Eregion

This LJ is a small repository of stories and ficlets which will hopefully become part of my planned novel, Eregion, something of a James Michener-meets-Middle-earth family saga. Some stuff is public, some isn't. Due to the heretical nature of the material, keys of the city are given to those who are familiar with the Pandë!verse, in particular, Trinity, The Apprentice, Cat's Paws, Broken Star, and Risk Assessment. There will be a quiz. ;^) Also keep in mind that some spoilers for The Elendilmir are contained therein, too.

To hear my opinionated nattering on OFCs in Tolkien fandom, please see (and listen to) this Podcast in which spiced_wine "interviews" me.

This is something of a testing ground for the next stage of the Pandë!verse. The inspiration is complex, and includes the peculiar confluence in my mind of American Prometheus (the J. Robert Oppenheimer biography) and Tolkien's legendarium.

( Read on... )

Please forgive the fluff, but I experienced something fairly traumatizing earlier this week (not work-related, family's fine, but a friend is in dire straits), and reaching into the heart of darkness is a little too much right now.  So the Dark Muse allowed me to indulge. This was written in haste, so I will repent at leisure.  I'd warn for this being highly Pandë!verse-centric, too, but hey, if you're reading this here, then you should be well aware of that.

As in Inner Light (see below), the Istyanis considers Yule customs from another culture, but this time, the setting is Ost-in-Edhil during the mid-Second Age and long before she earns that title.  A very young Mélamírë (perhaps 5 years old or so),  helps Lygnel, the family housekeeper, prepare decorations, and Lygnel tells her of the traditions of her folk — a tribe of the Silvan Elves — and why a tree is needed in the house.

( Read on )

Written for the lotr_community November 2011 Challenge

Author: pandemonium_213
Title: Abundance
Rating: PG-13 (language; sexual references)
Theme: Feast
Elements: Sieve
Beta: Many thanks to Core Lizards drummerwench, grey_gazania, heartofoshun, nelyo_russandol, and surgicalsteelfor feedback and careful nitpicking. Linguistic assistance kindly provided by elvses, a.k.a. Darth Fingon and nelyo_russandol.
Author's Notes:  Abundant thanks to Steel for allowing me to borrow her OMC, Haldanar.  Also, please see foreword and end notes below the cut.
Summary:  During the waning of the Third Age, an elven-smith returns to northern Eriador after a long absence. There she receives a cold reception initially, which unfolds into an abundantly warm welcome. 
Word Count:  approx. 8035, including foreword, end notes, and recipe.

( Read on )

Prologue:

The Sword of Elendil was forged anew by Elvish smiths, and on its blade was traced a device of seven stars set between the crescent Moon and the rayed Sun, and about them was written many runes; for Aragorn son of Arathorn was going to war upon the marches of Mordor. Very bright was that sword when it was made whole again; the light of the sun shone redly in it, and the light of the moon shone cold, and its edge was hard and keen.

—  Frodo Baggins, The Red Book of Westmarch

Despite its current (and deplorable) appearance, Andúril was a mighty sword of great significance during the late Third Age and well into our own time.  However, little is mentioned in The Red Book of Westmarch of the smiths who forged the Sword of Elendil anew.  It is my scholarly opinion that this derives from a number of factors, primarily that our ancestors of the Third Age Shire were averse to many aspects of curwë, including the practice of the deep arts, holding these in great suspicion, and deeming them to be more often than not of evil nature.  

The other factor may be that the smith who forged the sword was a woman.  Unlike our own enlightened culture, women's achievements were of lesser note among many scholars of the Men of Númenor and those whom they influenced.  It must be noted that even the very names of the wives of Elros, Elendil, and Isildur have been lost to history.  It must also be acknowledged that, for all their wisdom and knowledge, our Noldorin forebears were little different.  But the smith who forged Andúril was none other than the foremother of myself and of our current Magistrate,  the Honorable Curulaurë of the House of the Star and Flower, who has requested that the House of Lore provide the translation that sets history aright as the smiths of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, under the supervision of Guildmaster Míriel Cánafinion, prepare to restore the blade to its original condition.

— Istyar Mairon Took, Guildmaster, The House of Lore, 1223 Fourth Age, New Ost-in-Edhil, The Republic of Eregion


(See end notes of Chapters 4 and 5 for background and credits; a much earlier version of this now revised story appeared under filter.)

( Chapter 1, Tea at Midnight; Chapter 2, The Sword That Was Broken, and Chapter 3, Weaving the Spell below the cut; Chapters 4 and 5 posted separately. )

Rating: PG13-to very soft R for sexual references.

This short piece was inspired by the seeming contradiction between Glorfindel's remarks during the Council of Elrond (Lord of the Rings, Fellowship of the Ring);( Read on )

Snow and sun. Elven and mortal. In the early years of the Fourth Age, Serindë and Halbarad are at very different points in their lives than Mélamírë and Laurefin, but each couple has the common desire of sharing a quiet moment and adult beverages.

(  'Let It Snow' below the cut )

Crack fic ahoy! Be forewarmed this jumps way, way, way ahead in the Pandë!verse. It's far from complete, full of nits, subject to revision, and it will a) open up a can of worms and b) leave folks guessing. I'm so bad.

By way of background, and I have sort of hinted at it in Trinity, the Valar don’t want to allow certain penitents to wander around their “paradise” in freedom, so they find a loophole of sorts that will allow them to live free lives, but the price of that freedom is mortality.

If you've read Trinity, you'll know who Professor Rosen is. As for "Caleb Dotawin"? I'm still undecided on whether that will be the last word for that surname but it's sort of phonetic from dóiteáin, Gaelic for "of fire". Caleb doesn't translate to anything like "Silver Fist" though. Fickle thing that I am, he is now "Caleb O'Noran." I have a future story in mind that may put the surname into context: the protagonist is Fionn O'Noran (see Trinity).

I owe a debt of gratitude to jael_the_scribe and her Not Fade Away 'verse which reinforced my crazy ambition that I had at the very beginning of writing my fan fic to take the story arc all the way to contemporary times.

Thanks to the intrepid mollusk-hunters of the Bad Clam for comments and for indulging me.

( The Name of the Game )

A venerated Lizard's comment in response to a bit in How the East Was Won prompted this brain worm that demanded to be exorcised. I don't know what exactly I'm going to do with this (and it is not complete if that is not apparent), and I am being cryptic as to whom the narrator might be recounting the short tale and when he might be recounting it. The events he describes take place before the Valar enter Arda, that is, our Solar System according to JRRT in HoMe X.

Be forewarned that it's pretty far out on the edge of my alternative universe/history in which neither the Valar nor the Maiar are divine/angelic beings, although with their unusual characteristics and immense powers, they appear to be so to the Children of Iluvátar. Also to be considered is that the Ainulindalë is a creation myth and thus highly subject to interpretation. Please see Chosen and Ulmo's Wife for other stories deriving from this era of the Pandë!verse.

Many thanks to my pals on the Lizard Council for comments, critique and encouragement.

As a backdrop, here is the excerpt from How the East Was Won that prompted Lizardly curiosity:

Nothing was more important to him than control. In a remote time and place, he had been safe and loved, but that security had been shattered into fragments. He had witnessed the horrific deaths of those he had loved and who had loved him in turn, but he had survived because of an innate talent, one that the Valar had noticed, they who had been indirectly responsible for breaking his life into shards. The Guardians had taken him – young, confused and reeling from his loss – into their fosterage and made him into what he was. But the vision of that split second when the order of his world disintegrated had never left him. Nightmares of the horrible scene haunted him, and even since then, he struggled to gain control over his life and the world around him. He glanced at the pile of cushions again -- none of them out of place -- and imagined a life of servitude in Aman where every moment of his existence would under the exacting control and surveillance of others. He could not bear the thought.

( Light Over the Mountain )