Maglor remembered how Maitimo waited for a reaction to the barb, any reaction, but once again Ulfang’s face had taken on the comforting placidity from before, so impenetrably indifferent that the beholder heaved a relieved sigh. It was better, though less amusing, than the look of self-important superiority hanging from his brow, the derisive snort he’d given when Curufinwë explained how the name Maitimo had come about, the high-pitched bark before he delivered: the innards of the coconut fruit only feel cool and soothing on the hottest of days. When the air itself is cool and pleasant, there is a staleness to the fruit, do you not think? On an unrelated note, I hear that inbreeding amongst the Noldor puts the humble cheetah to shame.
Oddly enough, the one Ulfang got along best with was Tyelkormo, and though Curufinwë elucidated at length about reasons involving wild animals, barbarians and tiger-tamers, Maglor was of the opinion that Ulfang enjoyed how Tyelkormo made no secret of his utter revulsion towards the chieftain and his host.
Drawn across a two day hyperfixation fuelled entirely by spite after seeing this guy represented in a ‘Tolkien companion book’ as the most fuckass racist caricature I have ever seen in my life. Words from my WIP fic, The Ambush of a New Past which looks at the Easterlings and the Haradrim through the Ages of Arda, where Ulfang is a tiny, somewhat snobby little guy with a superiority complex and a hobby of making it very clear to every single elf he speaks to (including Maedhros, whom he has taken to his bed) that he is 100% going to betray them and insinuating that it is in fact entirely the fault of that specific individual. My miniscule manipulator 🥰
commission details etc | also featuring @peasant-player pattern on sash and cloak
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Sometimes I see people get a little confused about whether it was Ulfang or Uldor who betrayed the Union of Maedhros during the Nirneath Arnoediad, so I thought I’d clear it up a little (and also provide a little bit of pretentious analysis of the Easterling’s relationship with the Feanorians.)
Ulfang was the man who led part of the Easterling people into Beleriand a few years after the Dagor Bragollach and swore fealty to the Sons of Feanor (specifically Caranthir). Ulfang also was the one to make the deal with Morgoth to betray the Sons of Feanor (with, I believe, an implication that Ulfang’s group had connections to Morgoth before they entered Beleriand.)
However, Ulfang is never mentioned to have fought in the Nirneath Arnoediad. This is probably because Ulfang died two years before the battle (probably of old age given he was 70ish at the time of his death.) Ulfang’s death is never mentioned explicitly in the published Silmarillion, instead it is relegated to the mysterious and infinite pages of the History of Middle Earth series.
This is where Uldor comes in. Uldor is Ulfang’s eldest son and therefore takes leadership of Ulfang’s group of Easterlings (and leadership over the plot to betray the Sons of Feanor.) Just in time for the Union of Maedhros to form and the Nirneath Arnoediad to kick off.
Something that I find to be both really interesting and frustrating about Ulfang and his sons is their story’s resemblance to Feanor and his sons story. Both Ulfang and Feanor make a commitment that unknowingly condemns their children to suffering (Feanor has his oath, Ulfang his deal with Morgoth.) Both Ulfang and Feanor die before seeing the true outcome of their commitments, leaving their children to pick up their cause. Their respective children then manage to technically succeed but only through the deaths of themselves and many others (Maedhros and Maglor do technically get the Silmarils at the end. And Uldor, Ulfast, and Ulwarth do succeed in preventing the success of the Union of Maedhros, but all said parties die as a result, except for Maglor.)
This is all pretty juicy from a story perspective (in my opinion.) The betrayers of the Union of Maedhros, not being too dissimilar in motive from its chief architect, is quite the tragic idea.
Yet then there’s the frustrating part. Which is the fact that Ulfang and his three sons are completely lacking in any personality, and in their very brief appearances in the narrative the reader is never invited to sympathize with them in any meaningful way.
Which is of course extremely different from the way the narrative treats the Feanorians. Feanor and his seven sons are positively brimming with personality, at least within the context of the Silmarillion in any case. And although I imagine there will always be arguments over exactly how much sympathy the Feanorians deserve, I do think it’s pretty safe to say that the narrative of the Silmarillion does not consider the Feanorians to be entirely evil and are furthermore, at least somewhat capable of doing good and expressing regret in some small capacity.
None of these traits are really afforded to Ulfang and his children. Which is a shame.
I also had some stuff to say on Bor and his group of Easterlings but I guess that'll have to wait for another day.
Thank you for tagging me @balrogballs and @ffigwit I honestly love these. (Even if I never get to them on the day mentioned)
I've got one fic right now that has taken over. (Apart from the exchanges I'm involved in)
This is another snippet for The Thralls Trauma.
It's a multi-chapter fic about a slave who escapes Angband. He swears loyality to Maedhros, who helped him when captured. I don't even have the first chapter up yet. (Soon I promise) The part that has taken over all my personal writing will actually be a few chapters in. However it is the most fleshed out. So here is another snippet involving the Easterlings:
Lord Maedhros had called him in. “I require you to go to Lothlann and invite the Easterlings to the Union I am establishing.”
“My Lord, surely you have someone of more noble birth to send?”
“I require you to go as you speak their language. No other is as fluent as you are.”
Nilmodur did not point out, he only spoke two of the languages. Fortunately, one of them was what the Easterlings currently living in Lothlann spoke.
“Perhaps I can serve as interpreter to a greater lord?”
Maedhros handed him a missive. “We are stretched thin in this. You speak Easterling. You are my best choice.”
Nilmodur bowed his retreat. He hoped that getting this message from someone they knew to be just a guard would not be a perceived insult.
The first thing he heard, upon arrival, was a derogatory slur directed at him. The slur was so insulting that it froze him to the spot. Last time he heard it, he was scrubbing some horrific mess he did not want to think about.
The older chieftain came over and greeted him in Quenya, soothing his fear and returning him to the present. The younger chieftain had laughed, but Nilmodur was unsure if that was directed at the slur, or something else.
He handed the older man the letter. The chieftain thanked him and then turned to say something to one of his clan. His language was a different dialect to which Nilmodur knew. He suddenly felt self-conscious. He knew a slight mispronunciation could be seen as an insult. He defaulted to Quenya, knowing he would not be upset by their attempts. The chieftain offered to show him around the camp that had been created since his last visit.
Nilmodur was amazed at the inverted canvas structures that had sprung up. Rain collectors, it was explained to him.
“The air provides what the land does not.”
He was horrified to learn they still had no water. After taking their promise to attend the Union, well some of them, he rode to Caranthir’s halls.
The lord received him and he quickly explained the issue of the waterless plain.
Caranthir frowned. “They'll be fine. There's a stream that goes across that plain.”
Nilmodur held his face neutral. “My lord, there was no stream, nor evidence of one, when I crossed that plain.”
“Streams come back,” Caranthir snipped.
He really did have his father’s temper. How did Nilmodur know that?
“My lord.”
“No. They are desert people. They'll find water I'm sure.”
He blinked at that. Desert yes, but Nilmodur had met Easterlings who spoke of hills and mountains; who offered giant, sweet fruit from their trees. Hot maybe. But all desert?
The glare kept his mouth shut. It was easier to agree and be spared the punishment. Even if the lash was of the tongue.
When Nilmodur returned to Himring, he worried about the treatment of the second born. Lord Maedhros was busy with his Union, so he did not bother him. However, these men came to help them and they were treated less. When he next signed the provisions list for them, he tripled their water. Rationing was better than dying by thirst.
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Summary: You have returned to Himring, to him, whom you are no more than a traitor.
AN: This has been in draft since Himring fell...
"With all due respect," the realtor squeaked, his voice a strained octave higher than usual. "This property has been on the market for centuries. Every venture initiated here has ended in heavy losses, not to mention the…spectral reports." He shot a nervous glance towards the crumbling ramparts.
A grim smile played on your lips. "Losses are one thing," you drawled, tracing the rough stone of the wall with your fingertips. "But some things are worth the risk, wouldn't you agree?" The realtor, a man whose immaculate suit seemed woefully out of place amidst the decay, coughed nervously.
You were back in Himring, the once-proud fortress of the first Feanorion. Centuries had passed since the ocean reclaimed it, but time seemed to hold no sway here. The wind howled through shattered windows, carrying whispers of a forgotten past.
The ancient craftsmanship still held. "Damn elves and their unrelenting craft," you muttered under your breath.
Ignoring the realtor's stammering protests, you strode purposefully into the dark halls. The halls of your dear nemesis. Wondering if you would have the pleasure of stumbling upon his wraith.
Hope, a fragile thing nurtured by years of longing and yearning, flickered in your chest. Perhaps, just perhaps, you would find him here. Maedhros, your nemesis, your lover, the ghost who unknowingly haunted your every waking moment.
You came looking for the unfairly handsome elven lord, who remained the most charming single-handedly, you snickered at your joke imagining the eye-roll Maedhros would have rewarded you with had you uttered such words in his presence.
The past. A time when love bloomed effortless and potent, strong enough to lure you across the vast expanse from the Eastern lands to stand at your lord's side.
But was he still your lord? The guilt gnawed at you, a constant companion. After everything you'd done, such a title felt like a cruel joke. Not a lord, not a friend, not even a lover could you ever deserve after causing the fall of Himring.
You, Ulfang the chieftain, became the fall of Himring. You, who was the cause of estrangement of the firstborn and secondborn. The idiotic chieftain who lost everything in one gamble. The weight of that choice, the burden of countless lives lost, pressed down on you like an invisible mountain.
Now you stand, entrapped in the gray area of past and present. Even death had failed to take Maedhros away from you. He lived still in your mind, body, and soul.
"I am here Maedhros," you whisper to the winds that rush through his fort. "Try not to kill me." You add as a second thought.
Day one started with a bang. Or, more accurately, a clumsy stumble. Despite a surprisingly good night's sleep (considering the freezing halls and the weight of the past), you woke up way past sunrise.
Stumbling outside, you squinted at the sky, a canvas of swirling gray. Rain, fantastic. Just what you needed. But a frown did little to deter you.
With a disgruntled sigh, you hefted the "saplings" you'd dragged all the way to the fortress. "Saplings" being a generous term for the small, but decidedly unyielding trees you clutched in your arms.
These weren't your typical saplings. No sir, these were chosen with meticulous care. Flowering Jasmines, delicate Gardenias, and yes, even a tangled mass of Rose vines – a blatant nod to Maedhros' preferences.
If Manwe had rain planned then you might as well make use of it.
Of course, you hadn't forgotten about practicality either. Tucked amongst the fragrant blooms were a healthy assortment of vegetables – you weren't about to starve to death while playing gardener.
Perched precariously on the crumbling balcony, you busied yourself adding some delicate periwinkles to the mix. That was, until your foot met a rogue root with the grace of a drunken bear. With a surprised yelp, you went sprawling – a tangle of limbs and saplings tumbling down towards the damp earth below.
The first sensation that registered was the bite of freezing rain stinging your face. Then came the thrum of pain, a low ache traveling from your shin all the way up to your hip. You lay there for a moment, the rain drumming a steady rhythm on your body.
Suddenly, the air seemed to shift. A new sound, a soft rustling perhaps, or a presence that settled on the world like a heavy cloak. Your breath hitched in your throat. Maedhros had finally graced you with his… attention.
A slow smile spread across your face, a blend of sheepishness and something else – a spark of defiance, a hint of something you hoped wasn't misplaced hope. "Well, hello there," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the rain.
Falling from the balconies, getting trapped in musty rooms – these became your daily routines. The aches and pains were starting to accumulate, a dull throb in your ankle a constant reminder of your latest tumble. Despite the new collection of scratches and a growing limp, your spirit remained defiant. You were, after all, the same old you.
"By eru! Auugh-" You spit your soup coughing unrelentingly in the lonesome dining hall. "Oh my, that almost took me out," you panted, your tongue feeling like a desert after a sandstorm. "Soup of death, or perhaps a bowl of salt with a reluctant splash of broth?"
"Did not know death made trolls out of elves..." you chuckle giving up on the idea of dinner. "Or is it just you, my love?" You speak to the empty room. Bemused that the idea of Maedehros' antics.
Pushing the offending dish away with a grimace. Giving up on dinner, you surveyed the desolate hall. A flicker of sadness crossed your features as you noticed a chipped teacup lying forgotten on the floor. It was a simple thing, but it reminded you of a brighter time, a time when laughter filled this room.
A sigh escaped your lips. Why torture yourself with such memories? With a determined glint in your eye, you pushed yourself up from the table, ignoring the protest from your injured ankle. You were here for a reason, and a little soup-induced near-death experience wasn't going to deter you.
"Do whatever you must," you declared, a hint of bravado lacing your voice. You addressed the empty room, a bemused smirk playing on your lips. "I will not leave." As if on cue, a sudden crackle erupted from the fireplace behind you, sending a shower of sparks dancing into the air.
"I have nowhere else to be," you continued, feeling a familiar warmth bloom in your chest. He was here. He had to be. or you were having some very personal conversations with a random spirit.
A cold gust of wind swept through the hall, extinguishing a nearby candle with a hiss. You shivered, a flicker of vulnerability replacing your bravado.
"And if you think killing me will rid you of my presence," you continued, your voice gaining strength with each word, "you are sorely mistaken. This time, I will not leave. Not even in death. So pray to your Valar that I do not die and join you as a wraith, forever tethered to this accursed place."
You declare with borrowed confidence from your stupid past self.
Maedhros loathes you. He despises you. The way you are different yet achingly familiar, the way your body moves in a similar fashion, yet your hair shines differently in the sun – it is a constant torment.
He despises the wretched hope that blooms in his chest at your sight. Hope before, resentment. A racing heart before a broken one.
But he is not unchanged either. Times have worn him into a resentful sprite. A wraith instead of the elven lord you remember. A bitter existence opposite of what you remember.
At least that's what he tells himself as he watches you passed out in the rain or when he sees you throwing away another inedible dinner.
He wants you gone. He yearns to be free from the constant reminder of his failures, the embodiment of a love that has brought him nothing but ruin.
He will never offer you the solace you crave, the forgiveness you desperately seek. Love, absolution, even a semblance of the tenderness he once held for you – these are things he has long since locked away, burying them deep beneath the layers of his self-imposed exile.
At least that is what he tells himself.
He wants you gone, yes, but the thought of you suffering gnaws at him like a persistent ache.
He will never admit it, but he finds himself drawn to you. Following you into his own, long-abandoned chambers was an act of… what? Curiosity? A morbid fascination? Whatever it was, the sight of you dusting the ancient tomes he hadn't touched in millennia sent a jolt through him.
For a fleeting moment, time seemed to warp. You were both in the same room, you dusting the shelves, talking in your usual way, oblivious to his presence.
And for once, Maedhros allowed himself to simply look at you. Not with the burning hatred he has cultivated for so long, but with a… a wistfulness he can not explain.
He even finds himself replying to your nonsensical chatter about fearing toads. It is a small indulgence, a rebellion against the prison of his own making.
The illusion is shattered with a deafening crack. The rickety bookshelf groans and then collapses, a cascade of heavy tomes raining down on you. Maedhros reacts on instinct, a desperate lunge forward that would have been pointless given his form.
As expected you pass through his outstretched arms, a wisp of smoke, landing with a surprised yelp on the dusty bed. A cloud of dust erupts, momentarily obscuring the room. When it settles, his breath hitches in his throat.
Your eyes are wide and startled, fixed on him. Your mouth is agape, and your eyes, glistening with something other than dust?
A tremor runs through Maedhros, with something he dare not name. Could it be…? No. It had to be just the dust. Just the dust.
But Maedhros had the help of the Naugrim, both in armed force and in great store of weapons; and the smithies of Nogrod and Belegost were busy in those days. And he gathered together again all his brothers and all the people who would follow them; and the Men of Bór and Ulfang were marshalled and trained for war, and they summoned yet more of their kinsfolk out of the East. Moreover in the west Fingon, ever the friend of Maedhros, took counsel with Himring, and in Hithlum the Noldor and the Men of the house of Hador prepared for war. In the forest of Brethil Halmir, lord of the People of Haleth, gathered his men, and they whetted their axes; but Halmir died ere the war came, and Haldir his son ruled that people. And to Gondolin also the tidings came, to Turgon, the hidden king.
"Of the Fifth Battle: The Nirnaeth Arnoediad", The Silmarillion
I've never watched Game of Thrones, but I can easily confess I've watched Arya's revenge on House Frey more than a dozen times on YouTube.
So imagine my surprise when I realized one of my Silmarillion fanfictions reminded me of this scene. Like, my subconscious decided that hey, you like this? How about we make something like it but Sons of Fëanor version?
Doesn't help that I like to listen to Wolves of the North by Karliene and think of Dagor Bragollach.
