Bloody silmarils, book I by Dilly

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Chapter 4 : Epic poetry

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"Since you asked my opinion on the subject," Penlodh said haughtily, "my interpretation of the sacred texts is that Ilúvatar created the world in the manner of an artist.  And the world and its history are the fruits of a dialectic between the Void and the Secret Fire, the Secret Fire of Creation." 

I wonder how he comes by all this, Glorfindel thought as Turgon listened attentively.

"If we take the time to reflect, Majesty, this idea permits us to discern the initial source of evil. It's found in the relationship of Melkor to the Void. Melkor's disordered relationship with the Void rendered him impotent as an artist and caused him to hate our people, the Elves, who are naturally born artists."

Turgon remained still for a few seconds, resting his chin on his fist.  Then he said to Penlodh, "I agree with you." 

He then looked to Glorfindel and Rog for their opinions on Penlodh's thesis. The two elves nodded seriously.

A few minutes later, they left the King and his Herald to their discussion and took refuge on the portico at the foot of the tower.

"Did you really understand anything he said?" asked Glorfindel.

"No," replied Rog.

"Me neither. When in doubt, I nod along."

 

 

It was Turgon's favorite way to spend an afternoon : indulging in painting or mosaics while Hildor of the Harp, his minstrel, regaled him with his latest compositions. In his most recent work, he told how Turgon's half-cousin, Maedhros, had been captured by orcs, brought before Morgoth, then tied by one iron wristcuff to Thangorodrim where he remained nailed for years before Fingon, Turgon's older brother, came to free him and end the torture.

 

Through his night-colored eyes he saw at the end,

The son of Fëanor, his old friend,

Alone and shackled to the cliff face :

Maedhros, the one well made.

 

"The one well made?" repeated Turgon, interrupting his work, "you call Maedhros the one well made?"

"Indeed, Majesty, that has always been his name. Maitimo, which means the well formed or the well made, the name he was given by his mother. If you recall, when we lived in Tirion, he had an incomparable grace and the most beautiful smile. I also remember, with great feeling, his copper hair and his grey eyes sparkling and overflowing with kindness. Only the Maïar stood taller than him and his entire body was perfectly proportioned, with a face, muscles, and rear end to match the sculptures of his mother. Those of all ages and genders struggled not to stare when he entered a room. Even Manwë was astonished by him. Maybe if there had been no tragedy, if Melkor had not stolen the light of the Trees and set us on the path to exile, maybe Manwë would have made him his cup-bearer up there on Taniquetil."

"Oh no, don't start with your delusions of grandeur."

"But Majesty..."

"I know very well how he came by that name. I am two meters and 30 centimeters tall and I only reached his forehead."

"Perfectly chiseled forehead, mind you."

"And I won't speak of my brother, who is fifteen centimeters shorter than me. No, the problem is that poor Maedhros is no longer all well made. He is missing a hand and covered in scars. He must feel terrible each time he hears that old name, don't you think?"

"In that case, Majesty, I suggest naming him Maedhros the One Handed. What do you think?"

"Is this a joke ? Who would be pleased with such a morbid epithet?!"

"It isn't out of place in the realm of epic poetry, my King," replied the vexed bard.

"Don't you have anything else?"

"Oh very well, he also has another name: Russandol, the Red Head."

"By Eru, do you really want to tell of the mighty deeds of 'the Red Head'?"

"Hmm... The only other name he was called by is the Tall."

"Perfect! The Tall works very well. Not too pretty, not too bloody. It's perfectly sensible, I like it very much."

"I'll have to change all the rhymes," muttered Hildor.

"So I was thinking... While we're discussing names... About my daughter..."

"Idril Ironfoot?"

"Couldn't we change her name as well ? Replace iron with silver, for example. Just a tiny semantic shift... With any luck, history, in the centuries that pass, will forget the reason for the name and attribute it to something else."

"That is to say?"

"That they won't attribute it to the thickness of her sole."

"Her feet are most endurant and well angled, Majesty."

"So as long as you are here... Wait, what?! No, no, when I make a suggestion it's the same as if I make a command, I do not ask for you opinion on the matter!"

 

 

Some time later.

 

"Ok... What is the name given to my cousin Finrod?"

"Felagund, the Explorer of Caves. You don't want to change that one, do you?"

"No, it fits well. And that of my cousin Artanis?"

"Galadriel, the Lady Crowned in Radiant Light."

"Beautiful. And myself?"

"The Wise."

Turgon sat straighter in his throne.

"I like it very much. Quite sensible."

"Indeed, Majesty, very sensible."