Heget's Blatherings

Andreth steps outside the door of her nephew’s house, the grand building that had once been home of her brother and her father and their father before them, so lovingly crafted and its wood worn smooth by time and care. Her fingers wish to linger on the door-latch for a moment, but she does not hesitate to walk further into the light. She does not hear the door close behind her, or any sounds from inside the house. It is dawn, and the reddish orange of the sky looks so warm and comforting. She does not understand how it can, because the fiery glow engulfs the entire skyline and casts its hue over everything she sees, and she should be frightened, should be thinking of the flames that destroyed her world only a few days ago, but she doesn’t. She has forgotten the northern fires.

Andreth walks out from the shadow of the eaves, hugging her green cloak around her shoulders, staring out at the field stretched out before the house. From this angle she cannot see the other houses of the village nor the smithy, mill, or any of the barns, not even the fence-lines. Only a field of green grain, waist-high with summer promise, and a figure standing in the field with his back to her. The dawn silhouettes him, and Andreth knows the lines of his shoulders. He is leaning over to run a hand over the barley, and as a breeze lifts at her unbound hair, Andreth begins to smile in recognition and joy. He is not wearing armor, only a soft woven tunic of the very sort of plaid woolen cloth that has come from her looms, and there is no sword or quiver belted at his waist. He is free of tension, at peace, and that alone would make Andreth weep. Sunlight turns the curls of his hair into pure gold. It is still silent. Andreth walks out into the field, the dew soaking through the thin leather of her shoes and collecting on the hem of her green cloak. The man in the field straightens and turns to face her over his shoulder, smiling.

Aegnor speaks to her, and at first Andreth doesn’t understand. Something about a ring, and she looks down at her hand, where a silver band wraps around her finger. An elven proposal of marriage custom, she remembers it being explained to her, silver for intention to wed, but does not recall if it was Finrod or Aegnor himself who had told her, and it does not make sense. He had never proposed to her, no matter how she had dreamed he had. But he is looking at her with such certainty and love, framed by the orange dawn. Andreth stares at the cold circle of silver, and suddenly the light has cooled and she feels cold. She remembers the texture of ash and dirt in her hands, digging through the aftermath of a battlefield. She remembers burials, and wakes.

Andreth is in her ancestral home, but her bed is cold. The fire in the hearth is gone, and as she stretches out her hand, she can feel the piece of metal from her dream. It is a piece of chain-mail from a shattered and burnt suit of elven mail, one of the larger rings that she had dug out from the pile of charred bones. She runs a finger over the metal and wishes she was back in her dream.

This piece could be considered the other half of a ditypch with Grief is an Undertow.

“Great was the sorrow of Eärendil and Elwing for the ruin of the havens of Sirion, and the captivity of their sons, and they feared that they would be slain; but it was not so.” [Silm 297]

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Her husband pulls out the shard of sun-stone, notching more lines in the railings of the ship, murmurs into the breeze soft words of heading and degrees into the wind, and wishes for charts of currents. He prays for winds, directions, fish for their hooks, and the provisions of fruit to last. He prays for the Valar, that their faithful ship shall finally reach them, this ship of which Elwing has learned each plank and tar-slick rope by memory of touch. Eärendil hopes to meet the Valar.
Elwing is only interested in one.
The Judge holds all of her family - with the lone exception of her husband beside her- in his Halls. Elwing’s memory can clearly recall each length of this ship, the sound of Vingilot’s sails snapping, the rush of foam as its prow slices through the waves. She can barely recall the sound of her mother’s voice, or her father’s face, or the feeling of her sons. In Mandos’s Halls are her father Dior and mother Nimloth. Her older brothers will be there, no longer lost, no longer forcibly and cruelly separated from family. In the Halls of the Judge Eluréd sits next to Elurin, holding her sons in their arms. Elwing prays her sons have found their uncles with whom they shared the same sweet smiles and now unfortunately the same cruel fate. Her brothers will bring smiles back to the faces of Elros and Elrond, hold them tight to banish any night terrors. Her grandfather Galathil will be there, and his parents who died before the Moon rose, and their kin. Together they shall buoy the spirits of their descendants, share the stories and laughter that they could not in life. King Thingol will be there, her great-grandfather Elu who held her as an infant and declared even as an infant she was as beautiful as Melian and would grow to be as wise and strong. Melian’s grief she has inherited, perhaps, and Elwing thinks her great-grandmother is the only other Power she hopes to meet, someone of her blood who understands the sorrow and fear and anger of which only the reunions that the Halls provide can heal. Only her grandfather’s brother is not in Mandos. And her father’s parents, though they saw it. Most of her husband’s family are in the Halls as well, the side that is not mortal. Of Eärendil's parents, they know not, and Elwing wonders if they will be found with the vast majority of her family, or if they have journeyed far beyond the stars like Grandmother Lúthien and Grandfather Beren to wherever holds the mortal dead.
Her husband sails for hope, to save the still living. Elwing supports him, holds his hands as they search the horizon, grips his shoulders as he perches from the mast to gauge the position of the stars, and listens to his prayers. But her hope is for the Halls of Mandos that hold her dead, the one place overwhelming with love, her one hope to see her children’s faces again, and her parents and people.

In an alternative universe Aegnor and Andreth do marry. That does not stop the philosophical debates. Or more mundane questions. Where Angrod's worries about his family are a little more prosaic and involve Beleriand's version of baby name books.

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From one of my very old AUs where Aegnor and Andreth do marry and have a daughter. But everything still is not happy rainbows, because there's no convenient proclamation from Eönwë on the very serious divide of elven souls, which bound with 100% certainty to Arda, zero ambiguity about eternity and afterlife, versus the mortal ones that do have all that ambiguity and permanent separation after death completely alien to elves. And what does that make their impossible offspring? But this story is about lighter problems than those issues. Eventually.

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It started with a question which should have been harmless. Everyone had already exhausted all the thorny or offensive or just plain unanswerable questions like why Aegnor married a mortal and was that even possible or ethical or physically possible. The last question turned Angrod’s brother a very bright red, though his new sister-in-law, Andreth, only gave him a look that could have turned Tarn Aeliun into a dry valley. No, neither of them had any idea if their souls would have a chance to stay together after Andreth’s inevitable demise, or if Aegnor was doomed to a widowhood that not even Grandfather Finwë had faced. Having his prudent advice ignored, their big brother Finrod down in Nargothrond was now writing letters to all the Wise-women of the three Edain tribes and the philosophers among the Eldar (which consisted mostly of Finrod himself, two advisers of Thingol, and one loremaster living with Fingolfin - the majority of the Noldor either uninterested in esoteric questions of soul, especially strange mortal ones, or had stayed behind in Aman to begin with) to bring together in a colloquy to discuss the impact of the first marriage of immortal to mortal and what were any possible changes or transfers in the nature of their bodies and souls. The philosophers were still struggling with the definition of a soul that appeased everyone, immortal and mortal, before moving onto the thorny questions concerning the union of them. “Or you could come up and visit,” Aegnor had said, though the idea of becoming his brother’s newest focus of heavy scholastic observation was not thrilling. Finrod still had not been convinced this marriage was not a disaster waiting to happen, but he kept those reservations private. The belated wedding gift to Aegnor and Andreth had been accompanied by a note scolding them for the lack of invitation, which Angrod found a little 'closing the barn door after the horses', to quote Belegor. And it wasn't as if Angrod had been present to fulfill the role of father-of-groom either, as Aegnor had delivered the news fait accompli with Andreth in tow. But Finrod pointedly declared his support of the union with a gift. Publicly he was loudly and enthusiastically supportive. He had even shouted down their half-cousins for implying Andreth, as a mortal, was as beneath a prince of the House of Finwë as one’s horse and bordering on bestiality to begin with. Sensitive on behalf of the Edain in general, that insult to mortals, the House of Bëor, House of Finarfin, and his baby brother and favorite sister-in-law had goaded Finrod to not only shouting but nearly throwing nearby objects. Angrod had been very proud.

Andreth’s side of the family, Boromir of Ladros and his kin, had their own set of reservations about their eldest daughter marrying one of their elven liege lords without telling anyone, but the fuss they made was much quieter. Funnily enough, the most awkward part, after Beril screamed at her sister for daring to do this (elopement with an elf) without informing her at all, was Lord Boromir addressing Aegnor as ‘Son’ with an uncomfortable grimace. Aegnor was delighted and had immediately taken to calling the old Bëorian lord ‘Father’.

Secretly, Angrod wondered if this whole mess should have been a surprise, for Aegnor had assimilated to the Bëorians in Ladros more rapidly than their sister had to Doriath. Every morning Angrod checked his brother for sign of stubble on his cheek or gray hairs, for that was the inevitable next step after learning the mortal tongue, drinking mortal beer and eating that mortal food dish involving stuffing animal organs with more meat, wearing mortal clothing, staying in mortal halls, and falling in love with a mortal woman.

Everyone was curious to see if Aegnor and Andreth could conceive a child, the disparities of soul and body balanced against similarities, and Finrod’s colloquy by correspondence side-tracked into tangents involving hypothetical marriages between elf and dwarf and mortal men and dwarves and how would those unions work. This led to some questions about Círdan that made Thingol and the other old Sindar howl with laughter, with the eventual consensus reached that conception was impossible. Until of course the morning Andreth announced she was. ( Read more... )

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.

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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).

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.

---

“We need horses,” Prince Fingolfin said, and to which the gathered princes of his host agreed. Some heads nodded more vigorously than others, but no one present at his council refuted his statement. The boost to mobility and size against the orcish army had been well-proved by the cavalry victory of the sons of Fëanor before the moon arose. Novices the Noldor still were to warfare, yet the example of Lord Oromë and Nahar had affixed the righteousness of facing Morgoth's pawns from horseback in their minds even before the return to Beleriand's shores and recent history had die-cast it in lead. Aranwë as acting secretary for the council meeting recorded the lack of horses at the top of a priority list, above the need to locate good iron ore and stone to build strong fortifications. Plans to rectify their need remained unwritten.

Only the sons of Fëanor and their followers possessed any horses, for they had transported the animals aboard the stolen Swan-ships. It had proven impossible to herd any creature across the frozen darkness of the ice desert, and the followers of Fingolfin and Finrod had not attempted to do so. Nor had they any horses or other beasts of burden remaining in their possession to attempt to take with them across the Helcaraxë after Fëanor had betrayed the host by taking the fleet and then abandoning them. Fëanor and his followers had loaded all the animals that the Noldor had the foresight to bring in that hurried flight onto the largest of the Swan-ships before he disembarked in secret. "They would have stolen the chickens, had we brought them," Egalmoth said, a joke that Aranwë and Ecthelion often repeated.

To his best friend, Turgon privately confided that his brother Fingon was as wroth at the theft of his beloved steed as to the general betrayal at Losgar. Finrod believed it, for he had taken part in drafting and revising the proposals for possible reconciliation that Fingolfin sent to Maglor after learning of what had transpired before their arrival. At the top of the list of demands was the return of Fingolfin and Fingon’s horses. Finrod's personal missives to his cousins across the lake were short, sympathetic notes that strongly urged Maglor to submit to their uncle and accept these peace terms. Words of disgust and disappointment had been restricted to unsent first drafts. Quick warnings and reminders to ensure nothing unfortunate happened to Fingolfin and Fingon's horses -and relief that they had not been among those lost to Ossë and Uinen's wrathful retaliation- went above the signature.

Turgon’s personal opinion was that food was a more pressing demand, though he conceded to Finrod that plough animals would greatly increase the production of arable land, and thus horses would be a boon.

The Sindar elves of this new mist-laden land did possess horses, though the animals were few and far between because of the onslaught of the army of Morgoth. Herds of thousands had been slaughtered by the orcs, and most of the surviving animals had been rescued by taking them south into the protection of the Girdle or by fleeing east and then south. The horses and other livestock that the Sindar herdsmen had been able to protect and hide from the orcs were therefore all the more precious and guarded.

In any case, the native horses of Beleriand were smaller creatures than the Noldor were accustomed to, almost uniformly of a black or bay coloration, though some had a lighter dun coat, with sporadic stripes and spots, and universally with a long black stripe down the back. Their heads were large and ungraceful, eyes small and dark, and the manes and tails thick and coarse. Prince Fingon disparagingly likened them to donkeys and asses, yet he was first to entreat the Sindar who still owned horses to allow him to examine the surviving animals and worked tirelessly to assist in their care and tend to lingering wounds. Suspicion of the Noldor prince swiftly faded the longer he spent rubbing salves into festering cuts and asking earnest questions about each animal's temperament and history. Fingon would return to camp late for council meetings with mud caked to his knees and hands smelling of unfamiliar stringent healing herbs. His father did not bring attention to his eldest son's absence from the meetings, and Aranwë only bothered to send copies of the council discussions and recordings to Turgon. No one protested Fingon's lack of involvement, because no one truly desired Fingon's political input or logistical insight. Fingon’s interest back in Valinor had heavily skewed towards all forms of equestrian competition, a passion he had shared with Aunt Lalwen, and no one was better at creating an instant rapport with the animals. Unlike gregarious and charismatic Turgon, his older brother Fingon had always very few friends, and those few but close bonds of friendship had mostly been forged in the paddock fields or as friendly rivalries in the equestrian sports.

Angrod’s wife, Edhellos, had bred and raised horses, selling the finest to the various princes, and the renown of her animals and the smoothness of their specialized gaits had been second only to a rival family that pledged loyalty to the eldest of Finwë's sons back when the political split in Tirion began to widen. Of the horses paddocked in the Fëanorian camp, she had personally bred or trained the majority and could detail the names and pedigrees of the remainder. Edhellos would glared across the lake in the direction of those stolen horses, murmuring dark and vicious words too low for any to hear. Then to quell her hate temporarily she would visit the Sindarin herds, though that had the opposite effect of only inflaming her jealousy. “We need horses,” Angrod said to his older brother, “for my marriage depends on it.”

Finrod enlisted Turgon’s help in conferring with the leaders of the Sindar elves in Nevrast about possible purchases of some of the remaining horses. Sheltered in the marshland around the lake in eastern Nevrast, multiple herds of these smaller gray and white horses -ponies, truly- had survived. The horses of Nevrast were too short to be comfortably ridden by the taller Noldor; Turgon in particular looked comical standing next to one- but for pack animals and pulling farming equipment they would more than suffice. And they were more aesthetically pleasing than the other breeds native to Northern Beleriand, if the princes were honest. Edhellos praised their even temperaments, muttering about the princes' obsession with flashy animals. "A high trot and shiny coat will not do us any good, but trying to fight afoot or furrow a field by hand would be worse. And our options are limited." Finrod began to divvy some of the jewelry he had carried across the Helcaraxë to people he trusted, sister-in-law Edhellos and his childhood friends Edrahil and Heledir chief among them, to bargain for horses under the name of King Fingolfin. Turgon had a strong reputation with the leaders in Nevrast, bolstered by Fingon's rapport with the herdsmen, yet the price per head was steep, and only a few of the horses were willing to be parted with.

"And you thought I was foolish for carting those jewels across the ice," Finrod teased as Heledir trotted a string of mares and yearlings through the Cirith Ninniach from Nevrast into Hithlum, the hoof-beats echoing strangely through the narrow passage above the fast-moving stream.

According to a helpful Sindar herdsman named Annael, yes, the natives of Beleriand did have ‘tall horses’. The King of Beleriand, Elu Thingol, was taller than even Prince Turgon, and needed a refined and spirited mount equal to his stature. There was a royal herd of leopard-spotted destriers, horses as strong and swift as any son of Nahar, but they could not be found north of the Ered Wethrin.

Still the existence across Lake Mithrim of the Valinorean horses, tall and strong and more than a few stolen, tormented those that brooded over them and the necessity of horses in the war effort against Morgoth.

This goaded Heledir to make the suggestion one night to Angell and a few other warriors of his acquaintance that they should cross the lake in secret and rustle horses. The idea was eagerly embraced. Secret plans were made, getaway routes carefully examined, Edhellos consulted and inducted into the conspiracy along with her husband, and rope stockpiled. Her desire was more revenge-motivated than the others, but as Heledir teased, it was better to have her with them than attempt without, and this kept Edhellos from just marching across the lake to scream into Caranthir's face. They debated if more than one raid would be necessary, and how many additional riders to guide the herd along the route. Angell began to evaluate the recruits he was training for willingness to engage in subterfuge and ability to ride the purchased Nevrast ponies. Also firmly debated was the merits of stealing the personal mounts of the sons of Fëanor. Edrahil procured more terrain maps and dissuaded Aranwë from scrutinizing the supply requests. Food for the extra horses was set aside. Angrod promised to cover the conspirators in any political fallout with his elder brother or Prince Fingolfin. The return of prizes like Fingon's Arocco would grant them clemency, they decided. To safeguard the reclaimed horses, the plotters considered the necessity of driving the herd across Hithlum deep into the protected territory of Nevrast. The rustled horses could be easily hidden there, yet such a course of action would necessitate Turgon's involvement. As a compromise, Lady Aredhel was inducted into the conspiracy. Of the other would-be thieves, she was the most enthusiastic and ambitious by far.

Thankfully Fingon returned from his daring rescue of Maedhros, facilitating a more genuine probability of reconciliation between the two Noldor camps and the eventual goodwill gesture of the return of several horses and additional livestock. Thus the raid was unnecessary (and plans detailing its existence denied).

---

"...for from few their horses had increased swiftly, and the grass of Ard-galen was rich and green. Of those horses many of the sires came from Valinor, and they were given to Fingolfin by Maedhros in atonement of his losses, for they had been carried by ship to Losgar." (Chapter 14, The Silmarillion)

Pondering the differences between the native horses of Beleriand and Valinor, I looked to what were the possible original native horses of Europe, giving particular attention to the Tarpan, images of horses found in European cave paintings, and general characteristics of surviving 'primitive' breeds. Most wild horses and those of a recognized 'primitive' type are a dun or mousy gray with a black dorsal stripe and zebra-like leg markings. Ancient European wild horses, being forest dwellers, would have more commonly had coat colors of black or bay to blend in with shadows- something even more necessary for star-dark Beleriand. However, Dalmatian-like leopard spotting was also very common, and this spotted coat, now usually mostly seen in American Appaloosas and Knabstruppers, was more common and prized in the medieval and Baroque periods. And the necessity of a leader on a white horse for visibility would have been even more required in a land with only stars for illumination. Thus Thingol's spotted destriers. Valinorean horses, in contrast, are hot-blooded and high-strung gainted breeds.
Nevrast's ponies around the Lake Linaewen are Camargue horses with the names filled off.
Edhellos, going back to my first Silm fic, has always been a horse breeder and trainer.

Going back to some of the earliest laws recorded among Iron Age Germanic tribes, horse theft was punishable by death and accounted a more serious crime than murder. As per the quote in Chapter 14, the only way to account for the Valinorean horses brought over by the Noldor is via ship. And Fëanor stole the horses for the same reason he embarked on the stolen Swan-ships with only the core of his followers and then torched the ships at Losgar- to deny mobility to others.

 Barahir falls in love with her when they are both ten, and she shows up for beginning lessons on how to hold a shield in a tunic that is too small over a pair of too-big trousers stuffed into the tops of her boots and rolled thrice at the waist as to not fall off her skinny hips. She brings her own shield, painted bright green. Lessons on holding sticks are saved until next month’s instruction, and they must train for at least one full planting season before sticks are exchanged for dull pieces of metal. Barahir doesn’t realize what he feels for Emeldir is love until years later as she holds a green shield above his body to protect him from arrows, his own shield shattered at their feet. “We were taught to use our shield to protect our heart,” she tells him later. “That is exactly what I was doing.”

Barahir sulks off into the woods to find a moss-covered stone to sit on and attempt to compose heartfelt love songs to match the suave poetry of how Emeldir declared her feelings. Eventually he gives up and trudges back to her house, feeling as if he had returned to the awkward days when his beard first grew in. She meets his eyes with the same cool aplomb he envies and admires, and for a second Barahir worries he misunderstood her declaration. “Dagnir is leading a party down into the plains to hunt for enemy spies. You are the first warrior I want by my side,” he tells her. Emeldir nods. Then, before his courage deserts him, Barahir blurts out. “I want to fight by your side.”

Emeldir blinks slowly. “You said that.”

“I mean it! I mean, what I also meant was I want to be by your side. Always. I love you. I think I always have.”

Emeldir thinks he is ridiculous, and stubborn, and oblivious, and beloved.

A quick explanation of a line in this fic- 

Aegnor hands his brother the drinking horn of Edain beer with a hidden grimace, wiping his hand on the tartan wrap across his shoulders, then frowns at the stain on the green and yellow fabric. He goes to ask the matron of the house about adding the garment to the laundry, as it was a gift from Boron’s wife and thus one of the first gifts that Aegnor received from a member of Bëor’s family, holding for him a particular sentimental value.

Angrod hides his own smile and turns to Belegor to inquire after the reason behind this impromptu and boisterous party. The brother of the Lord of Ladros replies in a more than mildly inebriated voice that the engagement between his oldest son and a woman with very annoying and parsimonious parents has been annulled, to which Angrod replies he did not know that -an annulment of engagement- was a cause for a celebration. Belegor laughs, jostling the drinking horn in Angrod’s grip, and says, ‘It would be if you knew these potential in-laws!“

At this point Aegnor returns to interrupt the conversation with an even more pained expression on his face to ask if Belegor knows about the men outside trying to steal his cattle.

Yes, I'm reposting these once more. Because if people in the Silmarillion/Tolkien fandom continue to use them, I want nice official links to them. And so another crosspost from tumblr project is born.

Three of my favorite ladies from Dorthonion, where I work off the theme of flowers and coordinating with the sigils for the House of Bëor and the sons of Finarfin. All are mentioned in Tolkien’s work, though only Rían appears by name in the published Silmarillion.

• Andreth, a Wise-woman of Dorthonion, sister of Lord Bregor and thus great-aunt to Beren, Belegund, and Baragund, beloved of Aegnor and friend of Finrod Felagund, one half of the philosophical debate about mortality and triumph of good over evil in Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth. The first Edain/Elf love story and one which remains unrequited, with discussion of flames and moths and burning of therefore. I purposefully avoided all moth and flame motifs as the obvious cliche, and went with floral symbolism. The long-lived wisteria is a symbol of longevity, of love lost but also perseverance over time, of somber contemplation, of unrequited love (Fuji Musume). Aside from the pale purples of the wisteria blossoms, the greens, golds, and whites are the same as from both Aegnor’s sigil and the Bëor. I especially wanted white as that was the color worn by Edain wise-women, preservers of tribal history. As one of my favorite characters and half of an OTP, Andreth deserved her own sigil. And once I remembered that Edain heraldry needed only vertical symmetry, fitting the wisteria motif was far less painful.
• Edhellos - or in Quenya Eldalotë - is one of those usually unnamed wives of elven characters that have almost nothing written about them, only in this case Tolkien did provide a name. Edhellos is the wife of Angrod, and thus in versions where Orodreth is Angrod’s son instead of older brother she would be the mother of the last King of Nargothrond. Though we have no characterization for her, we assume she was Noldor and married Angrod long before the Darkening, and it is telling that her name has a Sindarin version, which implies she followed her husband to Beleriand and lived with him in Dorthonion. I like to include her in stories about the Bëorians and their elven lords, and she’s another quiet and obscure favorite for me to write. Her name means ‘Elf-flower’, which gave me the clearest permission to make a floral device. For a while now I’ve wanted to make a device with irises (as something more than fleur-de-lis), and as they are among other things a symbol of martial valor, it works for an elf living close to the Enemy and willing to bring the fight to him. The sigil itself hearkens back to the clean geometric shapes of Angrod with the heavy black outlines.
• For kaywinnet​, I made a sigil using forget-me-not flowers of another Edain woman and one that is also one of my favorites going back to my first read-through of The Silmarillion. Rían, the daughter of Belegund and mother of Tuor, she who loved flowers and to make songs and gave her son into the keeping of Annael before she went to the Hill of the Slain in search of her husband Hour and died of grief. Tragic and true love, we both agreed the delicate and small wildflower of the appropriately named forget-me-not was perfect for Rían - plus the color and shape mimicked the Bëor sigil. The frame is the same shape as the sigils for her cousin Morwen.