Atanatari: Of the Three Houses of the Edain by Himring

Carved in the Mind

In Nargothrond, Turin tells Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth, how, when he was a boy in Dor-lomin, he made friends with Sador, a crippled woodworker. Finduilas tries to share something with Turin in her turn.

Rating: Teens (PG)

Warnings: none.

Read Carved in the Mind

The Mormegil’s step, usually so confident, faltered midstride. Before them arose a cluster of vines and slender branches, so lifelike, so delicately entwined that it was difficult to recognize that together they formed a pillar that supported the ceiling. And in the midst of this, positioned carefully so that passers-by would spot it only at second glance, the sculptor had added a mouse that seemed to be scurrying upwards and away—but the tiny animal, too, was motionless, captured in stone.
‘You are admiring the skill of the sculptor, Mormegil?’ asked Finduilas.
It was outstanding work, of course. Nargothrond was as elvishly splendid as Menegroth, but without a forest around it to roam free in.
‘His skill is truly admirable,’ responded Turin. ‘But I fear that was not what I was thinking of…’

***
It had stung, that reproof over time wasted. It had hurt even to listen to.
‘Now, Morwen,’ Rian had protested, rather weakly.
Little Turin was already used to Aunt Rian occasionally protesting and often being ignored. She was only a visitor, after all. But he had noticed tears in Sador’s eyes. A grown man, crying! And it was easy to see the physical pain he was in as he dragged himself away on his crutches.
Turin said nothing to his mother. Morwen, unlike Turin, unlike Sador, never, ever cried, no matter how much things hurt. But when there was honey cake for afters that night, he kept some of it back and, after supper, he crept out to find Sador, quiet as a mouse.
He got a little lost, but just when he thought he would have to give in and ask someone, he saw Sador sitting in front of his hut—and to Turin’s astonishment, Sador looked calm and content, peacefully whittling away at a piece of wood, not brooding over the events of the day, as Turin himself would have done. Almost, Turin turned away. But that would have been to leave his errand undone, even if it was not as necessary an errand as he had thought, so he walked forward.
‘Hail, Turin!’ said Sador, lifting his head and recognizing him. ‘You are out late tonight. Where are you going?’
‘I was coming to find you,’ said Turin. ‘I brought you honey cake.’
Sador’s dark eyes met his, entirely surprised. And suddenly Turin was abashed—so greatly that he could not rightly understand what Sador answered. A stream of words washed over him, engulfed him and lifted him up—and then he found himself sitting beside Sador, eating the rest of his honey cake—for Sador had accepted no more of his gift than a polite small bite—and watching Sador’s hands as he went on whittling, while Sador talked about this and that to put him at his ease.
And it did succeed in putting Turin at his ease, perhaps more than he had ever been. This was, Turin supposed, dawdling, as much as the delay Sador had been scolded for earlier today. Although it pained Turin to disagree with Morwen about anything, he could not help feeling, even on that first evening, that dawdling might be a good, a helpful thing to do—sometimes at least, if you knew how to do it, as it seemed Sador did.
‘Look,’ said Sador, eventually. ‘Can you see what this is?’
‘A mouse!’ said Turin.
It was indeed a mouse. It had a neat pointy face and a sleek curly tail.
‘Who do you think it is for?’ asked Sador.
‘Lalaith,’ answered Turin, with certainty. In his world, all such things were for his little sister or perhaps, sometimes, for Aunt Rian. But Sador would not be giving presents to Rian!
‘No, Turin, it is for you!’ said Sador.
Turin thought he might give the mouse to Lalaith anyway. He liked the thought of having a present to give Lalaith. But he slept that night with the mouse under his pillow, and in the morning he found he had decided to keep it.

***
‘I thought Sador amazingly skilled when I was a young boy in Dor-lomin,’ said Turin. ‘But Sador’s mouse was just a simple wooden toy, nothing like this…’
‘I do understand, Mormegil’, said Finduilas. ‘This mouse and the pillar were carved by my uncle. I love them because they are the work of his hands as much as because they show his skill and his art. And yet, among his works, this is not the one that is closest to my heart. Let me show you...’
She caught hold of Turin’s hand and, after a startled moment, he let her pull him along, deeper into the heart of Nargothrond. He gazed at the back of her head, her golden hair. So fair—like his long-dead sister—as fair as an elf-child, they had called her, before she died...
Finduilas stopped.
‘See?’, she asked expectantly.
He was not sure at first what she was talking about. She had been going to show him something, he remembered. He began to take closer notice of his surroundings. The walls of this chamber were mostly unhewn but, on one wall, the sculptor had begun to depict a nocturnal forest. At the edge, there was an owl, hovering and struggling, it seemed, to take flight, but its left wing was still encased in stone.
‘Do you see?’ Finduilas repeated. ‘This is where my uncle Finrod stopped working, just before he went away with Beren...’

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The story as Turin would actually tell it to Finduilas would probably omit a lot of details, most crucially his and his relatives' names. The flashback is therefore supposed to represent his memories, which he is editing as he speaks.

 

Written for the LOTR Community challenge for June '14 on Livejournal
Theme: Bunny Hutch: Elements: (no. 57) First Age, Children of Húrin: Sador's first encounter with the child Túrin. How did the old thrall and the young child become friends? (prompt by Dreamflower)

 

A Hard Time for Healing

A drabble sequence on Brandir the Lame, healer and later Warden of Brethil, and his family, from the time of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad to the arrival of Turin in Brethil.

Drabbles written for the prompt sequence "Celebrate" at Tolkien Weekly (on LiveJournal), but despite this somewhat dark in parts.

Rating: Teens. Warning for major character death and mature themes.

Read A Hard Time for Healing

[The drabbles are in chronological sequence of the events described rather than as written.
The individual prompts are given in italics in parenthesis after the drabble title.]

 

A Lost Battle (Nirnaeth Arnoediad)
(Homecoming)

'This batch of mead came out really well, Beldis,’ said Gloredhel. ‘It will serve for the feast when Haldir comes home!’
Brandir was too young to drink mead. He loved his grandmother, who filled the house with her golden presence, as loud in anger as in laughter.
News came. Suddenly, Grandmother became very quiet and Brandir’s mother took over. Life in Brethil was never easy—that year, when neither Grandfather nor the rest of his men came home, things were hard indeed.
Men said Gloredhel died of grief. Beldis, her daughter-in-law, said she died of a weakened constitution and pneumonia.

A Young Healer
(Coming of Age)

The night had been long. Brandir went to fetch water and was the first to see his father’s men return. Relief washed over him again.
Dorlas and Hunthor joined Brandir by the pump. Dorlas was elated.
‘I killed my first orc!’
‘We were lucky,’ said Hunthor. ‘No losses… You, though, look exhausted, Brandir.’
‘Hunleth’s fever broke just after midnight. She’ll live.’
Brandir smiled. That, too, had been a first: Beldis had begun trusting him with the dangerously ill.
He noticed Dorlas’s blood-stained sleeve.
‘Let me see.’
‘It’s only a scratch!’
Brandir said, with a healer’s authority:
‘Orc scratches need treatment.’

A Wiser Man
(Birth)

The birth had been an ordeal. And when the child came, it was club-footed.
‘You will celebrate his birth as much as if he were straight-limbed,’ his mother demanded, white-faced on her pillows.
‘Yes, yes’ the young father promised her, faithfully.
But later, alone with Brandir, he blurted out:  ‘Already, he is precious to me. But how will he live? The shadow in the North grows long and he cannot fight.’
Then he flushed deeply, glancing at Brandir’s leg, but added, with rising hope:
 ‘Maybe he will grow up to be wise, like you? And maybe it will be enough.’

A Dying Princess (Finduilas)
(Winning)

‘We won! We won,’ Dorlas insisted. ‘Only—they killed the prisoners before we could free them.’
Despite the grime and blood, she was royal, golden. There was nothing at all Brandir could do for her. He wiped her brow, burnt a little incense supposed to help clear the mind and said: ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ the elf-woman answered. ‘No, good friend, rejoice with me! I shall not see the inside of Angband! I knew too well what it had done to a good man and feared it greatly.’
Then a spasm went through her and she said: ‘Mormegil. Tell the Mormegil…’

A Dangerous Patient (Turin)
(Death)

‘Why was it not given to me to fall in battle against Glaurung? Then, whatever else anyone said of me, they would have praised me for dying a death worthy of my forebears!’
That was the only thing the Mormegil had said to Brandir in all those weeks.  The time he did not spend wrapped in dark dreams, he spent in stubborn silence, his face turned to the wall. The Mormegil wished to die—and sometimes Brandir wondered why he was putting up a fight for his life.
Did not his own forebodings warn him of the doom Turin carried?

After his accident, leaning on his crutch, Brandir had lamented that he would never be a hero and a warrior like his father and grandfather
But Beldis said: ‘My brother, the uncle I named you for, was neither renowned nor did he fall in outright battle. Fools may die a celebrated death. Living may take more courage—and more wisdom.’
Groaning, Brandir hoisted himself up from Turin’s bedside. Turin turned his head. Brandir saw pity in his eyes and, although Brandir did not want pity, by that, he was sure Turin was going to live--nor could he regret it.

An Unknown Visitor
(Marriage or Alliance)

‘Elven manners or not, if indeed the Mormegil is Turin, you are kin,’ said Hunleth. ‘And not as distantly as all that! Your grandmother was his great-aunt and your great-aunt his grandmother. That was a celebrated wedding—that feast when your grandfathers married each other’s sisters!  But that is not all, Brandir, for you are also kin on your mothers’ side! Both of you are descended from Bregor of Ladros.’
‘He does not acknowledge name or kinship,’ said Hunthor.
‘He seeks to escape the name,’ said Brandir.
‘Guest or kin, I find him somewhat lacking in true courtesy,’ observed Hunleth.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Brandir's relatives (as his paternal grandmother Gloredhel of the House of Hador, his mother Beldis of the House of Beor, his elder cousin Hunleth and his younger cousin Hunthor) are all canonical, but some of them are only mentioned in HoME (retrieved via Tolkien Gateway, which has some helpful family trees).
Brandir, Hunleth and Hunthor all descend from Halmir, Warden of Brethil, Brandir's great-grandfather. Hunleth is of the same generation as Brandir's parents.

Snowballs

Winter in Dor-lomin: two episodes in the childhood of Turin Turambar.
The first shows him with his little sister.
In the second, Sador, the cripple Turin befriended, tries to comfort him during the first winter after his sister's loss.

Written for Dreamflower for Fandom Stocking 2014.

Rating: Teens. Warning: reference to canonical character death

Read Snowballs

Lalaith has a brilliant idea. She makes a snowball—little more than a loose fistful of snow—and, rising up on the ball of her feet and taking careful aim, hurls it straight into the bushes. Giggling, she runs forward. Amid bare and evergreen branches, Turin stands head and shoulders spattered with powdery snow—as was the plan!

‘Snowballs, Turin! Come play snowballs!’

But her peculiar brother is staring at her with one of his peculiar expressions.

‘Turin! Turin hurt?’

He mutely shakes his head.

‘Turin sad?’

She puts her little hand in his. He grasps it, a bit too tightly, but Lalaith doesn’t protest or try to withdraw her fingers. Why didn’t he want to play? Never mind, he’s looking happier now and he’s holding her hand, so it must be all right.

***

Turin makes snowballs, a whole series of them, all perfectly round, patted down to a hard, icy surface. They sit on the ground before him in a row, lined up like artillery. Sador looks at them and shakes his head.

‘Who do you want to attack with those, son of Hurin?’

‘Lalaith… Urwen wanted to play at throwing snowballs with me. I refused…’

Sador picks up a snowball and prises it apart with his fingernails. The hard surface gives and the ball crumbles into pieces.

‘Your sister wouldn’t have held that against you. She was always ready to play and quick to come up with a new game when any of her ideas didn't take off…

Shall we make a snowman together, Turin, you and I? We could use these snowballs of yours to make a start with. Or maybe a snow deer, if you prefer?’

---

Chapter End Notes

A slimmer version of the scene with Lalaith (cut to 100 words) was posted to Tolkien Weekly as a drabble at Tolkien Weekly for the prompts "ball of the foot" and "snowball" under the title "The Game".

I shall not look on your white walls again

Trying to settle back into his old life after his return from the hidden city of Gondolin, Huor of Dor-lomin meets his future wife Rian of the House of Beor for the first time.

Also features Hurin and Morwen.

Rating: Teens (no particular warnings, just a touch of mature themes)

Inspired by Robinka's bio recent bio of Huor and dedicated to her.

Also written for a B2MeM prompt that was my own and based on the following quotation:
""[Rian] was a singer and a maker of songs"

Read I shall not look on your white walls again

 

It was not that he disagreed with his brother or regretted their decision. He could by no means, any more than Hurin, have borne to live out a sheltered life in a hidden valley while, beyond the mountains, their kin fought and died—not Huor! Nobody had been able to stop him from going along to his first battle, although even by the standards of the Edain he had been considered too young—and even though the experience had been terrifying and he had accomplished little, all that had taught him was a fierce determination to do better next time…

No, it had nothing to do with war and the threat of Morgoth, despite what those had already cost them since they had returned from Gondolin. The house of Hador never counted their losses more than once. Huor’s response to every attack—including the one in which his father died—was to whet his axe until its edge was razor-sharp and plan to aim his blows more precisely and hit harder when the enemy came again. He did not hanker for a peace or safety that all his people could not share.

It did not seem to be the beauty of Gondolin either that filled him with a longing he could not put a name to or identify. It was true that he could recall, with almost elven precision, moments of breath-taking beauty: sunlight gleaming on the white walls of the city above the green vale of Tumladen; the sound of Ecthelion’s flute, impossibly sweet and ethereal, despite Ecthelion’s habitual slightly standoffish manner; the flash of white feet as Idril ran laughing, barefoot along the corridors; Turgon standing beside golden Glingal and speaking of its making… He treasured each and every of these memories, but they did not seem to evoke a need. Oh, to be sure, it would have been a pleasure to see all that again, if occasion had allowed...

Sometimes, he wondered whether it was elvishness in itself, whether something about elvendom had spoiled him for living among the Edain as one of them. Their time in Gondolin had changed them, him and his brother, certainly. Did they maybe act differently, think differently—a change deeper and more comprehensive than having learnt to speak Sindarin with a purer accent and read fluently in Quenya? For a time, he covertly studied the court of Fingon every time he went to Barad Eithel, seeking clues to the mysteries of his own heart. But although he found High King Fingon no less worthy of his loyalty than his brother Turgon—perhaps in some ways even more as they fought alongside each other—and although he moved with greater confidence and ease among the Noldor and Sindar than many of his kin, Huor doubted that whatever ailed him could have been cured by living constantly among elves.

Hurin, at any rate, seemed to have no such problem taking up threads again where he had left off. He had slipped easily back into his role as heir of Dor-lomin and, as far as Huor could tell, it was a seamless fit. And now he was the lord of Dor-lomin himself, their father’s successor, and a great hero to boot, Fingon’s trusted right hand, and he was courting Morwen of the House of Beor! Hurin’s progress was very reassuring, even if Huor also felt mildly envious—not of the honours heaped on Hurin, but of his apparent inner certainty—and he never felt more comfortable than in the familiar company of his brother.

Maybe, he thought, it was partly a matter of age, of his being the younger of the two? Fosterage in Brethil, the brief time in Gondolin—literally out of their world—the return to Dor-lomin, his father’s death—so much had changed so quickly for him! And he was still young—people had always taken him for older than he was because he grew so tall so quickly. Maybe he would grow out of it, whatever it was.

He had been separated from Hurin more frequently than he liked, recently, and had only just returned to his side, for, if Hurin was Fingon’s trusted right hand, Huor was Hurin’s and frequently it was Huor who went back and forth between Barad Eithel and  Dor-lomin to aid his widowed mother in her stewardship of the land and deal with things at home when obligations to Fingon kept Hurin at court. Besides, Hurin had been reluctant to leave Barad Eithel while his courtship of Morwen was under way, wishing to press matters to a swift conclusion so that he could offer Morwen a home of her own as soon as possible.

Morwen, Huor thought, was wholly admirable, but a little intimidating—stunningly beautiful and courageous, a good match for his heroic brother, and, if her view of life tended a little towards the dark side, no wonder, after everything she had been through… Her standards could be a little exacting, though. Maybe she would ease up a little after she wed Hurin. Not that she seemed overly disposed to criticize his brother, not in the least—it was very evident that she thought the world of Hurin as he did of her and, as far as Huor was concerned, that was the best thing about her. It was Huor himself who sometimes felt his shortcomings a little in her presence, even if Morwen would never have been so impolite as to actually mention them.

Tonight she had clearly put on her best for Hurin—dark blue velvet and silver—and there was an unusual sparkle to her that in another woman might have been gaiety. She greeted Huor cordially when he joined her and his brother in the long gallery and the three of them walked slowly back and forth together along the length of the gallery, talking, weaving their way around other small groups that were similarly engaged as they went.

Morwen could not take her eyes off his brother, thought Huor. They would have a wedding soon, however Morwen’s pride might delay things. She was too conscious of being an exile without inheritance, despite the fact that Fingon had promised a substantial dowry in her father’s stead and Hurin was only too eager to lay the wealth of Dor-lomin at her feet.

They were, of course, discussing politics. They would have been, even if they had not been expecting a summons to a short council meeting at any moment. Morwen had a sharp mind and Huor rather thought that Hurin had been learning from her, as also from others when he could.

‘But where,’ Hurin asked suddenly, looking around him, ‘is Rian?’

Huor had not even known Rian was supposed to be there. In fact, he had not encountered her yet. He knew who she was, of course: Morwen’s cousin, the daughter of Belegund of the House of Beor—an exile from Dorthonion, like Morwen. But she must lead a very different life from Morwen’s; at any rate, she was not a regular at court.

‘Oh, Rian,’ said Morwen, ‘you know how she is…!’

The words might sound a little dismissive, but the tone was not, thought Huor. Morwen was almost smiling.

‘I expect she got bored by our talk and wandered off into the garden over there,’ said Morwen. ‘Shall we go and join her for a bit?’

But just then they saw Captain Berion approaching and they knew the summons had come, sooner than expected.

‘Huor,’ said Hurin, ‘will you do us a favour? Please go and find Rian and let her know where we have gone! I do not know whether she will wish to wait—if she does, will you show her to our rooms in the meantime? I do not think she will want to remain here, in the gallery.’

‘Of course,’ said Huor and went to look for Morwen’s cousin.

***

He stepped out onto the terrace, into the night. At first he thought Morwen had been wrong and Rian was not there. Then his eyes adjusted and he saw a woman out on the lawn. Her back was towards him. She seemed to be standing in a clump of daffodils. He could not make out much more detail, but she was clearly of the Edain, not an elf, and he supposed this must be Rian, although he would not have expected a guest to stray off the path.

While he was still hesitating how to make himself known to her, the woman lifted her head a little and began to sing:

Love is the weakest thing.
Afraid to speak its name,
every day,
it fades when breathed upon,
crackles underfoot like ice,
goes up in roaring flame.

Love is the strongest thing,
every day,
it thaws after hard frost,
sprouts even after charring,
shouts itself against the towering sky.

Her voice rang out strong and clear in the nocturnal garden—and, although it seemed she was singing to herself, she sang without any sign of fear of an unintended audience, be it elf or Man. It seemed to Huor that the whole elvish garden around them stopped to listen, yet as far as he could tell, he was the only one who heard.

After a moment, he cleared his throat.

‘Lady Rian?’

She turned to look at him.

‘Lady Rian, I am Huor of Dor-lomin. Your cousin Morwen has sent me to look for you.’

She waded carefully through the daffodils; then, moving more swiftly, stepped across the low railing to stand in front of him. She had not spoken, but looked at him questioningly, unembarrassed.

‘They were summoned—Morwen and my brother Hurin—just after they noticed you had gone--left the gallery, I mean.’

Rian shrugged.

‘They were making plans,’ she said, as if by way of explanation.

It was the way she said it that made him ask almost inadvertently: ‘And what do you make, my lady?’

Then he wondered whether that was not a rather fatuous question.

But she lifted her chin a little—as if someone had told her that one of the Second-born—or maybe a woman or maybe a scion of the House of Beor—ought not to be doing such things. He suspected Morwen but found out later that he was wrong.

She said: ‘I make songs.’

It was the lift of the chin that did it, as much as the words.

It had no more logic to it than the previous feeling of displacement and longing had had. But just that little movement—just seeing Rian lift her chin in defiance—allowed that bit of himself that seemed to have gone missing somewhere on the road from Brethil through Gondolin back to Dor-lomin to catch up with him. He had finally arrived and was whole again.

He did not forget Gondolin. But, because Rian of the House of Beor existed, he would be completely content to live and die for Dor-lomin.

What the Women Told Their Children

In the First Age as in the Third Age, mothers passing on the basics to their children.

Rating: Teens. Warnings: reference to canon situations of the darker sort

Read What the Women Told Their Children

Once upon a time, we had a king. Once upon a time, we had a lord. Once upon a time, we served only the king and the lord we had chosen to serve.

Hide Grandfather's sword in the bedstraw but do not let the blade get blunt, for know this: one day, we shall be free again.

 

Once upon a time we had a city and a kingdom. Once upon a time we had a king.

Do not speak our chief's name to any on the road. Wear a plain cloak, but know this: we shall have a king again.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the challenge "Endings and Beginnings" at Tolkien Weekly on LJ, for the prompt "Once Upon a Time"

Explanatory note:
The people of the First Age referred to are the Edain of Dor-lomin. They were Men who had been ruled by lords of the House of Hador and fought for the High King of the Noldor  against the Dark Lord. After the great defeat of the Fifth Battle, they were enslaved for about a hundred years, until the Dark Lord was defeated in his turn. They are ancestors of the Numenoreans and therefore also of the Dunedain.

The people of the Third Age referred to are the Rangers of Eriador, concealing the survival and identity of the heir of Isildur over generations.

A Poet's Fate

Dirhavel's first encounter with the story of the Children of Hurin.
He remains haunted by the story and its telling.

Teens, just because of its being CoH, rather than any particular of this piece itself, really.

Read A Poet's Fate

When Dirhavel first heard the Ballad of the Dragon Slayer, he was struck speechless for a day. The second time he heard it, he wept bitter tears. It was only when he grew up and was taught the elvish tongues and the craft of verse-making that he realized the song that had moved him so was mere doggerel and he became determined to compose a lay truly worthy of his hero.

His listeners prized Dirhavel’s art highly—but to Dirhavel it seemed that, however he strove, he could never evoke that pity and terror he remembered feeling as a child.

---

Chapter End Notes

The author of the Narn I Hin Hurin (or Narn I Chin Churin) is called Dirhavel in the Unfinished Tales, although Tolkien later used the name form Dirhaval instead.

Dirhavel is said to be one of the Edain, of the House of Hador, and have collected the lore of Turin and his family in the Havens of Sirion in the time of Earendil in order to compose the lay that underlies the Narn.

Written for the Tolkien Weekly Challenge on LiveJournal, for the prompts "ballad", "doggerel" and "lay".

Latecomers

The smallest tribe of immigrating Edain, the Haladin, delays before crossing the Blue Mountains into Beleriand and, partly because of that delay, things will go rather differently for them.

Original characters; reference to Beor & Finrod

Rating: somewhere between General and Teens (PG)

Read Latecomers

They had waited in the valleys of the eastern slopes, while those who were more numerous or less slow off the mark advanced into the unknown, into new territory. Balan, who was later called Beor, was in the vanguard with his kin, ever courageous, ever hopeful, waving aside doubt and fear. He would send back news, he promised, he would send them good news, for surely these mountains would be the last barrier on their way to the  Sea. It was their generation, he said, that would finally see the Gods.

And so the people waited in anticipation, but not unsceptical of Balan's promises, practising their woodcraft, watching out for Servants of the Enemy, hunting and gathering food. So many miles lay behind them since first they had begun their long flight, many lives of men ago, that the journey itself had shaped them. They had fallen into patterns on the way, had become the people they were. They knew well how to travel, but they wished for the chance to learn again how to arrive.

Then one evening, when the shadows of the Blue Mountains fell long across the valleys and the foothills, the messenger Balan had promised them came. And as they watched Balan's messenger approach, it seemed to the people that surely the news must be as good as Balan had promised for the messenger's face was wreathed in smiles.

'We crossed the mountains without losses and, descending, we came into a fair land of woods and streams,' the messenger reported, as soon as all the people had assembled around the council fire to listen. 'We could perceive no signs of the presence of the Enemy; all seemed peaceful. Rejoicing, we made camp in a clearing and celebrated with what food and drink we had and with song.

But that arrival and that feast was as nothing compared to our awakening! For in the dark hours of the night we were raised from sleep by the sound of music such as we had never heard and found an Elf in our midst. But such an Elf! He was unlike any of the Fair Folk you have ever seen. There was a light in his face and his hair shone like bright burnished gold. But his singing was more marvellous than that for it conjured in our heads visions of the land beyond the Sea--visions of peace and beauty we had never imagined--and it was clear that  he  had been there himself and indeed hailed from there.

Then he stopped singing and spoke to us! And when he spoke, it was as if Wisdom itself had gained a voice and was speaking. So many things he taught us in within the space of a few days!

But make haste now and do not tarry! Come and join us, o ye Haladin!  For I tell you the land beyond the Blue Mountains harbours wonders beyond our wildest hopes.'

He fell silent and the people thought on what he had said.

The eldest among them spoke first: 'Let us do as he says! If the land beyond the Mountains holds such wonders, I would see them before I die.'

But another of the elders, who was the head of a large family, spoke and said: 'We have indeed heard many wonders. But I listen and I doubt. Are we certain the Enemy is not in the land beyond the Mountains, too? If we are able to cross, why should not he?  And, moreover, if indeed this Elf has  confirmed that the rumoured Land of the Gods exists that is great tidings, but did he tell you how far it is and how we can get there?'

The headman of the Druedain among them growled: 'If there are Servants of the Enemy to be found on the other side of the Mountains, what of it? Drughu will fight them this side or that side, east or west.'

And the First Spear among the women said: 'Have we come all this way to be daunted by imagined dangers?  I would hear the words of Wisdom if I could, even if he should have no more to tell us than that the way to the Land of the Gods is barred to our kind.'

Thus some said yea and  others nay and the people were swayed back and forth, but in the end they decided to go. And what moved them not a little was the impatience of Balan's messenger, who, it was evident, could hardly wait to return to Beleriand and hear more of the words of Wisdom.

Thus the people left Eriador and climbed the mountain passes. It was not an easy crossing but the  Dwarves of the Blue Mountains did not hinder their going; they rather assisted them by showing them the safest paths, even if only  to speed their passing out of Nogrod's territory.

Only--when the people came down into the land of woods and streams, they found it fair indeed, but the high elf called Wisdom was not there. And the elves of the land they did encounter were secretive and unfriendly, more ready with their bows and arrows than to dispense words of wisdom.

'Where then is Wisdom?' the people asked Balan's messenger. 'And where are your kin?'

And he stood pale and uncertain and said: 'I do not know. I truly do not know. It was here. He was here, but now almost it seems a dream.'

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the May 2016 Challenge at the LOTR Community on LiveJournal, which asked for work on the theme of "Waiting".

The particular prompt for this story was the following quotation:

From "The Silmarillion":

Now Felagund learned from Bëor that there were many other Men of like mind who were also journeying westward. 'Others of my own kin have crossed the Mountains,' he said, 'and they are wandering not far away; and the Haladin, a people from whom we are sundered in speech, are still in the valleys on the eastern slopes, awaiting tidings before they venture further. There are yet other Men, whose tongue is more like to ours, with whom we have had dealings at times. They were before us on the westward march, but we passed them; for they are a numerous people, and yet keep together and move slowly, being all ruled by one chieftain whom they call Marach.'

(Chapter 17: Of the Coming of Men into the West)

I tried to write this piece as much as possible from the point of view of the Haladin themselves, taking into account some things reported about them in the "Unfinished Tales".

The Haladin eventually did meet Finrod Felagund (the elf Men called "Nom", that is "Wisdom") after all, but not until two generations later, considerably farther west and in rather different circumstances.

I hope to write a second part to deal with that meeting, and possibly also an epilogue set at the end of the First Age. But I only managed to write the first part in time for the challenge.

Tur Haretha

One of Haleth's female bodyguards visits her grave, the Ladybarrow (Tur Haretha).

Mild femslash (Teens).

Written for Zdenka, for her prompt "I follow" for this pairing

Read Tur Haretha

We loved her, of course, all her bodyguard, but not like that--except the once.

Her grandnephew Halmir was growing; as many growing children will--but Halmir more than most--he started questioning everything, rebelling against everything. And the Lady Haleth, who had not faltered in her dealings with elven kings or wavered before the lords of great Houses, found herself bewildered by the pig-headed opposition of a boy.

I followed her--as I followed her everywhere-into her house one evening. Dusk had fallen. The hearth fire had gone out.

In the gloom, Haleth turned and asked: 'Is he right, then? We could be supping with princes in splendour rather than hiding out in this patch of forest on tolerance--if only I were less stubborn!'

I opened my mouth to speak, but she quickly put her hand across to stop me.

'Nay, I know what you would say! You are loyal to me and would defend all my decisions to the last.'

And this was true. But there was grey in her hair and she looked so weary and uncertain--so unlike herself that night--that, on impulse, I kissed the hand across my mouth.

I have never spoken of it until now. Soon I will follow my lady below the earth.

Ladybarrow, Ladybarrow, know that we have this in common: one night only, Lady Haleth's head lay upon my breast.

---

Chapter End Notes

Originally posted for Zdenka's prompt at Femslash 100 - Drabbletag Round 7 on Livejournal

Haleth and Haleth

How Haleth, Helm's son, learned of Haleth of the Haladin and what he made of her.

"There Haleth, Helm's son, fell, last of all, defending the doors."
LOTR Appendix A, The House of Eorl

In response to a discussion of their names on Tumblr.

Warning: character death (rating: teens)

Read Haleth and Haleth

Haleth, Helm’s son, first heard of his namesake from his aunt Hild.

‘But Haleth is a man’s name!’ he exclaimed immediately.

‘Haleth, Haldad’s daughter, was named in a different language, I think,’ said Hild. ‘The names only sound the same.’

Haleth was not satisfied and disposed to scoff as Hild continued the story.

‘She had an elven lord come rescue her!’

‘That was pig-headed, endangering her people!’

Hild just gave him a look. He knew she could see right through him. He was afraid of being teased by his peers about Haleth. Pre-empting such criticism—was that courageous? Or manly?

 

When Helm Hammerhand was defeated at the Crossings of the Isen and driven toward the Hornburg, when Haleth could not even learn whether his father or his brother had survived, when no help came from Eastfold or Westfold and Wulf’s Dunlendings streamed toward Edoras and its depleted garrison, Haleth thought of Haleth of the Haladin, holding out with her remaining people in their stockade by the Ascar.

As hope lessens, Haldad’s daughter, harder may my purpose be, as yours was!

Haleth stood before the doors of Meduseld, sword in hand. Below, flames already danced on the thatch of the settlement.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

2 x 100 words in MS Word

LLA prompt: On the Outside Looking In (Create a fanwork about one of your favourite characters from the outside perspective of another Legendarium character who does not understand or does not like her.)

Tolkien Weekly prompt: Flame

Also, this B2MeM prompt:
Out of the mists they come
through darkling doors whereat doom waiteth.
Hark! I hear them in the hall chanting:
stern words they sing with strong voices.
Heart shall be bolder, harder be purpose,
more proud the spirit as our power lessens!
Mind shall not falter nor mood waver,
though doom shall come and dark conquer.
(The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorthelm’s Son)

Swan-Knight

Imrahil reads his nephew an old story of the First Age. It is no coincidence that the story features swans...

I think Imrahil might have a special interest in Tuor, given the resemblance between the emblems of their houses!

Written for lirin for a request for something on Imrahil’s relationship with his nephews after Finduilas died, especially Faramir (Fandom Giftbox 2018)

Rating: General Audiences

Read Swan-Knight

‘Now Tuor loved swans,’ read Imrahil. ‘He rose therefore to greet the birds and call to them.’

Looking up, he saw how raptly Faramir was listening. He smiled and went on reading.

‘And as he stepped down from the doors the swans did him reverence, and plucking each a great feather from their wing they proferred them to him, and he took the seven feathers and set them in the crest of his helm.

I was as old as you are now when I first discovered this story. Can you imagine the game I played the next day?’

Faramir nodded.

---

Chapter End Notes

The italicized bits are extracts from "Of Tuor and his Coming to Gondolin", in Unfinished Tales.

100 words in MS Word.

A knife, just such as you need

Young Turin gave an elf-wrought knife to Sador, passing on his own birthday gift to him, with the promise: "a knife, just such as you need".
He refused to accept it when Sador offered it back to him when he left for Dor-lomin.

From Sador's point of view: a double drabble, two scenes involving that knife, more than twenty years apart.

Warning: canonical character death (not in detail). Rating: teens.

Read A knife, just such as you need

I am the warrior who shunned battle, the woodman who cut his own leg. Yet behold, here I am carving a great chair for the Lord of Dor-lomin himself, no less, with the elf-wrought steel that the Lord’s son gave me. Too great a gift for one such as I, yet feel how smoothly it carves: leaves grow under my fingers, water ripples… I dare to dream of the Lord’s return, victorious from battle, who will sit here in times of peace and grant me leisure to carve at will.

Yet it was not for this that I befriended Turin.

 

Long beggared, beholden to Lady Aerin for each bowl of broth that she obtains for me at risk—yet under my rags I still hide the elf-wrought knife that the heir in exile gave me. It was mine to give away, if I wished, he said, to anyone except back to him, and there were times when I almost did—to Lady Aerin, to a young thrall who escaped to live as outlaw.

Foolishly clinging to memories…

Turin, today I return your knife to you, in an Easterling’s chest, and my own life. Yet I would rather have carved wood.

---

Chapter End Notes

2 x 100 words according to MS Word.
The prompt over at Tolkien Weekly was: knife

Their Kinsfolk Rejoiced

Two boys in their teens, who were missing, presumed dead, are unexpectedly returned to their family: the return of Hurin and Huor to Dor-lomin, also featuring Galdor, Hareth and Aerin.

'Then they took their leave, and the eagles coming bore them away by night, and set them down in Dor-lomin before the dawn. Their kinsfolk rejoiced to see them, for messengers from Brethil had reported that they were lost; but they would not declare even to their father where they had been, save that they were rescued in the wilderness by the eagles that brought them home.'

Silmarillion Ch. 18: Of the Ruin of Beleriand

Rating--somewhere between General and Teens (reference to canonical deaths)

Read Their Kinsfolk Rejoiced

The sky seemed huge. Hurin had become used to the height of the Encircling Mountains obstructing the view. Above, the eagles--who had just loomed so impressively over them--were rapidly growing smaller, difficult to make out in the remaining darkness, although the first streaks of dawn had appeared on the horizon.

They had deliberately been set down in a desolate marshy spot. Nobody had spotted their arrival.

Hurin glanced worriedly upwards at his younger brother: 'Huor, you do remember we heard that Grandfather and Uncle died? And...'

'The only way to find out is to start walking,' Huor said.

‘Galdor, Galdor!’

Galdor’s first thought was that there had been another major attack. But the excitement on Berion’s face seemed to promise good news, for a change...

‘Galdor,’ Berion panted, waving a scroll. ‘Your sons! They’re back!’

Galdor’s throat constricted.

‘What! How…?’

‘Grey Elves report they were found wandering in Dor-lomin!’

Galdor could not help it—he wrapped the elven captain in a crushing bear hug and kissed him on both cheeks.

It was only much later that he even thought to ask his sons: ‘But where were you, in the meantime? Did the eagles house you in their eyries?’

Aerin was a well-behaved child, usually, but breathless excitement had got the better of her completely. She dashed into the hall, screeching: ‘They’re back, they’re back!’

‘Who are?’ asked Hareth, in a calming tone of voice.

Aerin pressed her little fists against her pounding heart.

‘Hurin!’ she managed. ‘Huor!’

The large soup tureen, a prized gift from Hareth's mother-in law Gildis, dropped to the floor with a crash, hot broth spattering everywhere.

Hareth took no notice. She leapt over the broken fragments and ran to the door. There she had to stop, clutching the door post.

‘My sons, my sons!’

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for a fixed-length fic challenge at the LOTR community on LiveJournal on the subject of family reunions.

The title is taken from the same Silmarillion passage.

The question Galdor asks his sons is based on a following passage. (The boys were actually in the city of Gondolin, the location of which is a well-kept secret, and they had been missing for almost a year.)

The first scene is also inspired by the following illustration by peet (Peter Xavier Price): http://peet.deviantart.com/art/The-Return-of-Hurin-and-Huor-602247539.

Berion is an OMC of mine, a captain in the service of King Fingon.

Hurin is canonically shorter than others of his male relatives, while Huor grew to full height early.

Tripe drabble (3 x 100 words on MS Word)

Your News is All of Woe

Beleg brings news of the lost battle to the Haladin.

Featuring Gloredhel, Beldis and Handir.

Rating: Teens (warnings for themes of deep mourning and references to multiple canonical character death)

Read Your News is All of Woe

Beleg halted among the trees, where he could watch the settlement unseen for a moment. But nothing was to be gained by waiting—if he was the first to bring the bad news, then he was over-late, and if anyone had been ahead of him, if anyone had been ahead of him… But there were no men of fighting age about that he could see, only boys and an old man on a crutch.

He stepped out into the clearing and, almost immediately, the settlement became alert. A boy whipped up his bow to threaten the intruder and lowered it again, having recognized him or, at any rate, identified him as an elf.

Among the others a murmur went up.

‘Beleg. It’s Beleg…’

Farther back, a flurry of suppressed exclamations, the sound of running footsteps…  He was barely in among the first houses, when Gloredhel came rushing out along the street to meet him. Two paces away in front of him she stopped. Her mouth worked soundlessly, as she tried to read his face.

‘Nobody has been here before me?’ he asked, hoping against hope.

She shook her head, golden hair flying.

‘The messenger you sent to Nargothrond—he stopped at Larnach’s holding on the way to leave a warning. As you had instructed him, I think? He said the battle had been lost…’

Her voice failed.

She gathered herself and resumed: ‘He said to let us know that the battle was lost and we should look to our defence and our borders. That is the news we had.’

Now, it seemed she could read his face too clearly.

‘They are not coming back, are they? None of them are coming back!’

Her cry rang out in the silence.

Behind her a woman gave a sob, quickly stifled.

Beleg shook his head, half in agreement, half in denial.

Gloredhel whispered: ‘We have been waiting…’

‘I was delayed,’ said Beleg. His lips and tongue seemed stiff, as if frozen, hard to move. ‘I had a badly wounded companion to slow me down and to take care of. And I had to alert the Marchwardens, find messengers…’

‘Tell me now,’ said Gloredhel.

‘I am not certain. It was difficult to be entirely certain of anything, in that battle!’ said Beleg. ‘We were not stationed far from each other at first, but we quickly got separated. Our allies coming from the east were delayed and our forces on the western front were drawn out too early. Fingon carried the assault to the Gates of Angband, but was beaten back. Haldir and his men were in the rear-guard in that retreat. I heard that Haldir himself fell there and many with him. This much is known. Then we were reinforced and the tide of battle seemed to turn again in our favour but soon even worse befell us.  We were divided and driven away southward with Turgon. I do not know who of the others might have survived, then. Not Fingon, nor any who were with him by the end—but perhaps one or two, if they were scattered before…  If they escaped into the mountains, they might have survived, perhaps. They might take a long time to make it home.’

He paused and added reluctantly: ‘But not Haldir.’

‘I see,’ said Gloredhel, and she who had been so tall and golden, sagged a little and her radiance was dimmed. Beleg was reminded that she was no longer young, as Men counted.

Her son, Handir, stepped up beside her. Beldis, his wife, appeared on the other side, to her left, flanking her protectively.

But it was Gloredhel who went on questioning him: ‘None escaped south with you and Turgon? What of my nephews? What of Dor-lomin?’

Beleg shook his head. He could not look at her, not any longer.

‘If there were any Haladin with Turgon, I saw none. But if there were, they would not have escaped that way, they would have remained with Hurin and Huor. For your nephews stood and died in Serech, and all those who were with them, all of Dor-lomin, by their own choice, so that Turgon and his army might escape…’

Beldis grabbed Gloredhel’s arm. Gloredhel had swayed only briefly and was now upright again, but Beldis kept her hand steadily, firmly under her elbow, even though she was a whole head shorter than Gloredhel.

‘I thank you for your news, bitter as it is,’ said Handir.

‘How I wish it had been better!’ answered Beleg.

‘Will you not come and enter our house?’ asked Beldis, without letting go of Gloredhel. ‘We have offered you nothing in the way of hospitality yet.’

‘Ill news makes an ill guest,’ said Beleg. ‘Shall I not leave you to your grief and come another time?’

‘Please stay,’ said Handir. ‘For I would still have your counsel, even in these dark days, as my father did and my grandfather before him. And maybe, also, there is still a little more you can tell me of my father’s last days and of my foster brothers.’

Beleg made himself look at Gloredhel again. Her gaze went past him, but Beldis gave her arm a gentle squeeze. It brought her back, a little.

Seventeen years ago, when the Siege of Angband was broken, there had been fear and danger and bereavement, too, but Beleg had seen Gloredhel endure unbowed. Now she was a widow, her beloved husband dead, his people reduced to a mere threatened remnant, her own home and family gone, fallen to the enemy.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’

---

Chapter End Notes

This scene grew out of "Namesakes", which features Beleg and Haldir before the Battle. I felt it would be better not to include it in that story and took it out, but decided to finish and post it separately.

Canonically, Gloredhel died of grief.
In my story about Brandir, "A Hard Time for Healing", I suggest that conditions among the Haladin after the loss of the battle may perhaps not have helped, either. (Brandir is her grandson.)

Hurin and Huor are both Gloredhel's nephews and her foster-sons.
I'm reading canon as implying that Handir had not been at the Nirnaeth, remaining behind as his father's heir, and survived because of this. But the wording is not unambiguous.

The title is a quotation from "The Two Towers". The proverb used by Beleg is a variation on a Rohirric proverb quoted in that volume.

Hathaldir at Tarn Aeluin

Hathaldir the Young, one of the followers of Barahir:

Tolkien called him the Young and spoke of his death in the same breath.

Warnings: just a short angsty moment in a doomed life (Teens?)

Written for the Hidden Figures Challenge

Read Hathaldir at Tarn Aeluin

Hathaldir knelt, scooped up water to quench his thirst, and then to wash the sweat and grime off his face. As he did so, he looked again into the holy water, and saw that—whatever the others might call him, still, and maybe truly think so—after three winters of life as an outlaw, he was no longer young.

A moment he gazed at those far too bitter lines worn out in months of hunting and being hunted by the Enemy, then shoved that thought aside with the rest. To the end they called him youngling. He never contradicted them.

---

Chapter End Notes

Also for the prompt "reflections: still water" at Tolkien Weekly.

1 x 100 words in MS Word

Sisters in law, sisters in expatriation

Hareth and Gloredhel married each other's brothers in a double wedding; both went to live with their new husband's people.

Rating: Teens (PG)

Warnings: not really angst, just the consequences of marrying into a different society

Written to go with Oshun's new bio of Hareth and for the Hidden Figures challenge (Hareth).

Also for Legendarium Ladies April (the mirror prompt)

Read Sisters in law, sisters in expatriation

Hareth looked in the mirror given her by Gloredhel when they exchanged gifts at their wedding. It showed dark hair, features that made her stand out among her husband’s people; it did not show how short she was, compared to any of them, but especially to her husband, Galdor the Tall, towering more than two heads above her. It was too small for that.

Visible difference—but the difference between the House of the Haleth and the House of Hador was reflected even more strongly in thought.

How, she wondered, was Gloredhel doing, trying to adjust to life in Brethil?

---

Chapter End Notes

Also written for Tolkien Weekly: the reflection challenge prompts mirror and thought.

100 words in MS Word.

The Chair

Sador Labadal, Turin's childhood friend with the crippled leg, on the chair he was set to carve for Hurin, with the knife Turin had given him.

Teens (PG), with warnings for allusions to the canonical outcome of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and implied ableism.

Read The Chair

I carved it well, with my new-gifted knife. The well-seasoned wood I was granted for the task responded like a dream. Each time the knife met wood and did what I wanted it to, my confidence rose. I might be self-maimed, but I was not wholly marred or useless. Eager to continue, I was no longer accused of wasting time. Such high hopes! I already saw him sitting in the finished chair, that winter, my lord, raising his cup on the dais—my own small contribution to the celebration of our great victory, even though I could no longer fight.

Such high hopes dashed. There was no great victory, we know, even though there is no news. My lord has not returned. The chair remains unfinished, abandoned for less rewarding but more pressing labour, as hands are few. Now my lady depends on those like me, but I falter again.

My lord will not return. The chair will never be finished now. We are defeated and oppressed. No longer the time or place for such things, useless now, when other needs are more pressing! Yesterday, I told young Turin I would break it up for firewood.

Yet he said nay.

---

Chapter End Notes

In MS Word, the word count is 100 + 50 + 50.