I’ve been working on a series of short ficlets/drabbles for @tolkiengenweek on characters’ Returns from the Halls of Mandos; some silly, some serious. Most of them I haven’t finished yet, but here’s the first of them.
Fingolfin (Wonder)
“Such hurt at the least will I do to the Foe of the Valar that even the mighty in the Ring of Doom shall wonder to hear it…” ~ Fëanor
Fingolfin did not have a tranquil return to life.
He had only just opened his eyes and scrambled to his feet, blinking against the unaccustomed light - has just begun to register the sensation of air on his skin and the scents of the garden around him - when he was bowled off his feet by a sudden, vast blow.
“DUDE,” said a loud, boisterous voice far above him. “DUDE. That was AWESOME!”
Tulkas picked him up bodily and placed him on his feet again as Fingolfin struggled to catch his breath.
“That was AWESOME!” he repeated. “You kicked his ASS!”
“I did lose,” Fingolfin observed, a broad smile breaking across his face in spite of it. He’d recognized that his return to life meant the Valar had pardoned him, but he hadn’t expected them to be this…enthusiastic.
(Though to be fair, he’d only had a few Vala to draw conclusions from, and Námo had never been enthusiastic about anything in his life.)
And he had never regarded his death in exactly this light before, rather than as rash despair that had left the Noldor unmoored.
“You’re an elf! You should never have been able to scratch him! You wouldn’t have been able to if he hadn’t fucked himself up so badly, that’s why we thought you were all mad when you went away. But you hurt him! Badly! You scared him, the damn coward! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
That was an extremely enjoyable thought. A lifetime’s experience of attempting to avoid at least outward displays of ego, however strong inner pride grew, made him make one more attempt. “Lúthien won.”
“Lúthien! That was stupendous! Nessa adores her, she was crowing about it for weeks! ‘She beat him with dance, dance, dance!’ We’ve spent many years since bickering about which of you was more impressive. But Lúthien was nice about it. She didn’t stab him. I still like you best!”
Fingolfin could not stop himself from laughing, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t even want to.
“You beat him,” he said, “and I am very grateful for it! You clearly followed my fight closely enough! - would you care to give me a play-by-play of yours?”
“Oh, that,” said Tulkas. “He was terribly boring by the end. Very little to tell. Now, the rest of the war” - brightening again - “that was marvellous! I wish you’d been there! Your little brother, he’s a surprisingly talented commander, but he doesn’t know how to enjoy these things properly!”
He regaled Fingolfin with tales of the War of Wrath all the way back to Tirion.
Category: fandom
middle-earth-mythopoeia:The case against Finrod revisionism I’ve always been frustrated by what I…
The case against Finrod revisionism
I’ve always been frustrated by what I see as bad-faith interpretations of Finrod’s character. You don’t have to like him or find him interesting, but it bothers me when people make claims about him that don’t make sense. When it comes to Finrod, they usually follow a similar pattern, something like: ‘I thought Finrod was good the first time I read the Silmarillion, but now I think he’s bad.’ ‘I thought Finrod was a friend of Men at first, but now I think he actually looked down on the Edain and treated them poorly.’ ‘Finrod comes across as a perfect good guy in the Silmarillion, but what if he’s secretly manipulative and evil?’ That’s what I’m calling Finrod revisionism. This is not a callout post; I’m just giving my reasons why ‘Finrod is actually evil and the Silmarillion is lying to you’ is not a take that does it for me. I think it’s entirely fair to criticize Finrod. He’s not perfect and if he were I think he would be less interesting (more on that later). I just do not vibe with interpretations of his character that paint him as someone who intentionally sacrificed the Edain in battle, someone who committed genocide against the Petty-dwarves, or someone who held prejudiced views, and I think those interpretations are unsupported by canon. This is a long post, so I’ll put it under the cut.
marypsue:Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels – and, by the same token, because of…
Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels - and, by the same token, because of the same things, one of his most hopeful.
It’s a parody - and I use that word very loosely, because there’s really nothing funny about it - of Les Miserables. It’s about a failed revolution, and a barricade, and the people who fought and died there for nothing. Nothing changes. Politics with a capital P goes on, and even the most pure and noble of intentions only becomes food for the pit of snakes who pull the strings. The powerful remain powerful, the powerless, despite their solidarity, their desperation, their violence, their hope, remain powerless. Their little lives don’t count at all. Things continue exactly as they always have, minus a few faces in the crowd.
It is also, I think, where we see Sam Vimes at his lowest. Sure, Thud! does similar things in stripping him down, but that is under an outside influence, and he has his family to think of. He has something to fight for.
In Night Watch, though, all of that is taken away. Sam Vimes, eternal cynic, for once has Cassandraic knowledge that his cynicism is absolutely founded. He knows how this will end, and there’s no Corporal Carrot to make the world magically better around him, no Sybil and Young Sam to push through for, no city to protect. The absolute best that he can expect is to succeed, and lose that family, that future, forever. The absolute worst? He dies. Everyone he cares about here dies. And it’s all in vain.
Sam Vimes is an alcoholic. It’s something that we tend to bring up when we’re talking about how amazing he is, how much he’s overcome, but gloss over otherwise. Which is a little sad, because it’s fundamental.
Sam Vimes faced this exact dragon, years ago. Sam Vimes saw there was no way to slay it. He saw the ants eating at the heart of every hope, every effort. He saw the first man he really knew as a good and kind and just - but never passive, never weak - man die, horribly, slain for no reason but petty grudge and Politics. He saw John Keel’s garden wither and die in its bed. He saw the hope of a better, brighter Ankh-Morpork squelched, and the sacrifice of a good man wasted. He saw the world, in all of its rotting, miserable, pestilent despair, spoiling every good thing that dared show its face, its only ordering principle the slow decay of entropy.
Young Sam Vimes had no anchor. Young Sam Vimes had nothing left to turn to but the bottom of a bottle and the smelliest part of an Ankh-Morpork gutter.
Sam Vimes, as of the events of Night Watch, is back there. Not only physically temporally displaced. He has nothing. There is no reason for him to stand up, to take on the role of John Keel, to take responsibility for the barricade, to try to bring Carcer back to justice. To fight the doomed fight. There is nothing between him and finding a quiet seat at the Broken Drum, ordering himself a pint, and giving up. There is nothing between him and despair.
But he gets up anyway. He intervenes anyway. He tries to help anyway, even when he can’t believe it will make any difference. And it doesn’t, in the end.
Except that people lived who, save for the actions of John Keel, would have died. Except it quite literally meant the world to them.
And that’s where the hope is hiding, in this hopeless, bleak, despair of a book. There is no glory. There is no revolution. There is no good thing that cannot be corrupted. There is no point. Except.
The Disc turns on the ‘except’. Always has. Always will.
marypsue:Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels – and, by the same token, because of…
Night Watch is one of Sir Terry’s most hopeless novels - and, by the same token, because of the same things, one of his most hopeful.
It’s a parody - and I use that word very loosely, because there’s really nothing funny about it - of Les Miserables. It’s about a failed revolution, and a barricade, and the people who fought and died there for nothing. Nothing changes. Politics with a capital P goes on, and even the most pure and noble of intentions only becomes food for the pit of snakes who pull the strings. The powerful remain powerful, the powerless, despite their solidarity, their desperation, their violence, their hope, remain powerless. Their little lives don’t count at all. Things continue exactly as they always have, minus a few faces in the crowd.
It is also, I think, where we see Sam Vimes at his lowest. Sure, Thud! does similar things in stripping him down, but that is under an outside influence, and he has his family to think of. He has something to fight for.
In Night Watch, though, all of that is taken away. Sam Vimes, eternal cynic, for once has Cassandraic knowledge that his cynicism is absolutely founded. He knows how this will end, and there’s no Corporal Carrot to make the world magically better around him, no Sybil and Young Sam to push through for, no city to protect. The absolute best that he can expect is to succeed, and lose that family, that future, forever. The absolute worst? He dies. Everyone he cares about here dies. And it’s all in vain.
Sam Vimes is an alcoholic. It’s something that we tend to bring up when we’re talking about how amazing he is, how much he’s overcome, but gloss over otherwise. Which is a little sad, because it’s fundamental.
Sam Vimes faced this exact dragon, years ago. Sam Vimes saw there was no way to slay it. He saw the ants eating at the heart of every hope, every effort. He saw the first man he really knew as a good and kind and just - but never passive, never weak - man die, horribly, slain for no reason but petty grudge and Politics. He saw John Keel’s garden wither and die in its bed. He saw the hope of a better, brighter Ankh-Morpork squelched, and the sacrifice of a good man wasted. He saw the world, in all of its rotting, miserable, pestilent despair, spoiling every good thing that dared show its face, its only ordering principle the slow decay of entropy.
Young Sam Vimes had no anchor. Young Sam Vimes had nothing left to turn to but the bottom of a bottle and the smelliest part of an Ankh-Morpork gutter.
Sam Vimes, as of the events of Night Watch, is back there. Not only physically temporally displaced. He has nothing. There is no reason for him to stand up, to take on the role of John Keel, to take responsibility for the barricade, to try to bring Carcer back to justice. To fight the doomed fight. There is nothing between him and finding a quiet seat at the Broken Drum, ordering himself a pint, and giving up. There is nothing between him and despair.
But he gets up anyway. He intervenes anyway. He tries to help anyway, even when he can’t believe it will make any difference. And it doesn’t, in the end.
Except that people lived who, save for the actions of John Keel, would have died. Except it quite literally meant the world to them.
And that’s where the hope is hiding, in this hopeless, bleak, despair of a book. There is no glory. There is no revolution. There is no good thing that cannot be corrupted. There is no point. Except.
The Disc turns on the ‘except’. Always has. Always will.
butleroftoast:And on that thought, I have a lot to say about the theme of identity throughout the…
And on that thought, I have a lot to say about the theme of identity throughout the Discworld in general. In every book, even the earlier, less dark ones, there’s a constant theme of being true to yourself and doing what you think is right, no matter what other people tell you, no matter what the world throws at you, no matter how life tries to wear you down.
It might be Rincewind just knowing he’s a wizard. It might be Granny Weatherwax standing in a world of mirrors and thinking it’s a trick question when she’s asked to identify which one is real, because obviously it’s her. It might be Vimes knowing he won’t let good men die even if history says that’s what happens, because it can never be what Sam Vimes says happens.
But the lesson is always the same: whoever you are inside, whatever you believe yourself to be, that is you, and nobody gets to steal that from you. Words in the heart cannot be taken.
warrioreowynofrohan: Sorrow and Laughter I’ve been thinking about my earlier Nienna post and the…
Sorrow and Laughter
I’ve been thinking about my earlier Nienna post and the connection between her and Gandalf. One of the things that stands out about Gandalf is his sense of humour, and in particular his enjoyment of laughing at himself. We see it at the Doors of Khazad-dûm; when he gives Merry an in-depth discussion of Saruman in response to a simple are-we-there-yet and Merry calls him on it; and plenty of other times. Indeed, one of the things he likes best about hobbits is their tendency to make it impossible to take yourself too seriously.
Humour, in the form of willingness to laugh at yourself, is the antithesis of pride, and pride is the root of most evil in Tolkien’s Legendarium. The characters who go bad in Tolkien’s works - Morgoth, Sauron, and to a lesser extent characters like Fëanor and Denethor - tend to be prideful ones who take themselves very seriously. Saruman, in the Unfinished Tales backstory, responds to Gandalf’s teasing with scorn and resentment.
So I’m trying to work through the connections between sorrow, compassion, humility, and humour. I think one of the things that the sorrow and compassion associated with Nienna gives to a person is “perspective”. In the words of the Valaquenta, “She does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope.” Sorrow and compassion are tied to understanding how much larger the world is than you yourself, or the things/people/lands closest to you. It’s why Gandalf’s lack of fixed abode is so crucial to his escaping the failures of the other Istari - he values and seeks to understand everyone, not one realm. (This is made most apparent in two exchanges with Denethor, which could sustain a whole essay in themselves.)
And so it is the compassion associated with sorrow that produces a recognition of one’s littleness in the world, which frees a person from obsession with their own dignity and enables them enjoy laughing at themselves.
(This still feels rambly; there were some excellent additions to my Nienna post, so if anyone has something to add to this I’d be very appreciative!)
warrioreowynofrohan: Sorrow and Laughter I’ve been thinking about my earlier Nienna post and the…
Sorrow and Laughter
I’ve been thinking about my earlier Nienna post and the connection between her and Gandalf. One of the things that stands out about Gandalf is his sense of humour, and in particular his enjoyment of laughing at himself. We see it at the Doors of Khazad-dûm; when he gives Merry an in-depth discussion of Saruman in response to a simple are-we-there-yet and Merry calls him on it; and plenty of other times. Indeed, one of the things he likes best about hobbits is their tendency to make it impossible to take yourself too seriously.
Humour, in the form of willingness to laugh at yourself, is the antithesis of pride, and pride is the root of most evil in Tolkien’s Legendarium. The characters who go bad in Tolkien’s works - Morgoth, Sauron, and to a lesser extent characters like Fëanor and Denethor - tend to be prideful ones who take themselves very seriously. Saruman, in the Unfinished Tales backstory, responds to Gandalf’s teasing with scorn and resentment.
So I’m trying to work through the connections between sorrow, compassion, humility, and humour. I think one of the things that the sorrow and compassion associated with Nienna gives to a person is “perspective”. In the words of the Valaquenta, “She does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope.” Sorrow and compassion are tied to understanding how much larger the world is than you yourself, or the things/people/lands closest to you. It’s why Gandalf’s lack of fixed abode is so crucial to his escaping the failures of the other Istari - he values and seeks to understand everyone, not one realm. (This is made most apparent in two exchanges with Denethor, which could sustain a whole essay in themselves.)
And so it is the compassion associated with sorrow that produces a recognition of one’s littleness in the world, which frees a person from obsession with their own dignity and enables them enjoy laughing at themselves.
(This still feels rambly; there were some excellent additions to my Nienna post, so if anyone has something to add to this I’d be very appreciative!)
hafsans:Long live the revolution
Long live the glorious 25th of May!
For the longest time I doubted that any book series would ever be as important to me as Tolkien’s legendarium. Then I discovered the Discworld in my high school library. At first I didn’t love it. Rincewind’s and Twoflower’s adventures in The Colour of Magic and The Light Fantastic were funny and entertaining but didn’t threaten to overthrow any of my established favourites. I liked them enough to keep reading though and after a few more books I was addicted, picking up gaps in my collection at charity shops and market stalls and Waterstones whenever I could.
The humour is great, yes. Pratchett’s puns and his dry wit are exactly my cup of tea. But there’s so much more to them than that. They’re wonderfully written. I have never once been bored or found myself wanting to skip pages when reading a Discworld book. His characters are some of the most complex and memorable I’ve come across. And, as a lot of other people have pointed out (including Neil Gaiman), there’s this very constructive sense of anger throughout that I’ve not seen anywhere see. It’s not hectoring or nihilistic at all, however. Through Discworld Pratchett looks at and calls out the ugliness in our own world but says that we, as human beings, are capable of doing better. It’s hopeful without being naïve.
Night Watch (which is where the glorious 25th of May comes from, in case anyone reading this isn’t aware) is one of the darker Discworld novels. It’s set earlier in the timeline than most of them, in an Ankh-Morpork under the rule of a sadistic tyrant, and while there are points of familiarity to me it felt like a very different place to the city I’d come to love. There’s a rebellion, which fails. There’s a group of men who aren’t heroes but they try to do the right thing, no matter how pointless it seems. And that’s important, the trying. The narrative values innocence and kindness and camaraderie, and that will always be meaningful to me than any ‘realistic’ or edgy, grimdark piece of fiction.
I don’t know, none of this is very original and other people have said the same things a lot more eloquently, but today I just felt compelled to try and say and something about what these books mean to me. GNU Terry Pratchett.
bronweathanharthad: It recently occurred to me that Gandalf only counsels Frodo when it’s just the…
It recently occurred to me that Gandalf only counsels Frodo when it’s just the two of them.
He doesn’t tell Frodo about the Ring until Frodo is in Bag End and they assume that nobody is around to listen in on their conversation. When Gandalf checks in with Frodo between Caradhras and Moria, he calls Frodo away from the rest of their Fellowship, at which point they talked in hushed voices and pause their conversation when other members of the Fellowship pass them. They likewise talk about Gollum in a place where the rest of the Fellowship probably can’t hear their conversation. In the books, Gandalf is accompanying the hobbits back home on the one-year anniversary of Weathertop, and Gandalf only asks Frodo whether he is in pain once he is riding alongside Frodo, and again he talks quietly to prevent the other hobbits from eavesdropping.
Gandalf knows Frodo well enough to know when Frodo is distressed, and he also knows that Frodo is often reluctant to talk about his troubles. Frodo trusts Gandalf in a way that he doesn’t really trust anyone else, not even Sam, and he always takes Gandalf’s advice to heart, even if he doesn’t understand it right away. But sometimes, as he shows on the one-year anniversary of Weathertop, Gandalf also knows that sometimes Frodo just needs a listening ear, someone who will listen and offer sympathy without being overly pitiful.
That mutual trust is possibly one of my favorite things about their relationship.