë, came as a happy, fortuitous surprise to nearly all those who knew them. Someone, naturally, had to take the details of the ceremony and all its political implications into their own hands. Ñolofinwë was determined it would go without mishap, with all the magnificence that was due to a son of Indis. Lady Anairë, Princess Eärwen’s dearest companion, agreed entirely. It was a great pity that this was the only thing they agreed on.

The courtship between young Arafinwë and Eärwen, the best-beloved daughter of Alqualondë, came as a happy, fortuitous surprise to nearly all those who knew them, except for their nearest companions.

Ñolofinwë had known of it from the first; and he had known, too, that someone, naturally, would have to take the details of the ceremony and all its political implications into their own hands. He was determined it would go without mishap, with all the magnificence that was due to a son of Indis. 

Lady Anairë, Princess Eärwen’s dearest companion, agreed entirely. It was a great pity that this was the only thing they agreed on.

Queen Indis had many a lordly and holy guest to welcome, Finwë was beset by a sweet, misguided notion to shepherd his son through the anxieties of love, which Arafinwë accepted with an even temper and mostly no attempts to hide away in the kitchen.

Findis was deep in prayer for the felicity and harmony of the great houses of the Eldar soon to be joined, and of course, Lalwen had her own games among visiting nobles to be played, and had taken upon himself to judge the mettle of their sister-to-be, a pursuit that, as far as Ñolofinwë could grasp, consisted on sharing a number of unflattering and very amusing stories about Arafinwë.

And, all the while, Ñolofinwë made blueprints for seating arrangements and fought Lady Anairë to arrange for the conversations that would be more appropriate in his eyes.

It was, perhaps, possible that Lalwen was correct - he could be haughty, too precise, if not sanctimonious in his ways. He had studied every guest, and considered every angle; it was not difficult to assure himself any proprietary claim to planning the event was merely because he better than any knew most keenly the lines of influence and affinity among his court.

Lady Anairë smiled gayly at his indications and turned them from orders into suggestions. Lady Anairë reminded him, without chiding and without kindness, that his people were many, and varied, and more yet the people of the Teleri and the Vanyar.

It was very well, she said, to be on good terms with princes from one side of Amanyar to the other, but the feasting would welcome companies of travellers of every kind, many of them little interested in formal Noldorin procedures, and was it perhaps not wise to offer a broader range of options, from food and drink to rituals? It was a party, after all, that they meant to celebrate, a time of joy and friendship renewed. Excellent, truly, to be careful about all correct procedures - but if there were to be fishermen from the shore and shepherds from Taniquentil celebrating with the smiths of Tirion, some considerations had to be made.

Ñolofinwë could not say he cared for how Lady Anairë looked at him, when she spoke of joy; there was something too insightful about her, too frank by far.

 Ñolofinwë had the benefit of rank and terrain: Lady Anairë knew more people, it seemed, than even he, and was known fondly by most of them. He woke early; Lady Anairë woke earlier, and met him with pleasant greetings in the palace foyer, just as he made to ride to his appointments - which were all but useless, coming after her own visits.

Always she seemed to find time, amidst her walks through the city and the countryside, to meet with the weaving guild and the pastry masters, and dispense orders.

Princess Eärwen had chosen wisely which friend to delegate with these tasks. Lady Anairë was relentless; Lady Anairë would have Princess Eärwen's every specification obeyed. Lady Anairë, Ñolofinwë suspected, had a fondness for inventing new specifications merely to be able to haggle down to her true aims.

-

Ñolofinwë met her step by step, as neatly as if it were a waltz.

He could not admit it, but he did enjoy it. He was well-used to court politics, slow games of influence amidst the glory of Amanyar, and the half-petty plays of power with which the ruling houses entertained themselves. Unwed and devoted to perfecting studies of law and governance, still: he felt quite certain he could answer the demands of preparing a royal wedding.

The daughter of Noldorin merchants raised on the roads of Aman, more skilled with the harp than she liked to boast of, a swift rider and swift thinker, Anairë had grown high in favour as a charming guest in many a royal gathering, and delighted above all things in the success of her pursuits, depended on nothing so much as her sense of certainty.

She was not a princess of the Vanyar or the Teleri, not the kin of any of the Noldor's best smiths, not a great artist in her own right; but she was her own entirely, bound only by the duties she chose.

Ñolofinwë was clever, cunning, dignified - the blushes that flooded his cheeks when she brushed past him with a proud tilt of the chin and scrolls of sketched flower arrangements were nothing to the duty he was bound to fulfil for his House.

Nothing at all. The betrothal period would pass swiftly - every day it seemed to him the wedding could not come soon enough for him. And then, he supposed, Lady Anairë would go on to take another of her eclectic apprenticeships, or be invited to a scholarly exploration to befriend the horses of Araman, or return to the court of Olwë, to delight her devoted friends with her company, and play gayly with Eärwen's children, as near and dear as an aunt.

Ñolofinwë supposed they might meet in this fashion, eventually.

He was very certain her proud chin and shining eyes were nothing to him; they must indeed be nothing to him, if they were going spend until the end of the Music meeting at family gatherings, debating literature and gossip and what counted as good taste over peach wine.

He could not permit himself anything else, so many and dire were his duties, what with Findis in her prayers and Lalwen with her plays and Arafinwë's calming influence on courtly politics more and more put in question by all the ancient lords that looked not kindly at his coming marriage.

All the same. For all he was filial and dignified, Ñolofinwë did keep staring distractedly at the air, setting aside solemn legal arguments to list new ways to defend against Lady Anairë's newest plots to bring in a family of swans for the festivities.

Lalwen laughed a great at him for that, too.

-

Fëanáro did not come to the betrothal party. Not to welcome the bride's family with bowls of water and bread and wreaths of flowers, not to greet King Olwë and his sons with all due honour. Fëanáro sent wedding gifts of matching bracelets wrought in silver and garnet, emeralds and rubies.

The sight of them nestled in their open casket was enough to cause all gathered to speak of little else. Their light shone on Eärwen's face with a wavering, watery gleam, and shone on Arafinwë's arm like a brand.

Lady Nerdanel was with child, and Fëanáro would not quit her side. He sent apologies to the king his father, for missing the occasion, and no apology at all to his brother. Arafinwë sent his own reply, very proper and conciliatory; Ñolofinwë doubted it had been Fëanáro's intention; but he caught his brother's look of bright relief, when Eärwen closed the casket and set it aside; and he did not doubt his absence was among the best gifts Arafinwë could have received.

But they did not speak of that. The children of Finwë in Tirion did not speak of Fëanáro, if it could be avoided at all.

-

Great battles of wits were fought over shades of Tirion-blue and Telerin-green; debates of rhetoric were unleashed and met. For Lady Anairë was learned and polished, very polite, and quite, quite certain of her own mind.

Over the course of his brother's long betrothal, Ñolofinwë learned his foe and grew to be her friend. Anairë knew many people, but loved few and fiercely. Her mind was quick, her words elegant, but she understood very keenly the limitations of courtesy and modesty, and kept them without breaching decorum. She played the game, as much as she had to; and only as much as she wanted to.

Ñolofinwë took to inviting her to his preparations. He was not so proud as to be unable to admit that there was a great deal to be learned from Anairë's insights - even if the price of it was the keen edge of her gaze turned on him, searching and seeking at him until she found something that seemed to satisfy her. 

For his part, he did not ask the reason, when first she chose to wait for him in the foyer. It was only that it was easier and more sensible to work jointly. They worked better together; there was, Ñolofinwë found, something to be said of relying on someone on such a long endeavour.

Three Minglings before the wedding, and Anairë's mouth was pursed archly with pleasure when her ploy on the arrangement of the musicians came to fruition under Ñolofinwë’s nose.

Three Minglings! Every passing moment before their parting was made intolerable by his silence.

Pride and sense and duty were not worth knowing himself a coward and a fool. Ñolofinwë met her prying, laughing eyes, and admitted defeat. It was only some consolation that Anairë's face only grew more radiant when Ñolofinwë made the confession she had been waiting for, and pulled him down for a kiss amidst rows of the best sea-silk.

They kept on debating about samples of lace veils long afterwards, and did not even notice Eärwen and Arafinwë fleeing all elegant machinations and familial tension to hurry off from the tailor's apartments to a cheerful elopement tour by the sea.

It just as well. There was a royal wedding arranged already. Between the two of them, they managed to turn it from a diplomatic disaster into the event of the century - and, in the end, neither of them could quite remember what the musicians played whilst they danced close together under the Treelight.

[atanes-universe]

Sav`s Universe/ Chapter 2: Ikarus

First page Chapter 1: Prelude

First page Chapter 2/ <previous/ next>

[atanes-universe]

Sav`s Universe/ Chapter 2: Ikarus

First page Chapter 1: Prelude

First page Chapter 2/ <previous/ next>

[atanes-universe]

Sav`s Universe/ Chapter 2: Ikarus

First page Chapter 1: Prelude

First page Chapter 2/ <previous/ next>

[atanes-universe]

Sav`s Universe/ Chapter 2: Ikarus

First page Chapter 1: Prelude

First page Chapter 2/ <previous/ next>

[atanes-universe]

Sav`s Universe

The first arc of this comic has come to it´s end. I hope everyone liked it so far öwö. We are now entering a new chapter of Savs life and slowly have to say goodbye to bby Sav :c

After the imprisonment of his parents Sav gets to grow up with his Uncle Manwe on the peak of Taniquentil. It´s a bit isolated in the sheltered palace of the Elder King but this little guy knows how to make friends. That is if he´s not bothering his cousin Eonwe who became like a brother to him.

First page/ <last/ next>