Abide with Me Amidst the Flame and Stone

Fire in the lower galleries, smoke in the tunnels. Poisonous gases and heat and explosions, collapsing homes and escape routes caving in. Cracking stone, screams, a metropolis darkening under the roars of a demon from the deep. The king does not need to see to know what is happening to Khazad-dûm. The miners and soldiers are blocking off the tunnels from the mithril mines into the populous heart of the great city, trying to seal the air locks to hold off the noxious fumes that are asphyxiating his people, trying to fight a monster made of flame and shadow. Durin’s people need time to flee to safety, and the universe has been overturned, for safety used to mean deep underground. His civilians, his few mothers and children, the most precious jewels of the Dwarves, need time to reach the uppermost levels and gather supplies to survive a possible exodus through hazardous lands. If the locks cannot hold, if the Balrog makes it from the deep mines into the wide thoroughfares, Khazad-dûm is doomed.

They need their king to lead them. Durin gives his son Náin a final set of instructions, the plans to divert the aqueducts and flood the lower levels in a deluge that shall hopefully defeat the demon of flame if all else fails. Minor versions of similar plans for smaller emergencies, gas leaks and caves-ins, orc invasions, have long been on file. For several hours Durin has conferred with his son over the strongest locations in the mountains to hold out for a final siege and concurred with Nain’s proposals on how to best adapt the emergency procedures. Nain’s face beneath the raised visor of his helm is pinched with worry, but Durin has faith in his son’s capabilities. Gruffly, he reassures his son a final time on the soundness of their plan, one Nain still clearly believes should be his father’s duty as king to lead. After initial arguments, when it became clear changing the courses of aqueducts would be easier than changing the will of his father, Nain has not disputed Durin’s intentions to join the soldiers in the lower galleries. His son knows an unbeatable fight when he faces it.

Durin dons his golden helm and face-mask and heads for the door. The guards open it to someone Durin expected to have long retreated with Nain’s wife and barely-adult son. Nain only nods briefly in respect to the new arrival. There is a flash of what might be guilt in his son’s eyes, for it is obvious Nain knows why this person is present in the Chamber of Mazarbul instead of safely guarded near the surface levels. A suspicious corner of Durin’s mind wonders if the search through the records of the city layouts has been orchestrated so this new arrival would have time to sneak back into the Seventh Level and confront Durin. Has Nain recruited the only person his son hopes could persuade Durin away from what they both know is a sacrificial last stand? He glares at his son instead of his guardsmen. The king is not surprised that his guards defer to this person, however much he might wish otherwise. No door in Khazad-dûm is barred to him. The arrival blocking the doorway is someone most precious to Durin and his people, someone who has been a heart-companion during the many repetitions of Durin’s life. The tallest person in the room, with the shortest beard, he kneels down before Durin arrayed in a coat of silver mithril. He is holding what Durin at first mistakes for a slender pole-arm. Durin frowns and commands, “You should be with the other lore-masters and master-craftsmen. You are too valuable to lose.”

Precious barely begins to describe the feelings the dwarves of Khazad-dûm feel for this one. The only non-dwarf in Khazad-dûm, the one to give the dwarves the first letters in which to preserve their history, he has rejected all names but those the dwarves have given him, and the name that Durin’s people call him is Preserver of History. The truly deathless one, the Preserver of History remembers Durin II, having lived with that king during the end of the First Age and into the Second. He is the one who would recognize when Durin returned to his people with each rebirth, proclaiming the news to eager mothers and lore-masters. Those sad grey eyes of his eternal faithful friend, the first Durin can remember meeting upon this earth, lock gazes with his king once more. Stubborn as any dwarf, his heart-friend.

“You should not be arrayed in armor,” Durin says more forcefully. “You are not a warrior.”

“You will not send me from your side,” Daeron answers. “I will not abandon my home or king to destruction.”

“You will!” Durin growls. “You will not survive against a Balrog, you fool elf!”

Some of the shocked gasps from others in the room might have been at the acknowledgement that Daeron, Durin’s Treasure and Preserver of History, was an elf. It was a tactfully ignored truth. They knew the lore-keeper had once held a similar exalted position among the elves. However Daeron has lived so long among the dwarves of Khazad-dûm, sharing in their familiar pains, delighting in their joys, attending loyally to their king, and hiding from his former people even during the time friendship with Eregion blossomed, that they forget it had not been Mahal’s hands that shaped him. Durin II had welcomed Daeron into his home, cloistered him deep within the heart of the mountain, and over time taught him the secrets of the dwarves. Each year Daeron’s wistfulness for long-gone forests and heartbreak for a long-dead unrequited desire had lessened under the admiration and affection from the people of Khazad-dûm and the closeness of their king. The dwarves understood such heartbreak and how to heal it. Daeron had been appreciated in his first underground home, highly respected by its rulers, but Durin knows the nostalgia Daeron feels nowadays lingers solely inside these halls, for these caverns above the Kheled-zâram. For centuries only Khuzdul has passed through the elf’s lips. His songs are lullabies to sing to dwarven children. The stars he praises are the reflections from the Mirrormere. The lore he gathers and shares comes from the wisdom found here in Mazarbul. Daeron’s skill as a craftsman of wood is equal to Narvi’s with stone, or any other of the great artists of Khazad-dûm. His patience and willingness to teach that skill is even more rare and valued. Nain’s son learned to carve wooden marvels, form his letters, and play the harp on the lap of his grandfather’s heart-friend. Durin does not wish Nain’s grandson to grow never knowing of Khazad-dûm’s most treasured secret.

The rest of the astonished cries come from how Daeron has not budged, staring like an unmoved cat in defiance to his king. Durin cannot push him aside, so he moves to divert around him as one does when tunneling and faced with stone too onerous to chip through. Daeron grasps his king’s hand and turns Durin to face him once more. Grey eyes impede him.

“I will go with you, to death this time, so be it! And here is my weapon, my king, to wield in service of you and our people. Song has defeated the enemy’s monsters before. If mine is still the greatest voice to ever grace this world, then its greatest use will be to sing enchantments to ensnare this demon in the depths, perhaps to lure it back to slumber for as long as my power holds. Enough time to buy our children a chance for safety.”

Durin weeps into his beard as Daeron reverently kisses the crown of the helm, then kneels even lower to pull Durin’s gauntleted hand to his lips and then to caress the side of his face. “We go together this time.” Daeron whispers.

---

The only satisfactory answer to what happened to Daeron, the world's greatest singer and creator of the Cirth as well as an accomplished lore-master and artisan, was that he went to live among the dwarves. Extrapolate from there, having a deathless Daeron as the secret and valued guest of a king that repeatedly reincarnates (and some interesting alignment of dates about the line of Durins once this hypothesis is considered), and one creates a deep abiding relationship tinged with angst. Especially when one considers the power of song in Tolkien's universe and wonders how and why the Balrog never ventured beyond the gates of Moria for five hundred years. So here's the fic I promised to write based off those head-canons.

Nain I holds out against the Balrog for a year after his father's death before dying, at which point his son, Thráin I, becomes king and leads the survivors from Khazad-dûm wandering until they formed the Kingdom under the Mountain at Erebor.

And Borte Did Gather Her People

"What Happened to the people of Bór after the Nirnaeth Arneodiad - Please Tell Us This Time."

---

And before the Sun had fallen far from the noon out of the West there came a Great Eagle flying, and he bore tidings dire.^[1] His great voice was harsh and unpleasant as it echoed down to the plains of Thargelion, smoke and ash trailing off his feathers. The people in the land below the lake of Helevorn knew the Eagle came from the battlefields to the far north where still they could see dark smoke and smell foulness on the wind. And they knew that the Fifth Battle of Beleriand was over, and it was not victorious for some.

A small woman stood outside a large yurt that had the most beautiful and colorful decorations in this large and well-ordered camp. Her face was lined with age, but her stance was straight, and her thick, glossy black hair held only two strands of silver. A crown of gold-plated bronze inset with many red stones and gems shone brightly above her sloping brow, and anyone that looked upon her would know she was a princely woman of high status and regard. Her upturned face watched the Great Eagle circle above the camp of her people and proclaim dark words, tidings that she had already guessed at within the unease of her heart.

“Sing not and lament,” the Great Eagle of the Sky King instructed them, “for the Armies of Angband have prevailed, and slain or scattered are all the hosts of the High King of the Noldor. Sing not and lament, for it is time to weep tears unnumbered for your dead, by the Treachery of Men were they betrayed, surviving people of the Faithful Bór.”

The wife of Bór, mother of his three sons who had led their warriors under the red banners of the Noldor host to besiege Angband, keeper of the tents and leader of her people when the warriors were away, watched the Great Eagle circle her camp once more. Long she stared at the brilliant blue of the sky, at the whiteness of the clouds, at the still smoldering feathers falling from the injured eagle. Then the Lady of the Bór closed her eyes to weep, and all around her the people joined her cries of grief.

To their voices joined the mournful howling of the mighty hounds that guarded their herds and homes, and the cries of the hounds unsettled the horses and white-grey cattle. Great clouds of dust rose around the settlement, drifting into the bright blue sky, the sight accompanied by the sound of sorrow of women, children, and the old.

Then the Lady of the Bór stood from where she had knelt weeping and wrenching the grass. She removed the golden band from her head and carefully undid the many braids of her long thick hair. She pulled off the outermost coat of her garments, tossed aside the red coat with its many fine beads and golden embroidery, and stood clad only in the innermost white tunic and pants. Her people cried to see her new display of grief. Then she turned back and went into her tent.

Inside her tent the Lady of the People of Bór waited for yet more dire news, knowing she would never more see her sons, knowing that the Great Eagle had been but a kind forewarning by the King of the Great Blue Sky. She wept because she knew that she had little time before such weeping would be a luxury.

An ill omen it had proven, that her husband the Great Soul had died before the muster of troops - though it had been a peaceful passing in his sleep. Bór of the Great Soul, wise and strong and respected throughout the homelands of the Folk, had been greatly mourned by his people and the allied tribes. Even Ulfang had sent mourners to the death of his rival, and one of his sons had spoken sweet words during the funeral. The funeral songs had been sung long into the nights, new songs composed with each retelling of Bór’s wisdom and generosity, cunning and wealth. The sons of Bór had wet their own scarred cheeks with many tears of grief, but Borte had begged her people to not allow their sorrow to overshadow them. She demanded her sons lead their warriors to battle as their father would wish, so that he would smile down on them from the Great Blue Sky to see them defeat the evil Dark King. Borte’s sons, joyful Borlad and cautious Borlach and Borthand who could compose sweet and clever poetry, marshaled the cavalry of the Folk and rode away with horse and bow and sword to the army of the Bright Ones. Under the elven lords, the ones with too-bright eyes named Maglor and Maedhros, did her sons and their people fight, according to the oaths of loyalty first proclaimed by Bór that fateful night that the Great Soul decided that the offer of the elves in the lands west of the mountains was better than the tyranny known under the Dark King. Borte’s sons had dried the weeping from their eyes and left her with promises of glory and honor. The black horsehair of their war-standard had floated in the breeze as her sons and their warriors rode away.

No riders would be returning.

"Grandmother," a young girl whispered, kneeling beside the much older woman, "Grandmother, they call for you. Someone approaches from the river-side direction. Grandmother, I am afraid."

( Read more... )

Revenant

During the War of Wrath, one of the survivors of the people of Bór must deal with the enemy who occupy Dor-lómin. Another peak into the fates of some overlooked Easterlings.

Yet again Bledda has an unexpected encounter.

---

Bledda was given the task of interrogating the captured Easterling warriors. Of the nine men guarding the outcrop above the stream that stood between the next Easterling plantation and Bledda's platoon, two had been killed outright and the rest captured. The vanquished enemies were removed of all weapons, bound hand and foot, and tied sitting with their backs against the four picket posts for horses. The captured warriors were too old, too young, or judging by the second man killed, too ill-recovered from some past injury as to be deemed useful by the warlords that ruled Dor-lómin for more important army posts. Had the goal not been to completely liberate all the people of long-subjugated Dor-lómin and remove any spies that could report back to the Enemy where and when the Army of the Valar was advancing, the elves might have bypassed the tiny watch-camp. As it were, the battle lasted only a third of the time it took to gather and bind the prisoners. Sending these prisoners to where they could be contained until the war was over would take even longer. Right now they were Bledda's problem.

As the elven scouts now knew what to expect in the immediate area, concerns with extracting information from the captured Easterlings factored less than explaining what their fate would be to the prisoners. The leaders of the great elven army from across the sea wished to save as many people from war-torn and sinking Beleriand, and the Valar in their infinite wisdom included former Easterling soldiers and slave masters in their assessment of who was to be saved. Bledda's feelings on the wisdom of that were ambivalent, and of their treatment. Elves were nothing like orcs; there would be no torture. That was the hardest part of Bledda's task, to convince the Easterling prisoners that they would not face what Bledda would have faced had their positions been reversed. This overgenerous mercy was not without limit. Any orcs that the elves came across in these dry foothills would be slain outright, but any surviving thralls were freed and sent to the Edain refugee camps with what rations could be spared. This empty corner of Dor-lómin held few surprises anymore after a week of scouting, and it was too remote and unimportant for orcs, but there were still enemy soldiers to be dealt with. This task of dealing with the prisoners was shoved onto Bledda, even though the elves or their Maia companion, an unnaturally large hawk perched on the captain's shoulder, could read minds and intentions.

The elven soldiers downplayed their mental abilities, and the avian Maia said it was only present for communication back to the front lines. Bledda had a strong working knowledge of the powers and limitations of elven magic. A year now he had been working with the Tenth Mountain Platoon, a company of golden-haired elves from across the sea who volunteered as one of the preliminary divisions to climb over the mountains into Dor-lómin. It was a decision Bledda did not regret, as he admired and liked the captain and the rest of the elves, and he desired above all to rescue the world from the Enemy. Still, learning to work with the elves from across the sea had not been initially easy. Mountaineering skills had been slow to learn, and Bledda had little proficiency with the elves' long spears. How the Maia who attached himself to the platoon was only visible sometimes as a talking wren or hawk or even just a hazy cloud of heat shimmers took Bledda a week before he no longer screeched in alarm when the Maia appeared. Fighting orcs alongside these elves took some adjustment, but not as much as how the golden-haired elves gave orders. Bledda grew used to commands sent via thought. Disorienting at first, it had the advantage of not carrying across the high passes and alpine gorges. And during the initial months when Bledda struggled to learn back-country Quendya, which even the captain admitted was a dialect strange and rustic to that of Valmar, their communication depended on the ease through which thoughts could dilute barriers, as the elves were also in the process of learning Sindarin and as many of the Mannish tongues as Bledda could speak. Nowadays the elves spoke the languages of Beleriand even among themselves. Still, the elves could not read minds easily or without invitation, and Bledda was the only one with a vocabulary over hundred when it came to the language of the Easterling tribes in cold and stony Dor-lómin. One of the languages, at least, for Bledda was of the Bór, one of its last descendants, and the people that conquered Dor-lómin were of Ulfang and his allied tribes. But the mortal was here, and he was the one sent to inform the newly captured prisoners of their fate. Grumbling about lazy elves and lazier Maia who liked to pretend to be a bird but never one useful like a Great Eagle, and how a translator wasn’t as necessary as they assured, Bledda stomped over to the pickets.

Bledda knew the real reason he was sent to parlay with any captured Easterlings was because he was the lone mortal present -if one did not count his wife Rúth, who waited back in camp copying and updating maps to send back to the regular divisions with their messenger Maia. Moreover, he looked superficially like the captured Easterling warriors, and the elves felt he was less intimidating of a face. The captured human warriors all flinched from the bright eyes of the elves, but looked upon Bledda with confusion and scorn. They called him traitor, when they addressed him at all.

The Easterling warriors captured after battle did not understand who Bledda was or why he sided with the elves. Perhaps if he had a yellow beard or carried a great ax, they would know him as an Edain warrior. Bledda knew he would never be mistaken for one of the three tribes of the Edain, not even of the Bëor. He was Easterling- and not. The prisoners knew he was not one of theirs; Bledda could see it in the calculation of their eyes as they noticed the small ways in which he was as foreign to Dor-lómin as the elves from across the sea. Bledda was smooth-cheeked, wore his hair in two plaits, fastened his tunic on the wrong side, had the wrong style of knife tucked into his belt, and wore loose trousers tucked into boots that did not turn up at the toe. He stuttered through unfamiliar names and did not know the location of each homestead. He would ask, halting over loan words and obsolete terms, who was aligned to which banner. Worst of all, he glanced up when he swore by the Great Blue Sky. The oldest of the prisoners would catch on, would smirk and use another word for traitor, for lost tribe, would spat the word for Bór.

They noticed the vulture alongside the eagle on Bledda’s belt and embossed on the heirloom barding of his horse. Bledda wanted them to. He regretted that he did not have the war banner that belonged to his ancestors, or he would have flown the forgotten emblem of Bór beneath the white and gold of the elves. But the red and gold birds and the black horsehair were lost in the Fifth Battle.

Bledda stood in front of the bound prisoners and let his indignation and pride overwhelm the sensation that whispered he was a fraud. The old stories spoke of changeling children, poor substitutes created by either elven magic or the Enemy's shape-shifters pretending to be men, ghosts walking among the living to lead warriors into traps. Bledda knew which side the guilt should be felt. He would feel not lesser than men that served alongside orcs and had tried to wipe out his people.

One of the older prisoners this time, a bandy-legged man who did not fight when the elven platoon overpowered the Easterling sentry camp, laughed when Bledda began his speech pre-written by the captain. Only two sentences into those worn statements of where the prisoners would be sent was honestly further into the diatribe than the young man expected. Bledda had not even reached the promises of fair treatment and food, deserved or not, for he had seen of what was done to the conquered people of Dor-lómin and how the orcs and wargs roamed free. “You are a ghost,” the old man said, and Bledda grimaced. He expected this, once the prisoners noticed the vulture. The Bór should have been exterminated, according to Uldor’s men. The prisoners looked upon Bledda’s golden vulture as a corpse raised and walking, an unnatural betrayal of death. That he or any tribesman of Bór lived at all was somehow worse than the young man's decision to follow elven soldiers.

“Aye,” Bledda sighed, weary and angry and tired of being judged by cruel and defeated men, “I am Bledda, son of Ernath, of the People of Bór.”

“Son of Kreka,” said the old man.

Bledda stopped cold. “How do you know that name, old man? I was born a long way from here. I have never served your wretched master, nor my mother, and she has never stepped foot in this land.”

The old man smiled, smug or fond or wistful, Bledda could not tell. The other prisoners stared at the old man in similar confusion. “Bledda, son of Kreka, daughter of Marti, the daughter of Borthand, the son of Bór." Names rolled off the old man's tongue with graceful ease. "Bór of the Great Soul,” the old man said with a reverence which astonished everyone, spoken the way Bledda's mother spoke of their ancestor or the way the elves would call out the name of the Star-kindler. “I know your mother, knew her very well. I knew you, little Bledda. Or at least those giant ears. Ernath was many things, but never as good a listener as you’d think he should have been with such ears,” laughed the old man, as all the other prisoners inched away as much as the limits of their bonds allowed. Bledda thought once more of the stories of changelings, of ghosts walking once more among men. “I am Ruga, son of Roas. Elder brother of Kreka. Your uncle.”

---

Ever since I mentioned Kreka's brother in the very first story about the survivors of the people of Bór, I knew I wanted to go back and answer what happened to him (it involved this reunion and the Middle-earth equivalent of the Underground Railroad).
The Tenth Mountain Platoon is another bunch of mostly Vanyar OCs, including their fussy captain, who someday I'll write out the whole story, a good deal of which would involve Bortë, the First Queen of Numenor, as the regiment's collective adopted niece. (For those tracking the ASoIaF fusion characters, he's Lissë's son).
At least some Vanyar spoke a more archaic form of Quenya (Quendya).

tumblr cross-post: Elwing Defense (May 2013)

Here was one of my very first tumblr posts when I stopped lurking in the Silmarillion fandom:

Y’all, because I’m new to expressing online my fandom opinions, I’m trying to wait a while until I start talking about certain characters.

Because a lot of what I feel I’ve discovered seems to run counter to what the majority of opinion I come across. But it’s hard. I’m biting my tongue and waiting for when I plan on mentioning it where I think the appropriate time to ease into it.

However- I will say this- I was always sympathetic to Elwing and don’t criticize her for leaping off the cliff with the bloody Silmaril.

I feel fans that like her are few and far. And a lot of my feelings has to do with my biases, which are pretty strong. I’m trying to save my thoughts on the Fëanorians because frankly I’m tired of how they dominate discussions. I know my opinions veer towards being diametrically opposed to the norm- I think I’m the only one who blew them off as the most BORING of the Noldor. And that my personal feelings/head-canon for them is much harsher and far lacking in sympathy, so those that do like them, I apologize now and warn you away from any of my posts that I’ll tag “Fëanor the village idiot”.

But I always thought Elwing with the Silmaril was doing one of two things- keeping it away from people who no longer deserved it (Ho boy, here comes the retaliation. Engage Girdle.) and as the trick mother birds do when a predator comes close to the nest. I always thought she was trying to lead Maedhros and Maglor away from her sons and the rest of her settlement with the only thing that they cared about. Because they proved again and again that people’s lives meant nothing compared to the Silmaril.

My problem with Elwing’s decision is that try as I might, I still don’t get why the Silmarils were so great. As the Plot MacGuffin I understand, and the symbolic holy nature of light and the Two Trees, but I’m not convinced why everyone in Valinor were so obsessed with them. I agree with the idea that they were more than just shiny stones, that there must have a seemingly living quality to them. Because if not then the trouble over them is made even more moot. Yet the Sampo, with non-answer of what it is, works better for me as plot coupon for an epic. Personal impressions. If it wasn’t for the words “break” the Silmarils, I could almost see them as artifical, imperfect seeds for the Two Trees, which ties into what Fëanor was trying to do by preserving some of their light.

(And yes, the way the refugees at Sirion latched onto the gem as a talisman of good fortune and holy blessing bugs me- but because of the talisman they chose, not their feelings. Then again, Varda did hallow them, so some of her power might have helped…)

So yeah, so much for avoiding the minefields early.

tumblr cross-post: 2013 - Mini-rants that culminated in 'Napoleon Trolls the Noldor'

( I snark for a few paragraphs on where my suspension of belief falls apart in The Silmarillion and it has everything to do with the Noldor success )

Neighborhood Watch

Finrod frets while helping the people of Bëor settle Estolad. He desires a safe home for his new friends (and some elves are safer neighbors than others).

---

Finrod tells Balan it is not wise, is not entirely safe, to stay in Ossiriand. He cites the complaints of the Green Elves, their worries and unhappiness. Better to move to an uninhabited area, one with room for crops and houses, he advises Balan. On the other side of the River Gelion the cleared plains next to the Forest of Region south of Nan Elmoth are well-suited for farmland. The lands are claimed by Amras and Amrod, but the two are rarely present, preferring to hunt to the south on the opposite side of the river, away from the trees patrolled by Doriath’s March-wardens. Everything but the pleasures of the hunt are beneath their notice, and Balan’s people have nothing the two sons of Fëanor would value.

The March-wardens and the Girdle figure heavily in Finrod’s calculations, for he has conversed long with Beleg and Mablung, who think highly of him, and with his sister’s beloved, Celeborn, and his brother. As long as Finrod vouches for these new arrivals, keeps peace with the Laegrim and King Thingol, and the newcomers do not try to trespass into the Girdle itself with their axes and ignorance (the rangers trust the power of Melian to stop any intruder, but in truth they tell Finrod that they fear more a misunderstanding between a human and one of the Ents that travel through these woods. The Ents are very touchy on the subject of axes), then the Marchwardens of Doriath with offer their own silent protection to this encampment of men. Their flanks will be guarded by the silent shadows in the trees, but left alone.

Mablung takes one look at the collection of tents and campfires, grunts, and asks if the humans need better spears and axes, for the armories of Menegroth are full with old dwarf-work. The warriors that once wielded the weapons died south of here, near a lonely hill. Mablung won’t even charge a price; better to let the humans clean the rust from the blades. Less chance of King Thingol hearing about the trade, and it is all in the name of safer borders anyway. Beleg thinks the humans are cute, far cuter than the dwarves that Prince Eöl found (“Haven’t heard from him in a century or two. Might send a messenger up to his place since we’re in the area. Not that we care to talk with him, or him to us. Maybe I’ll choose a messenger by drawing straws, or pick the greenest recruit. You wouldn’t want to go talk to him, Prince Finrod? You’re very good at talking with people, and you have a friendship with the dwarves in common. Wait, you are technically Noldor; I forget that. I'm so used to thinking of you as the King’s nephew. Never mind.”). Celeborn offers a few horses, and seed for crops that will grow in the soil of Estolad, which Finrod and Balan’s family thank him profusely. Balan and his sons tell the silver-haired elf that the boats lent to help with crossing of the River Gelion were more than enough assistance, but Celeborn waves off their gratitude with stuttered repetitions of how he was glad to help them as he may and please stop thanking him before he blushes red with embarrassment. If he glows any brighter, Galadriel will never let him live this down. Cryptically she tells her fiancee to become accustomed to this, eyes distant with foresight. Celeborn's brother, Galathil, repeats the grievances of the Green Elves and takes no interest more.

Most of all Finrod does not say the words he heard Fëanor spew and his sons repeat, of how the Aftercomers would defraud them of their rightful kingdoms of Middle-earth, none would oust them, that they would refuse to share power, lordship, bliss, beauty, and light with anyone outside themselves, least of all the mortals unknown. Finrod knows these mortals, and he wishes to share everything with them. He regrets that he cannot give all beauty and bliss to Balan and his people. He told Balan he was not Oromë, insisted to the mortals that he was but another elf, though dressed unlike the ones the human knew from the other side of the mountains, and not a Power. Never more clearly does Finrod understand the Valar, though, in this fierce and protective need to provide the people he loves with the same privileges his people were afforded. He tells the foreboding in his heart that his fears are unfounded. His cousins will never attack another settlement. Finrod clings to the condolences of Mereth Aderthad and the vows of forgiveness. Balan’s people need good neighbors, safe neighbors - ‘better neighbors than Alqualondë had’, he thinks and flinches and vows not to be Angrod. It is not his fault that the mortals have arrived to an unsafe land, that he had to break their hopes of a home free from Morgoth. But Finrod plans walls and palisades to encircle the houses constructed in Estolad, speaks of the benefits of alliances to his brothers and the kings Thingol and Fingolfin, questions Balan on how he kept his people safe during his journey and what more can be done. Most of all Finrod remembers the unspeakable hardship of Helcaraxë, too great for even elven bodies to endure, impossible for weak mortals to cross. If only... Only a few months he has known Balan and his people, and Finrod wishes he was strong enough to endure the loss of their friendship, the uncertainty of knowing their fate. Balan eyes him with a wisdom Finrod has seen only in Círdan and Ingwë and tells the elf lord that Finrod’s task is not to protect the humans from all ills and dangers. Not even the Powers, of which Finrod has shared with Balan their true names, could accomplish that. His friendship is gift enough.The opportunity that Estolad offers his people is hope and gift enough.

---

The House of Bëor and their Nóm are one of the best and inspiring multi-generational friendships. This is inspired by Ch. 17 "Of the Coming of Men into the West".

I am directly paraphrasing from the other passage that inspired this quote: "for [Fëanor] echoed the lies of Melkor, that the Valar had cozened them and would hold them captive so that Men might rule in Middle-earth. ... "We and we alone shall be the lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and the beauty of Arda! No other race shall oust us!" " (Silmarillion 89-90)

I firmly believe one of the reasons the Third Kin-slaying is accounted the cruelest is because half if not a majority of those slain would have been mortals, so aside from how heinous the attack was and how few survivors were left, that is one of the only confirmed times when elves are killing Edain - or indeed any humans not directly allied and fighting on the side of Morgoth and Sauron.

Celeborn’s part is a direct allusion to ‘Farewell to Lórien’ in FotR.

I Try To Make The Rurouni Wander Through Middle-Earth

Okay, so me and creating fusion crossovers with The Silmarillion, of adapting and dumping my favorite characters for other stories in the Silm?

Well, as much as I wanted to I couldn’t think of how to integrate Rurouni Kenshin with a premise that sat well with me. The core of the story is a pacifistic red-haired warrior wandering after a civil war in an era that promises new peace, atoning for the violence of his past via a personal vow to no longer kill and to fully live his ideals of helping others. This warrior is accepted in by an orphan girl who fights and tries to uphold her family honor and ideals of peace and protecting others. Add to this makeshift family the brash orphan street kid who wants to learn to be strong, the tough brawler with an easy humor and a heavy resentment of the current government because of betrayed promises. The doctor who was forced to make drugs because she fell in -against her will- with a crime boss and who also wants to find her missing family and repent for her crimes. The antagonists from the other side of the war that become friends and allies. These characters I love and know so well.

And not even toying with the Exilic Noldor was pleasing me or finding a fit for a good fusion story.

But then, it hit me- they don’t work for me as inserts into The Silmarillion- but for the Third Age I can see a spot for the Kenshingumi.

Namely, the Kin-strife of Gondor.

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