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hey sorry but we came behind your boyfriend and cast a thong of fire about him. yeah and then hewed him with a black axe, and a white flame sprang up from his helm as it was cloven. and this is awkward but we kind of beat him into dust with our maces?? yeah, idk. his banner was really nice though! blue and silver. yeah no i don't think you can get it back. we kind of trod it into the mire of his blood. yeah and the field was lost. sorry man. tears unnumbered and all that.
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could I request 🤡 for Ambush of a New Past please?👀
ABSOLUTELY! Here is a spoiler-free snippet from Ambush of a New Past, from a few chapters in (I’m going to be posting past the prologue only after I have written up the majority of the fic), featuring a palimpsest of Easterly historiography: the Noldor, the Silmarils-as-swords, and Fëanor, viewed by a historian in Fourth Age Umbar, based on historical accounts from Khand, Rhûn and Harad.
The mind of the Noldor in the eyes of the Noldor, say the written histories of Khand, which as you know resembles a history in the way the horse dropping resembles the arsehole of a horse, is a blade forged past its temper. The edge is said to be so fine it parts light from shadow. If tempered lower, writes Ulfang, tongue in cheek on a break from tonguing between cheeks, the sword might have lasted generations, servicable, dull enough to survive its own use.
Unfortunately, Fëanor the Unseen, the dear fellow responsible for forging the first swords the Noldor had seen, abided by no such limits of temperature. Each needle-thin, reprehensibly beautiful ornament was crafted to divide the world into just and unjust cause, deserving and undeserving end, light and dark. The light returns, and the darkness falls. Here ends the Noldor in the histories of Khand. But a history of Zarahed, written two thousand years after the fall of Beleriand, notes with some amusement that steel ground that thin does not often survive the dividing. It notches, it hairlines, it shatters in the wound it makes, and the hand that swings it may lose the hand along with the swing. And this historian can confirm it still swings, phantom-fisted, because a blade tempered for absolutes cannot be re-tempered for endurance without ceasing to be what it was made to be. The man chose the edge, and the edge chose the end.
Swords in pursuit of the light, taking the glare of sunlight on steel as an affirmation of purpose. The mind that forged the swords forged also its own indenture, each facet cut to hold light remarkably enough that the holding became the only proof the self required of its own significance. Had the swords permitted some imprecision, some light merely reflected rather than imprisoned, the works might have endured ornamentally, unremarkably servicing the eye without demanding the soul. But the commission he accepted from his own pride admitted no such mercy: to hold light so perfectly is to be henceforth unable to exist except as the thing that holds it, and a self narrowed to a single perfect function cannot survive the loss of that function without ceasing, in every sense that matters, to be anything at all.
In crafting both swords and Silmaril, the Noldor had written the first page in the theology of the Great Machine, the beginnings of a doctrine the Ring itself would one day subscribe to in another form: the belief that what a being makes becomes the measure of how much of that being is permitted to remain in the world. When the first Teleri shipwright was slain, whatever was gained in the radiance of the Silmaril surrendered to the amplitude of its loss, creating a people who chose to be confined to the production of their own masterpiece, a continuance purchased only by refusing every other shape the self might have taken. How tragic it is, to realise that the history of Middle-Earth is shaped like a great Eye, tapered to a gentle point at either end. To know that the Age of Elves which began when the shards of Fëanor’s heart set sail oversea could only ever end once Frodo Baggins set his own upon a ship.
not to add to your pile of requests, but i would love to see a larger picture of your salgant! love your work!!
I think he gets a bad rep. Salgant always appeared to me like chill compassionate guy that was a little bit of a coward. Not the worst mixture. He seems like a guy that's good with children and pleasant company at a feast.
This is a neologism meaning storms of summer or summer storms, specifically meant to refer to the sudden, violent, but brief storms that can occur in summer throughout parts of the temperate and tropical world
Although Vangwë is the most common Quenya word for storm, I chose laume, an older word, because it has connotations of a dark sky which I associate with these storms, as well as the violence of a storm
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Elwings who get a little drown’d before Ulmo goes “ahh, shoot, peredhil overboard! emergency plans activate!” are v. hot but I feel like we can take it a bit further. Elwing with hands a bit too cold and newly clumsy fingers. Elwing with a whisper soft voice and sea water gurgling in her lungs. Elwing who still has feathers growing at the nape of her neck, a down that has never gone away. It’s easier to become something else when your body doesn’t fit right anymore.
Elrond and Elros hanging out with Great Grandad Annael ♡
They're making friends with an intertidal spider and attempting to build her a nice house (as the twins have temporarily forgotten that intertidal spiders tend to build webs, and Annael isn't saying anything).
hello and welcome to gondolin. shining city on the hill? alike to the elven cities of old in valinor? it wont be if you dont pick up a shovel and dig more privies. get to work.
of note:
the aforementioned privies which are perhaps the first "structure" on site, if you could call pits structures.
the lovely quarry and single temporary house
the impractical but strategically chosen tower construction taking place. while not the most functional or necessary building, high morale and visible results are also necessary for a project of this scope. if it has the added benefit of being a monument to lordly authority and might, well that was by design.
the chosen valley is unfortunately rather devoid of trees, on account of the altitude and particular climate, but it is rich in stone, clay, and scrub. this issue was of course identified in initial visits to the valley and there are the plans for lumber orchards in the works. it is thought that the lowest lying part of the valley closest to the south has the greatest depth of soil thanks to the river deposits, and will provide a shaded causeway to the first (planned) gate.
there is also a fierce debate taking place over how best to manage the necessity of pasture and farmland with the overall footprint of the city itself. this is complicated by differing opinions of what "counts" as the valley and at what point construction and habitation should continue no further up the slopes.
elemmakil is not all alone up there, there are a good number of elves posted up on even more miserable peaks surrounding the valley. (though there is be some distance between him and his closest fellows.)
they plan to be living out of their travel dwellings for at the least a year, but likely several years more in most cases. as more foundations are laid and projects progress, the dwellings can be shifted as need be as placeholders for future more permanent structures. due to the size of the valley (and the wish to emulate tirion) it is expected that future dwellings will utilize as much vertical space as possible, with multiple families living in the same larger structure together. of course with the exception of the lords, who will all have their appointed estates.
(literal)house of the golden flower and associated outbuildings
freshly slathered in clay and not nearly as ornamented as it would later become as gondolin developed a taste for their large flowery frescoes.
luxurious use of wood for awnings and walkway of dubious safety
outbuildings include a tower (of course) which is officially in use as a nesting place for migratory bird populations. a most auspicious thing to have in this valley looked after by the eagles. following gondolin's engagement in the nirnaeth arnoediad the tower took on the unfortunate double use as a grave for the dead left behind.
other outbuildings include the kitchens and stewards residence, the latter with its adjoining garden. the path to the main house from the kitchens is miserable. so miserable in fact, subsequent remodelings delved a stair from the kitchens to the basement of the main residence.
gondolin has no particular interest in window glass or its production. the dry cold of the climate in the winter, as well as the sometimes unbearably hot summer necessitate some trial and error when it comes to maintaining optimal indoor temperature. high-set, small windows are an easy solution in smaller dwellings, but a lords house requires more natural light than a cave, thank you. the larger windows of the second floor maintain a pleasant coolness in the summer, but is a bit colder than is desirable in the winter, unless one wants to shutter them completely and live in the dark.
in later stages of remodeling and habitation the land on the hill is further developed (though the garden is fiercely maintained). the dubious wooden walkway attached to the kitchens is also done away with, and the wood is repurposed as shutters. (the cold won.)
an atmospheric rendering of a re-embodied Celegorm with Huan 2.0 commissioned by the excellent @justdrowthings, pictured here changing into his hunting gear in the forests for the first time after being re-embodied, feeling scritchy and ever so alive 🐕 the dog gives no shits. the dog says ‘glad you like the sun and shit but pay attention to me’.
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i also think it is very critical for us to juxtapose dr. graham's human sex thoughts and tolkien's elf sex thoughts. witness:
dr james graham:
Indeed, gentlemen! such is the volume, and the intenseness of the pleasure that is enjoyed in performing the venereal act, under the full influences of the combined electrical fire in my celestial bed! – such the elevation – the delirium which seizes the soul of the male! – such the raptures in which the souls of BOTH struggle, as it were, to get loose in Elysium! that in the last, in the critical effort of the male, his souls seems, PROMETHEUS like, to spring up to heaven! to snatch life to animate the little embryo!
jrr tolkien:
On the other hand the act of procreation, being of a will and desire shared and indeed controlled by the fëa, was achieved at the speed of other conscious and willful acts of delight or of making. It was one of the acts of chief delight, in process and in memory, in an Elvish life, but its intensity alone provided its importance, not its time or length: it could not have been endured for a great length of time, without disastrous “expense”.
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