The Blue Book of Bilbo Baggins, or, Tales of the Forbidden Silmarillion by Gandalfs apprentice

My dear Aragorn,

Or should I say "King Elessar"? My, that has a nice ring to it. After waiting all these years for you to win your crown and wed your lady, I managed to miss both, to my eternal regret. But I'm afraid my journeys truly are over, except this last.

I find myself in a dilemma. For so many years I suited myself, happily translating from the Elvish, not thinking much about what it all was for, except for a vague notion that I might bring the ancient lore to the Shire one of these days. Then, given how things have turned out (who would have thought my old Ring would have caused so much trouble?), I have decided to give the Red Book to Frodo to record his adventures. You must ask him for a copy when he is done.

That leaves me with the other volume—the one with the blue cover. You do remember, I'm sure. Somehow, I can't imagine it in Lobelia Sackville-Baggins's drawing room. So I am sending it to you. Surely the Royal Archives in Gondor will have a discreet place for these additional tales of the old days, for, as Master Elrond likes to remind me, they are as much part of the story of the Silmarillion as the "cleaned up" tales in the Red Book. I gave up trying to decide which versions are true. Like so many other things, in the end it's a little bit of this and a little bit of that. It's so difficult to choose a favorite, but I have a special place in my heart for the story of Uinen and the children of Númenor.

I know you will always remember me, as I will always remember you. I think of you amusing your grandchildren, when they come, with some of my tales and poems. (When they are old enough, perhaps you will show them my Other works.) And you will tell them about the unlikely friendship between the odd old Hobbit who liked to scribble and the Ranger who was something more than a Ranger.

Yours very truly,
Bilbo Baggins

~oOo~

Of Uinen and the Children of Numenor

Uinen wept for the slain Teleri. The sea moaned and heaved with sorrow, and her tears fell like rain upon the white shores. For countless years she hid in the shoals and bays of the sea, and turned away from the Valar and from Ossë her husband. And Ossë stormed upon the waves, tossing the ships of Men and Elves here and there, without his gentle wife to soothe his temper.

Then Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, called Uinen before him. "Why dost thou leave the Children to the treachery of the Sea? Canst thou no longer restrain the humors of your lord? For thou knowest that he loves the sea storms, and gives no thought to their danger."

"Lord, I have no heart for it," Uinen said, bowing her head. "My grief for the dead children of the Teleri, slain by the false Noldor, is too great."

"I am told of the coming of more Children to these waters," Ulmo said. "For Manwë will raise a great land in the Seas between Valinor and Middle-earth, and the Secondborn will build a great kingdom there. They will be mighty mariners and call for your blessing on their ships."

Then Uinen's sad heart filled with light, and she went to the place where the Land of Gift would rise from the Sea, and she made gardens upon the lifiting lands, beds of kelp and grasses, and called all the sea creatures to dwell there. And so, when the Edain came to Númenor, they found the seas rich with food of many kinds, and they became great fishermen. For play they swam upon the warm and gentle waters of the rivers and shoals; and their best divers found pearls of matchless beauty in the oyster beds that Uinen grew for them.

A favored place she had, a wide bay of sparkling sand, where the beach plum grew, and the cypress clung to the craggy rocks above. The water of the bay was warm like a mother's bath, and the winds blew more gently there, even when rain pelted the mountains and plains of Numenor. For Ossë knew of her joy in this place.

Lovers would come there, and it was known that those who swam there, and lay together upon the soft sands, would know great happiness and be blessed with many strong and beautiful children. And blessed above all were those lovers whose union was forbidden by the laws of the land. For Uinen found joy in all life, and did not frown upon any love that was deep and true.

Even when darkness came upon Númenor, those who honored still the Valar and the Maiar knew of Uinen's blessing and would come to her sanctuary. Sometimes she herself walked upon the beach, and those who saw her form--a splendid woman whose flowing hair was her only clothing--had a special wisdom and clung to hope that the darkness of Sauron would be cast out of the heart of the King.

But it was not so. And the day came when the Eagles of Manwë brought doom to the fallen Men of Númenor, and the island was cast down and drowned.

And as the children of the land fell into the Sea, there to die, Uinen changed their bodies, and she made of them swift dolphins, and sea otters, and silver seabirds that coasted on the wind above the drowned land and cried "weep! weep! weep!" for their lost mothers and fathers.

Then Ulmo again called her and spoke sternly. "Why hast thou done this thing? Thou knowest it was the command of our Lord that this land should founder, and that only the ships of Elendil could escape--and that only if they dared my wrath."

Uinen held her head high. "Never again can I see my children die, after the kinslaying at Aqualondë. What wrongs have they done? Why does Manwë punish the small children for the sins of the great King? Were there babies upon the ships of Númenor that broke the ban of the Valar?"

"It is not for such as thou to question the will of Manwë," Ulmo said. "And thou thyself did drown the ships of the Noldor in punishment for their crime--dost thou think there were no children among them? And so I name you the guardian of outlaws and exiles. Ever after you will weep for the sorrow of the banished, and cry for their loneliness."

And that is why the sea moans upon the shores of Middle-earth, and the tears fall like rain upon the sand.

Aragorn turned the pages one by one, savoring the delights within. Beautifully recopied in Bilbo's spidery hand with gold and silver embellishments, the book had been lavishly illustrated in inks of many colors. It would be a magnificent first volume in the Archives of the House of Telcontar.

He stopped when he came to the story of Tuor. Aragorn wondered how he would choose if offered such a dilemma: Love, Power or Wisdom. For many years it had seemed he was to have none of them. Now Love and Power were his. As for Wisdom, well, perhaps.

He turned the page. There in the glade within the Girdle of Melian, Lúthien and Beren lay in each other's arms. Yavanna, in the raiment of Love, looked over them. Inscribed on the facing page were the verses Bilbo had carefully extracted from The Lay of Lúthien. The old Hobbit had done a remarkable job of capturing the beauty of the original Elvish. Smiling, Aragorn murmured the words, the lilting rhythm of the union of man and woman firing his blood for the coming night with his lady.

The Judgment of Tuor

Valinor grew in bliss, until at last a quarrel marred its joy. It so happened that the goddesses vied to be named most fair, and the choice came down to these three greatest: Varda, Star-Kindler and Queen, Nienna of the Sorrows, and Yavanna, who brings love to all hearts. And when they beseeched Manwë to make his choice, he denied them. "For how can I choose when one is my wife? Would I ever know peace in my bed if I were to choose another? And if I were to choose her, would not all of the Ainur say that love blinded my choice?"

The Ainur allowed that this was so. And Manwë said, "Let us look to Middle-earth for a judge. Indeed, let us choose among the Second-born. For their eyes have not seen the Light of the Trees and will look upon all three as marvels."

"You speak wisely, Lord," said Mandos. "There is one whose knowledge stands out among mortals. Tuor the valiant lives in exile as an outlaw in the Wild, and the beasts are his only friends. He does not eat their flesh, but lives on the fruits and roots of the land, and the milk that his goats give. Thus he has come to a deep wisdom, drawn from the land itself."

Amazed indeed was Tuor that day when in splendor and beauty the three goddesses appeared before him.

Netted stars shone in Varda's black hair, her skin was of translucent alabaster, and the light of Telperion fell upon him from her glorious eyes. And she said, "Mortal, name me the most beautiful of all, and I will make you king over all the lands of your kind."

Nienna's silvery hair floated around her like the soft rains of the Blessed Land, her neck was graceful as a swan's, and her eyes gazed upon him with mercy and kindness. "Mortal, name me the most beautiful of all, and I will grant you knowledge beyond the measure of even the wisest Elven king."

Lush tresses the color of ripe wheat cascaded over the hills and valleys of Yavanna's form, her breasts were as the swelling rosebuds of May, her mouth like juicy peaches. "Mortal, name me the most beautiful of all, and the fairest of all Elf-maidens will be yours." And she placed the image of Idril daughter of Turgon in Tuor's heart.

Then Tuor could see only Idril's beauty, her luxuriant golden hair, her inviting white arms, and the promise of sons. For his choice, the wrath of Varda and Nienna ever after pursued him where he fled. But Yavanna arrayed Tuor in Elven mail, and one of her maidens in the form of a deer showed him the secret way to the Hidden City. Then she put love for Tuor in the heart of Idril, the fairest daughter of Elvendom and heir to its greatest King, and Idril turned from her lord and husband, Maeglin, and beseeched her father to grant her the choice of another.

So the seed of the downfall of Gondolin was planted, and grew to the treachery of Maeglin in league with Morgoth, the Great Enemy.

Painting by greywing. Click here for a larger size.

The Queen sank into a rich velvet chair in her lovely, sun-lit quarters in the King's House. Around her were many treasures brought from Rivendell: elegant Elven-crafted furniture, luminous golden lamps, and most precious of all, her mother's tapestries of the First Age: The Trees in flower, Fëanor forging the Silmarils, the beauty of Aqualondë before the flight of the Noldor.

With a happy sigh she picked up the blue-bound volume from the table beside her and opened it on her lap, looking for her favorite, the tale of Lúthien as Bilbo had heard it from Beorn. She took her time, slowly leafing through the splendid pages, and lingered for a moment over Bilbo's rendering of the tale of Beren and the Troll-hag. Smiling, she thought that she just might recommend it to Faramir, as sound advice for a nervous husband on the eve of his nuptials.

How Lúthien Stole the Silmaril

Lúthien was the fairest child of Middle-earth there ever was, or ever will be. So great was the beauty of her song that the trees followed her in dance, and remained in their graceful positions when she ceased.

Now, when Thingol her father sought to prevent Lúthien from fleeing to find Beren her lover, he built a house among the branches of a huge tree, and there locked up his daughter. Lúthien pretended obedience, but secretly she plotted her escape, and beguiled the guards to bring her wine and herbs. With her magic she made a brew, and as she bathed she chanted the words of power. Her black hair clove to her body; she fell to the floor on all fours, her eyes narrowed to pale green slits, and as a cat she crept silently down the tree and passed unnoticed by the unwary guards.

Like a shadow in the night Lúthien ran through the deep forests and swam the rivers. She caught small birds and mice to eat, and curled up under soft brown leaves to sleep. For many days she journeyed, seeking always the fortress of Thangorodrim, the stronghold of the Dark Lord where Beren was held in thralldom. At last, creeping through the thorny underbrush, she saw the black towers looming ahead. Carefully she cleaned herself all over, licking the dirt from her dainty feet, and rolled in a bed of wildflowers to catch their scent.

Then, confident she looked her best, she strolled up the black stone road to the great door, her tail held high and sinuous, and sat upon the doorstep. "Miaow! I wish to serve the Lord of the World."

Tevildo, the Prince of Cats, came to question her. His green and red eyes flashed with anger, his needle-sharp whiskers bristled, and he lashed his tail. "Unworthy one, why should I admit you to our Lord?"

"Great Prince, I am meek and small, but I will frighten the mice from under his chair and keep his lap warm in the cold evenings."

And indeed, when Lúthien approached Morgoth's great throne, three mice were there a-playing, and she pounced upon them and shook them in her pointed teeth until they died.

Greatly pleased, Morgoth ordered that she should be a guest of honor in his house; her duties were to keep his quarters free of vermin and to amuse him when he required it. In his bedchamber she had a golden cushion sewn with pearls and rubies on the edges, and a dish made of mithril for her cream, and they were placed at the side of the great table that bore Morgoth's crown with the three shining Silmarils, for he took it off only when he slept.

"Small one, what is your name?"

"Great Lord, I am called Nightingale for my sweet voice." And she sprang upon his lap and sang to him with soft miaows. As she sang she rubbed her soft head on his powerful hands and curled up upon his lap.

"And that is not all, Mighty One. I can dance, too." And she leaped from his lap onto the rich carpet. Waving her tail, she undulated and frisked about, and her feline form began to grow. She rose upon her hind legs, reaching her pretty paws in the air. Her black fur turned to soft cloudy hair and creamy skin. And she was naked, and as she swayed in ecstatic dance, Morgoth forgot everything but the beauty before him. For such was the power of Lúthien's beauty that even the most powerful of the Valar succumbed to her enchantment.

When he slept, she took his knife and cut a Silmaril from the crown and fled. Through the dark passageways she ran, down the endless stairs to the dark and smoky kitchen where her love was made to serve as a scullion. As he washed the pots and pans Beren saw a small black cat creep under the table. "Begone, demon of hell," he said, for he thought all cats served Tevildo, the Prince of Cats.

"Tis I, Lúthien," she hissed. "Crouch on the ground, as I do."

Astonished, he fell to the floor and saw Lúthien's shining eyes in a midnight black face, the gleaming Silmaril between her paws. He touched her soft black head as she again spoke the words of power. And as two sleek black cats they fled, Lúthien bearing the Silmaril in her sharp teeth.

Together they crept through the gloomy passages. But Morgoth had discovered Lúthien&#s9;s deception, and with a howl of rage that shook the very foundations of the fortress, he commanded Sauron to find the thief at all costs. And so Sauron unleashed his Orcs and with deadly blades and hideous cries they pounded down the stairs to seek the traitor.

The two cats darted like swift shadows across his path. They tangled their lithe limbs in his feet, and with a yell Sauron tumbled on his face, and all the Orcs behind fell on top of him. And Lúthien and Beren escaped from the impregnable stronghold of the Great Enemy.

But they were not yet safe. Creeping through the gloom they sought a place to hide from their pursuers, and at last they found a den dug into the earth. "I must stay a cat," said Lúthien, "for as a woman I am naked and will be cold."

Then a deep voice said, "Who is it that comes into my house?" And a huge she-bear lumbered to the mouth of the den and looked down upon the two small cats at her door.

"Mother Bear, will you not help us?" Lúthien cried. And when she had told the bear her story, and showed her the Silmaril in all its magical glory, the bear took pity on them and invited them into her den. And she gave them her fur coat to warm them, and underneath the thick brown pelt Beren and Lúthien as man and woman celebrated their reunion.

For her kindness and generosity the Valar gave to the bear a great gift: to transform at will between bear and woman. And she became the foremother of all the Beornings.

Painting by greywing. Click here for a larger image.

The mix of amusement and sympathy in the Queen's voice aroused Faramir's suspicions, but he could not believe any mischief of so refined a lady.

Then he opened the book to a most shocking illustration: A fierce eagle with golden wings stooped upon a group of young men, all naked and engaged in, if truth be told, no innocent game. From the eagle's talons dangled a beautiful youth with long golden tresses, who appeared to be screaming with horror. "The Passion of Manwë" was written in ornate letters across the top. What could it mean? Legolas might know.

Perhaps the Queen had not seen that picture, Faramir thought doubtfully. In any case, no lessons for new husbands were to be had there. He leafed through the book in growing astonishment until, with some relief, he came to a picture of a happy wedding.

~oOo~

Beren and the Troll-Hag

Once there was a brave and noble hero named Beren. He was the son of the king and a valiant warrior, renowned across the land in the wars against the great Enemy, Morgoth. One day he and his companions ran into a band of cruel Orcs, and every man but Beren was killed. Wounded, hungry and sad, Beren wandered for days, until he was lost in a land of illusions. Strange voices spoke from the air, an eerie music played, and beautiful forms took shape before him, only to melt away when he reached out. Trapped in the mists, he cried out for help.

A great Elf-king mounted on a splendid horse rode toward him. His helm was of gold, his eyes bright as stars, his hair like silver.

"What are you doing in my lands?" the king demanded angrily. "Mortal men are forbidden here."

"I lost my path, great king," said Beren. "If you would show me the way out, I would gladly leave."

"You ask a favor I have never before granted," said the Elf-king. "Why should I allow you to live when so many others have forfeited their lives for this trespass?"

"Ask whatever price you wish," said Beren. "My people will gladly pay it."

"You have nothing I desire," said the Elf-king scornfully, and he drew his sword.

"So be it." Beren prepared to die.

"But there is a boon you could do me," said the king. "And for that I will spare your life."

"Anything within my honor to perform, I will do," Beren said.

"It is this: in a year and a day you must return here and marry my daughter."

Surprised, Beren answered, "It is a great honor you ask of me, lord king. I will return in a year and a day and marry your daughter."

"If you fail to appear at the appointed time, I will know that you and all your kind are cowards and liars," said the king sternly. "And my knights will hunt you down and slay you." And with that, the mists abruptly vanished, and Beren saw that he was only a little way from his home village.

His people greeted him with great joy, and for a while they knew a time of peace. But Beren was a man who kept his word, and he knew he must return to the Elf-king's land. Would he be given the princess's hand in marriage? Or would he be slain? At the appointed time he went to the place where he had last seen the Elf-king and called out, "Great king, I am come to marry your daughter," and at once before him appeared an enormous, multi-towered palace. Elves greeted him and brought him to the king seated on a golden throne, a crown of emeralds upon his head.

"Mortal, why have you come?" demanded the Elf-king in a great voice.

"I am here to fulfill my vow, great lord," said Beren. "I will marry your daughter."

Then the Elf-king laughed, and he made a sign to his guards. "Open the gate!" he commanded.

A gate that Beren had not before noticed swung open, and there stood a hideous Troll hag. She was nine feet tall and stank like a fetid swamp. Her dull eyes oozed; her thick, flat lips opened to reveal a black tongue; upon the tip of her knobby nose stood a monstrous wart. Her flesh hung in bulbous wrinkles on her thick, shapeless body, her scant, dirty hair drooped on her shoulders.

"Behold my daughter!" shouted the Elf-king. "Today she will become your wife."

Beren swallowed hard, but he was a courteous man, and he bowed to the king and the princess. "With great pleasure will I wed this lady."

The celebration was long and merry. Beren strove mightily to keep a smile on his face and to speak pleasantly to his new wife, but she only grunted in return as her shovel-like hands stuffed whole roasted lambs between her yellow teeth. Bloody slaver dripped from her mouth as she chewed.

Night came at last, and Beren and his new wife were led to a fine chamber where a great bed covered with satin cushions stood. The Troll hag laid herself upon the bed.

"Dear husband," she croaked, "now you must embrace me."

Beren was sweating by now, but again his courtesy demanded that he obey. He cautiously approached the bed and planted a small kiss on his wife's ugly cheek.

The Troll hag vanished, and in her place lay an Elf-maiden of astonishing beauty. Her hair flowed about her on the bed, her eyes sparkled like the moon, her sweet lips were as red as roses.

"Do not be amazed," the Elf-princess said. "For many, many years I have been under a curse, and only a man's willing kiss could end the spell. And you, dear husband, have done it. Now I must ask you to make a choice, for the spell is only half-broken, and I can hold my real form for only twelve hours out of the day. Would you wish me to be beautiful during the day, when you can stand by my side before the King's court, or during the night, when we may sport ourselves as we please?"

"Dear wife," said Beren, who was bedazzled by the Elf-maiden's loveliness, "I leave it to your wise heart to choose."

Then the Elf-princess laughed, and she threw her arms about Beren's neck. "You have broken the spell at last," she cried. "That was the right answer. Now I will be beautiful all day and all night." And she kissed him till his breath was taken away.

She told him that her name was Lúthien, and the wicked werewolf from Morgoth's fortress had cursed her with a hideous Troll's form until a man willingly married her, kissed her, and gave way to her wishes in all things. Only Beren had proved able to fulfill the destiny. They lived happily ever after and had many children.

"I've wanted to see this for years," Legolas said, frowning intently upon the large book as he carefully turned the pages.

"Years or yéni?" Gimli asked, although he knew the answer. "And how could you want to see something that you didn't know existed?"

"Yéni," said Legolas absently. "I don't mean the book. I mean the tale, or more specifically, the version told by the Noldor, curse their uppity hearts. They've always claimed the story was a Silvan blasphemy."

"Hmm," Gimli said, his eye caught by a lurid drawing of a fat woman giving birth to people, horses, dogs, dragons…someone had an imagination.

"And that's another one," said Legolas, stabbing his finger at the woman's dark and sensual face. "The Noldor hate the tale of the Great Mother. Glorfindel…."

Gimli recognized that slow, crafty smile and the half-shut eyes. Glorfindel was due for a surprise.

~oOo~

The Passions of Manwë

Many times did Manwë bring grief to the heart of Varda, for his lusts befitted his majesty and supremacy. From his unions with the Maiar were born many lesser powers, guardians of the fruits and beasts of the fields of Valinor. Most famous was Dionaisë, the lord of the grape, whose bounty brings pleasure.

It was yet spring in Aman when the Eagle brought back word to Valinor of the strange and beautiful creatures newly found in Middle-Earth, their misty eyes just opened to the light of the stars.

Manwe wondered at the tales. Tell me more of the Children of Ilúvatar, he commanded his messenger.

"O Lord," said the Eagle, "one there is of a beauty surpassing even that of Varda herself. Of burnished gold is her hair, her side is white and soft, and the bees kiss her lips. Her eyes are the color of the sea."

And Manwë was seized with a great longing to behold this new being. He raised his arms and called upon his powers. His flowing blue robes became the swift feathers of a white Eagle; his hands lengthened for flight; his feet sharpened into talons. His keen blue eyes, all-seeing, remained, piercing his snowy Eagle's brow.

He lifted into the air upon his great wings and flew over sea to Middle-earth, marveling at the world the Great Father had made. Mountain, lake, rivers, vast plains, birds, animals loving, fighting—all these things he knew. He sought ever the new beings of whom his messengers had told.

He found her bathing in the cool, clear waters of a mountain lake. His snowy white wings gripped her inexorably, yet with the tenderness of a baby's breath. And of the union of Manwë to Valameldë, Beloved of the Vala, came two of the most beautiful children of the world, each in a pale blue egg.

Conceived of Ainu and Elda, of Eagle and woman, of a secret mating, the children had a strange nature and a strange fate.

First born was Loqë, he who laughs at death and makes mockery of gods, Elves and Men. Ever he whispers against the laws of his father, the king of the Valar, urging the Children to question the One's commands. For his transgressions Manwë has pronounced doom upon him, and sent his herald to bring him for judgment, but Loqë is a shape-changer. All creatures that hide in the shadows are his children, the owl and the hare, the pike in the dark stream, and the bats in the deep caves.

His sister is Thuriel, the secret woman. In the tangled wilderness between the enchanted mists of the Girdle of Melian and the rank evil of Morgoth's lands, she dwells alone. No man walks through her land unchanged.

Some see a wrinkled old woman who speaks of fate and fortune. Ever after they seek the end she had promised, wife and children abandoned, oaths foresworn.

Some see a mourning mother, crying out for her lost children in inconsolable grief. Ever after they shake with fear, looking always behind them, and their courage is ruined forever.

But the greatest misfortune of all befalls those who see her as a woman of unearthly beauty. When she lets fall the robe from her shoulders and opens her legs to her besotted lover, he is her thrall forever. Never again will he leave his seed in any other woman.

These unions brought grief to Varda, and she sought to restrain her lord, but he would not be denied. Ever and anon he would fly across the seas to Middle-earth. But Manwë was caught in his own web on the day he first beheld Glorfindel of Gondolin.

On the lush green grasses a bevy of handsome youths played, shining in their nakedness. One there was of surpassing beauty, muscular, silver-eyed and golden-haired. The Great Eagle bore down upon him and, grasping the struggling youth in his mighty talons, carried him off, to the great distress of his companions.

In Valinor Glorfindel became Manwë's cupbearer, and Varda passed many lonely nights, weeping in her bower. Manwë never again knew true peace.

Some dispute this tale, and say that Glorfindel was a mortal youth and that Manwë soon tired of him. Then Irildë the Maia took him to husband, and wishing that she might enjoy his company forever, begged of Manwë to make him immortal. But she forgot to ask for his eternal youth, and so he withered and shrank until he became a cricket. At night we hear his singing, remembering his lost youth and love.

Others say that both these tales are true, and they speak of different men of the same name. Neither of these Glorfindels is to be confused with the hero of the House of the Golden Flower, the great Balrog-slayer.

"Bird excrement," fumed Glorfindel. "If I have to go to Valinor to escape these blasted Silvan Elves and their loose morals, I will."

Worst of all was that so many believed that he, Glorfindel, was the same man as (he counted on his fingers) Manwë's catamite; a singing cricket; and a few other Glorfindels guilty of unspeakable behavior. "I don't mind being confused with the Balrog-slayer," he muttered. "Although it's gotten rather tiresome being asked all the time what re-embodiment felt like."

His fingers shook with rage as he turned the pages of the book to the story Legolas had mentioned. "The Great Mother—filth! Heresy! Why did Bilbo write down this wretched tale? If this gets around, it will just give the women ideas. Really, we must have instead a true record of the laws and customs among the Elves as they deserve to be remembered—as a high standard for Men in this lesser new Age."

~oOo~

The Great Mother

In the beginning the Great Mother dwelt alone in Cuiviénen. She sang, and the stars sprang into the sky; she took the substance of the earth into her hands and made of it trees and flowers and grass. Out of her womb sprang beasts and birds. And she made creatures like herself, lovely of form and with broad hips and ripe breasts, and she called them Níssi. In joy they dwelt together and fashioned houses and clothing for themselves, and the Great Mother was glad.

But soon her Children grew discontent, seeing the ewes with their lambs and the mares with their foals. "O Mother," they cried, "we wish for our own babies." But the Mother's Children had not her magic; they could not form babies from the very earth. And so the Great Mother set about creating another being. Taller she made him than her fair Children, with broad shoulders and strong bones for working in the fields, hoeing the crops and drawing water, for she wished this new creature to serve her Children well. And she made for him an organ from which the Children could draw seed for their wombs.

The Children were well pleased with the new being, and they called him Verno and coupled with him. Soon the houses rang with the merry voices of many children and the babbling of babies, and life was blessed. Of the new children, half were like their mothers and half were like their father. "And this is good," said the Great Mother, "for he does not have enough seed for so many." And she called the father and his sons Néri.

But the Néri grew discontent. "Why must we sow and reap the crops while the women care for the babies?" they complained. "We work harder than they do; besides we are bigger and better. We wish for them to serve us when we are tired after a long day in the fields." And they plotted a rebellion and seized the Great Mother while she was asleep, bound her with cruel ropes and buried her underneath a great mountain.

And the Néri said that the story of the Great Mother was a lie, and called the first Ner Ilúvatar, the father of all, and they bade the Níssi to be their servants and made them swear to one master alone. And the joy of the Níssi faded, and their work was never done.

But the Great Mother does not forget her sorrow, and sometimes she thrashes and cries in her bonds, and the mountains vomit out fire and death, and the Earth itself heaves and rolls, destroying the cities of the Children. Thus is she revenged.

~oOo~

Translations from the Quenya

Nér, néri man, men

Nís, níssi woman, women

Verno husband

About Year 1000 Fourth Age

Ælfwine groaned at the pile of dusty tomes, strewn with cobwebs and the debris of centuries. He reached out one dry, blue-veined hand—and sneezed. Recovering himself, he blinked aged eyes at the heap of books and manuscripts before him.

Restoring order to the King's Archives was going to be more difficult than he had hoped. He carefully moved one ancient tome and began to clean it with a soft cloth, pausing now and then to wipe his rheumy eyes.

The door burst open and a rosy, plump, young face broke into the subdued gloom of the room. "Master Ælfwine," his apprentice cried, "I found it! I found the fabled Blue Book of Bilbo Baggins!"

His hands clutched a small volume, its soft leather blackened with age.

A deep sigh escaped Ælfwine's wrinkled lips. "Give it here, at once." He stabbed his finger at the desk before him.

With trembling hands the apprentice lay the book before him. Faded gold edged the borders; a few pages appeared frayed or torn; but otherwise it was intact. Ælfwine opened it. The spidery writing on the opening page began, "My dear Aragorn…."

"This is it," Ælfwine said reverently. "Now we will discover all the secrets of the ancient Elves, of their virtue and wisdom."

He rubbed his hands in anticipation and turned the page.

He gasped.

He turned another page and his jaw dropped. His fingers shook as he touched a colored engraving in disbelief.

"My boy," he said sharply, "make me some tea."

His face falling, the apprentice scuttled out the door.

"Who would have thought it?" Ælfwine muttered. As he leafed through the book, the villainy grew even worse. He was still reading when the boy returned with the steeping pot and a heavy cup.

"This is not the Blue Book, you fool," he said furiously. "This is the raving of a diseased mind. How could you mistake it for a record of virtuous conduct?"

The boy peered over his shoulder. Hastily Ælfwine slammed the book shut. "It's time to feed the hens. Be gone."

"Yes, Master."

Alone, Ælfwine opened the book again and gaped at a picture of Lúthien and Beren doing unspeakable things. Perhaps he should destroy it. Then again, his scholarly side objected to the spoilage of a relic of the Elder Days. Because there was no denying that handwriting: it exactly matched the thin scratches in the Red Book. Pity. Bilbo Baggins had not, after all, been the proper Hobbit gentleman portrayed in the legends.

He would put it aside for his own personal study. No one else need know.

As for the King's request for the edification of the court—well, there was the usual solution. He would bow before the King's majesty and say, "I fear, your grace, that the original was damaged beyond repair. I have here a fair copy."

He drew out a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped his quill into a small pot of black ink, and drew in large, ornate letters: Of the Laws and Customs Among the Eldar Pertaining to Marriage and Other Matters Related Thereto.

Since its discovery by Christopher Tolkien among his father's papers, the authenticity of the Blue Book has been debated among scholars of the ancient Eldarin people. The small group of specialists who have been allowed to see the actual book remain deeply divided, especially in their assessment of the more erotic material. Thus, in choosing these particular tales for translation, we sought to avoid the merely salacious material, such as "Elvish Ways of Love. Of How They Lay Down And What Happens After."

The deconstructionist linguist Edwin Smoot, Ph.D., argues that the idiosyncratic nature legends of the Blue Book are characteristic of folk mythology, and may reflect the animist origins of what later became the neo-Platonism of this highly moral people: "As their society grew in economic and cultural complexity, the legendarium shed its rustic crudeness and adapted to the higher mores of the evolved society" (Cross-Cultural Mythology: A Comparative Study of Creation Legends Among the Valarin Peoples and the Ancient Hawaiians, University of Wootton Major, 2001).

Theorist Maeve Riannon draws an analogy with a similar process as seen in the ancient Mediterranean:

"Since the first Greek began to snicker at the belief in divine beings who behaved exactly like humans in their worst moments, which was as far back as the sixth century BC, with Xenophanes' famous text:

Yet if cattle or horses or lions had hands and could draw,
And could sculpture like men, then the horses would draw their gods
Like horses, and cattle like cattle…

Graeco-roman religion and philosophy endeavored to turn them into something else; basically, beings who kept the old names, had their personal attributes and a physical image, but who were lesser mirrors of the great Creator and images of boring perfection" (personal communication, January 2007).

Indeed, the Blue Book material elucidates certain ambiguities in the Silmarillion in its final form. In her paper "Some aspects of the evolution of Quenya and Sindarin" (Middle-earth Studies, Vol. 12, Spring 1971), Prof. Ariadne Pizzolongo argues, "It is only by considering the Blue Book tale of the Ruin of Doriath that the significance of the language differences between the Sindar and the Noldor can be understood, especially the importance of Fëanor's insistence on 'Þerindë' as the correct pronunciation of his mother's name (see "The Shibboleth of Fëanor: the case of the Quenya change of þ to s," The Peoples of Middle-earth). Thus, when the Sons of Fëanor came to the Thousand Caves and demanded that Dior 'þurrender the Þilmaril,' Dior simply did not understand them. The mutual slaughter was the unfortunate result of this tragic miscommunication." Interested readers may find this version of the Ruin of Doriath in the appendix.

As the chief voice in the scholarly camp dismissing the Blue Book as apocryphal, Hedwig van Blätterung insists that the book itself is "a blasphemous hoax" and claims that analysis of the leather, paper and ink used reveal that it dates from the early years of the present century. She believes that it is the product of a group of amateurs writing "fanfiction," whose shameless immorality casts derision on the scholarly labors of J.R.R. Tolkien and the ancient texts that he spent years translating and annotating. "The Blue Book version of the Ruin of Doriath, for example, is the work of a particularly sick individual who uses the nom de plume of greywing. That these people go by aliases only shows how dishonorable are their intentions. Greywing can't even capitalize her name on most of the sites where she posts her dubious wares, and Gandalfs apprentice doesn't know there should be an apostrophe in his/her name. I don't know who they really are, and frankly I don't want to" (personal communication, February 2007).

In the interests of scholarly integrity, we sought out Gandalfs apprentice for interview before publishing this collection. Sadly, we were informed that she had been mysteriously struck by a bolt of lightning thrown by a flock of giant eagles. Climatologists and ornithologists are still trying to explain this odd phenomenon.

A few notes on the individual chapters follow.

Of Uinen and the Children of Númenor: Maeve Riannon (op. cit.) comments: "It's difficult to stomach the role of the Valar in Tolkien´s universe. Their greatest failure is that, though they have been appointed to rule the world, they retreat to a land of their own, hide it from the rest of the world, share it with a favored race, and forget about the rest, who can rot all their lives under Morgoth's influence for all they care. They have been appointed to rule the world and they ignore the task. Thus they fall exactly in the same error as the four Istari who were sent to help with the War of the Ring and forgot their roles. As for Númenor, it was supposed to be Eru who did all the sadist work. True to their spirit, the Valar hid under their beds and asked for aid."

The Judgment of Tuor: Hammer and Skull speculate that this tale represents an unfortunate scrambling of the texts. The heroic figure of Tuor is in no way like the Trojan Prince Paris, who fled when he was expected to fight in battle. That role was reserved for the cowardly Salgant.

How Lúthien Stole the Silmaril: Need we point out that a cat could never carry a gem of the size and weight of the Silmaril in its mouth.

Beren and the Troll Hag: Evidence from other sources suggests that Bilbo Baggins heard this story from Merry Brandybuck's old nanny.

The Passions of Manwë: This tale is a late addition to the legendarium, intended to justify the practice of homosexuality and generally loose conduct among the Eldar. Regarding the identity of Glorfindel of Rivendell, see Hammer and Skull, "How Many Glorfindels? Heroism and Identity in the Post-Two Trees Epoch of Middle-earth" (Grond: A Journal of Myth-making, Spring-Summer, 1988).

The Great Mother: The similarities between this tale and the Hawaiian creation legend of the goddess Pele are striking.

Appendix: "Þurrender the Þilmaril!" by greywing

"Dior has not responded to any of our messages," complained Celegorm. "We should take action!"

"Yes! Attack immediately!" cried Caranthir, his face red with passion.

"Don't be hasty," cautioned Maedhros. "Perhaps they were unable to read what was written. Very backwards, you know, those Moriquendi—they only understand those chicken-scratches that one of their minstrels invented." (1)

"Daeron," said Maglor. "The piping fellow."

"Whatever," replied Maedhros dismissively. "The point is, it's not very polite to go stick your swords in anyone in sight just because they didn't answer a few letters!" (2)

"Look who's talking," mumbled Curufin.

Maedhros, studiously ignoring his brother, continued. "So, I propose that one of us go to speak with Dior."

"I will go!" said Celegorm immediately.

"NO!" came the collective shout of dissent.

"Why?" demanded Celegorm. "Just give me one good reason."

"Well," said Maedhros. "After all that dodgy business with his mother, Dior might just decide to stick you full of arrows." (3)

"And your Sindarin is hopeless," added Maglor, who thought himself rather good at languages.

Celegorm stared.

There was a clichéd pregnant pause, after which he stood up. "That was two good reasons," he declared defiantly. "I asked for one. So I get to go." And Celegorm's brothers, dumbfounded by his impeccable logic, watched helplessly as Celegorm marched determinedly out of the tent.

"You idiot, Makalaurë," hissed Maedhros, finally.

Maglor shrugged and went to tune his harp. (4)

~oOo~

Dior raised the most beautiful eyebrow to ever exist. "What did he say again?" he asked his advisor, who shrugged.

"I thaid, thurrender the Thilmaril!" screamed the fuming son of Fëanor before him.

Dior very delicately massaged his temple. "Now, now," he said firmly. "No need to shout, you know. If this is about those letters, we didn't understand a single word. Your scribes really need to improve their handwriting—it's atrocious! All squiggly and curly and what not; completely illegible."

"Thith ith not about the letteth, ith about the Thilmaril! Thilmaril!" insisted Celegorm. "You know? The thiny thuff? The one that Beren and Luthien thole?"

Dior might not have understood the gist of Celegorm's impassioned speech, but he most definitely caught "Beren" and "Lúthien" and, not surprisingly, assumed it was some sort of insult. "Out!" he cried. "Out of my halls, you nasty Fëanorian!"

So Celegorm stirred up his brothers to prepare an assault upon Doriath. They came at unawares in the middle of winter, and fought with Dior in the Thousand Caves; and so befell the second slaying of Elf by Elf. (5)

Maglor, coming across the dying son of Lúthien, knelt down beside him. "Why did you not simply give up the Silmaril?" he asked sorrowfully. "Then my brothers would not be dead, and you would not be dying, and I would not feel compelled to compose a three-hour lament!"

The dying king weakly raised his head to stare incredulously at Maglor. "So that was what you wanted?" he rasped. "Why didn't you just ask—" And with that, he breathed his last.

Footnotes

(1) Cirth runes; first devised by Daeron of Doriath.

(2) That came out totally wrong.

(3) Celegorm had this thing for Lúthien, apparently, and wanted to wed her.

(4) N.B.: The Ambarussa are away hunting, and have not yet been sent for.

(5) Direct quotation from The Silmarillion, J.R.R. Tolkien.