Month: February 2015

On Valarin and the creation of the Silmarils

curufinwefeanaro:

|| Yesterday lintamande answered a question of mine concerning Feanor learning Valarin (over here). Which prompted a conversation with misbehavingmaiar that ended up with me freaking out about what learning Valarin might mean in terms of creation of the Silmarilli. I already posted about that over here, quite extensively. But what I previously called a simple “power of words” now has become clearer.

Treat this as a headcanon, rather than an actual meta post.

Fëanor learnt a bit of Valarin, according to what is said he knew of it more than anyone else. But he did not share what he knew, according to Pengolodh because of his discontent with the Valar themselves. Lintamande’s post already explains the logical problem in how that timeline bit is framed, but I will now assume that he, in fact, did not share his studies about the language. And what else did he not share? The technique to make the Silmarils itself.

But what is Valarin? It’s the language of deities. The sounds were peculiar, too sharp for the Elves, but many of the words might as well have been not pronounceable, because the Valar’s phonic apparatus is not forced to remain perfectly human-like. The Elves tended to transcribe Valarin words into Quenya ones. 

Then misbehavingmaiar advanced the hypothesis that Valar might be not just a “language”, but a way to put music into words. An onomatopoeic tongue, as much as “whisper” or “bark” are onomatopoeic English words. “Bark” describes the sound of a dog, even if you can’t actually reproduce it with your mouth. Valarin, by consequence, could be the Music of the Ainur, the way they sing but brought into a language. Fëanor studided it and never shared what he knew. As doegred told me, exploring it he was looking for a language and found mathematics, because what is music if not a mathematical system?

As doegred put it: “He learnt how to trap light by creating a cage for electromagnetic waves that worked on the basis of interference using a specific math developed on the basis of Valarin”. And he did it through talking as well as crafting. Through the power of words. All elven “magic” is based on music and words. He literally learnt the language of the gods.

There was a lot of screaming in this discussion; that’s how we know it was good. UwU

I should write up some more solid thoughts on Valarin here soon too, because after this discussion I felt like some ideas about that very minimal lexicon finally gelled for me. :3

???

I am done divulging my mind to you, my twin. In the end, what have I not confessed to you? What was left unsaid, when I clutched beseeching at your robes, unable even to crawl? What did I not promise in exchange for you to return even one of my Lights that I could no longer live without? 

I begged as I had not begged before, steeped in ruin. I trusted at the last that you would protect me somehow.
That I was beyond saving even by you was not a betrayal of our love, but the fulfillment of the destiny that had been written for us the moment we were thought into being, just as our mutual incomprehension was. 

You will try defend the miserable remnants of our father’s world, for that is your nature; you will never understand, and therefore I must destroy all you cherish. 

But I do not hate you, my brother, not more than I hate existence itself. 

No. As soon as you broke my crown, I understood; I was born for this. 

?

What I would use you for, even I am ashamed of. 

I did not expect to feel shame in my current state. There is so little of me left, and yet it proved not immune to kindness. Do not blame yourself for what is to come— If there were any force left in Arda that were capable of staying me from this course, it would have been that kindness; unexpected, simple, and given in innocence, as is your way in life.  

Once this path was aflame with desire; then vengeance, then hatred, and finally, after all feeling had cooled in me, simply habit. Now I think it is the only purpose left to me. I cannot remember now how you became entangled in my schemes to end the story I helped begin… but if there were a way now to complete it without your sacrifice, I would spare you. 
But perhaps you will make the death of the world more poignant than just the extinguishing of ancient, wretched Shadow that no one will mourn. 

At the very least, I will remember you, till I can remember no more. I am sorry. 

? (Probably Sauron but Melkor if yo have an idea.

I thought you weak. You lost what you had built and fled from me like a rat from a burning mill. I held myself uncontested by any child of Eru. But then you returned, and you Sang…

 It seemed to me a great unfairness that one of you should have been given a tool of ours to shape reality, albeit a small one. Your Music was a suggestion to the universe, rather than a demand, and yet it frightened me. It intrigued me. 

If an elf could learn to manipulate the themes we began unaided, what might you do with proper guidance? What would the world look like, if beings of matter were given the opportunity to influence it to their advantage? Such is the province of the Valar, certainly, but what might the Eruhini do with such a gift? And what mightn’t they do to gain it?

You put in my mind the seed of a great and blasphemous notion, and had my pride not made me intent on your obliteration, I would have thanked you. 

Of the written word

curufinwefeanaro:

misbehavingmaiar:

The Vala’s back stiffened. 

Could he hold a quill? What sort of idiocy was this? A question barely fit to ask a child! Did the prince think he was some flightless bird? He had hands and fingers like anyone else, of course he could hold— 

…but as he reached forward to clutch the feathered pen that was laid out for him, he hesitated. His first instinct was to grasp it in his fist, but that was clearly not correct. He’d seen elves writing before. Did they not pinch it awkwardly between three or four fingers? He scanned the plume for indentations and sought out a vision of its former use— memories hidden within its very structure. He saw where each finger must surely be placed, and tentatively, he put the feather between his claws. He said nothing, wearing a neutral expression as the prince spoke. 

It was clear that Fëanor had been giving the matter of his lessons a great deal of thought. No surprise— if anyone was more renowned for their scrutiny and exactitude, they were not known in Aman. 

Melkor’s ears twitched at one observation in particular; his ability to speak in any language of the Eruhíni was something he had never questioned, like his ability to Sing. But he questioned it now… 

Fëanor spoke to him in a way no other elf dared; bluntly, without honorifics, with even a condescending tone, but his words today were not irksome. His concession that the Vala’s inability to read (perhaps could not even comprehend the very basis of the practice), was perhaps similar to his and the Eldar’s inability to sing Being out of Nothingness, was not condescending. It was merely true. And Melkor listened. 

His shining claws trailed up the rachis of the quill thoughtfully, watching the barbs of the feather part and reform seamlessly with a pleasant, textured sound. 

“Master Fëanáro… I cannot deny what you say. I never learned to speak. I never learned to do many things that come naturally to me…”  He paused, twirling the quill in his hand, feeling its resistance to the movement. 

“Speech… communication between two creatures of any kind, is seated in the higher functions of the mind and spirit. I am a Vala. We are  comprised entirely of spirit, and existed before the conception of any Born thing. My understanding of words is therefore instinctual. But writing!” He huffed, eyes narrowing in his consideration; “Writing is communication in abstract— it goes from the mind of the ‘speaker’ into a mute and insensible form of matter, were its message is imparted to a second party without the two souls ever having to meet or stir the air with their thoughts!” He marveled, frustrated but curious.

Writing was like silent music; it was not something he, nor any Ainu, could have conceived of, for they had no need of it. As beings of spirit and energy it was difficult indeed NOT to communicate with each other; deception was a particularly rare and difficult art between Ainur… one he had mastered since his long imprisonment.

“Whatever instinct I have regarding spoken words can make no sense of your glyphs, these systems of symbols. You Eldar devised these things while I was… away from the world.” He swallowed, feeling bile rise. 

…Like so many things, like the Trees, and like cities and commerce and cooking and clothing… In three ages, all had advanced and changed. Things that had been wild had been tamed, and grown wild again in a new ways— all while he’d been left to rot in the bottom of Mandos.

 He could not stop a gust of super-heated breath from escaping between his teeth in a snort. The barbs of his feather quill curled black at the edges, smoking. 

“…Tengwar, you call these glyphs?” He raised his brow, wrenching the train of his thought away from vile memories. “And I am to understand that they are your design alone, High Prince Curufinwë? …Do your talents know no bounds?” He smiled— with just a trace of ironic mischief. 

    Fëanáro glanced at the burning puff that blackened the quill; the Eldar had devised those things while Melkor was a prisoner of Mandos, and, had he been the one to sit upon the throne of Manwë, then Melkor would still be there. Instead the first of the Valar was sitting right in front of him, inside his father’s palace, calling him Master. Yet the thought momentarily slipped away as his mind concentrated on the books themselves, still spread on the wooden table, and possibly subject to the heated breath’s effect. The detail concerned him enough that his mind forcefully conveyed his worry with Ósanwë. It shut again into its privacy soon enough.

          « If there are any bounds », he replied instead, « then one day I shall find them and try to overcome them. » He then stood up to pick a roll of parchment, which he placed at one extremity of the table. He brushed the metallic extremities with his fingertips. « However. The Tengwar are my design alone in how they function, in the way they represent sounds. But I based them upon these », he declared. With that, he filliped the parchment so that it unrolled itself, and it was long enough that it covered the entirety of the surface.

          « These are the Sarati of Rúmil, one of our best loremasters. » He placed his palm upon the paper, spreading his fingers. The letters, all carefully written in a calligraphy that, to the trained eye, looked archaic, were many and extremely different from one another in more than one case. « The alphabet covers each possible sound that an Elda could ever articulate. Each one of the graphemes corresponds to a distinct phoneme. » Fëanáro raised his eyes and stared at the Vala. « Meaning that each one of these signs is the written representation of what our mouth pronounces. The Eldar have a long memory and I took some of the letters that were already known and transformed them into a group of interrelated signs. » Leaving the parchment were it was, he turned to sit again were he had been waiting for Melkor’s arrival.

          He adjusted the many layers of his courtly robes and slightly raised his chin. « It is I who named my glyphs “Tengwar”. From all of these… », he raised a hand and moved it horizontally in the air, to indicate the entirety of the scroll, « to a system of thirty-two graphemes. The sound value of each Tengwa can be adapted according to the language, and thus the Teleri will not have to use completely different letters to write down their words. Not only it will not be required for two spirits to meet or open their minds in order to communicate, but they will not have to understand a wholly new alphabet and group of letters either. »

          Fëanáro fell silent and narrowed his eyes, a kind of expression that anyone who knew him enough could recognise as the manifestation of intense focus upon his features. « You and your brethren are few and ever-aware of each other. You do not need to gather knowledge, nor do you need to share it with strangers whom you shall never meet in a way that they can comprehend immediately. You do not because you come from the primordial cradle of Eru, and you experience none of these difficulties. My question is whether you can grasp a concept that was born in minds alien to yours, a need that you never even conceived. If you believe you do, then I shall go on explaining why I devised the Tengwar as they are. »

The Vala sucked in a breath. –Fire–, or the idea of it, leapt from the mind of Fëanáro to his with a strong sense of warning, like a firm hand holding him back.

He had not expected that; he’d never had the mind of an elf touch his before. He had not know they could. For the most infinitesimal fraction of a second, he had a glimpse into the wheels and colorful fragments of the finest engineering brain the Noldor race had yet produced. It felt a bit like catching a glimpse of someone extremely beautiful undressing through an open window… Melkor felt a coppery blush spread hot across his face, realizing too late that he’d not heard a word that had been spoken for several seconds. 

”…a system of thirty-two graphemes…“ Fëanáro continued, voice low and intense, the voice that could famously enthrall a lecture hall in total silence with only a breath, or a all the kingdom with a roar.

As much as it had been tantalizing to gain knowledge of something so pivotal and cryptic as the written word, the chance to have uninterrupted, private audiences with the High Prince had been many times as tempting. He could only imagine what had drawn down the Spirit of Fire from his high disdain of the Vala to have a seat at this table…
Perhaps as the ‘least of the dwellers in Aman’, he was simply the only one of his brethren available for use in this (slightly blasphemous) experiment.

What a strain Vairë must be under, winding our two threads together… Melkor reflected, eyes tracking the elegant, meaningless strokes of ink that flowed across the scroll. They may as well have been geese flying across the open sky, for all they resembled language.
Could he learn? Did a being with no set biology, no childhood, whose raison d’être had been set from the instant of their creation, have the capacity to change?

"Who, if not I, Master Fëanáro? When there was Nothing, I learned of all there could be. When there was only Harmony I wrought Dissonance; when the elements were separate, I broke and recombined them; for the sake of my siblings’ law, I have had to–” Lie “–learn to become other than what I was in order to live. If The Mighty Arising cannot comprehend something new and unthought of, then surely, it is beyond all Valar.” Melkor gleamed, long tendrils of fire curling into a smug halo.
But then, with the candid spirit of the meeting weighing upon him, the Vala paused, thorned shoulders rising in a contrite shrug. 

“…That is, in any case, the only evidence I have to suggest that I can indeed learn of things beyond the continuum of my design. The truth is… I do not yet know.”

I wish to know… I am frightened NOT to know… the shadows of his mind whispered. What hope is there, if it is not possible to alter what was made? 


“Please. Explain how you devised such things. I am listening.”  

Gold Threads

findaratoldyouso:

misbehavingmaiar:

It was not often he had the opportunity to travel unattended through the cities of the Eldar; less often still that he had no errand set for him while he was there. A Vala, even diminished and in chains as he was, would find it difficult to go unnoticed about the Eruhini, and so, on this rare afternoon where he had been given leave to wander (for recent good behavior had won him a long leash), Melkor shed his golden flesh and walked unclad amidst the populace of Tirion. Free to slip unseen and unheard amidst the Noldor, he savored the chance to spy and collect news and gossip that were not meant for his ears. 

Delicious… 

It felt extraordinary to be unfettered again after so long! And yet, even now, there was a part of his spirit that felt as though it were lost at sea, missing an anchor, keenly desiring sensations to ground it… This worried Melkor, but it was not a matter he had time to spare attention to that day. Blissfully spreading himself over and through the unaware populace, he sampled the conversations of a hundred or more merchants and scholars and craftsmen, sifting through their various emotions and unguarded thoughts, panning for any gleaming nuggets of scandal or discontentment.

He reconvened himself, disgruntled. Only dull, trivial indiscretions, minor acts of selfishness. How boring…

The cloud of Melkor readied himself to take a plunge back into the crowd, when a shiver ran through his incorporeal spirit, like a plucked strand of spider-silk that makes the whole web tremble. Below (so to speak, for he was everywhere), sitting on the mighty steps of the Great Library of Tirion, were to young men in heavy discussion. One fair, one dark and tall. Both sons of sons of Finwë, he scented— and something… something more. A thread ran between the two of them, and alarmingly, through him; the Vala disincarnate and the elven princes. From his vantage point, Melkor could see that the thread ran far, far into the future of that Age. There was a darkness at the end of it. 

He found himself afraid, unwilling to come closer. He did not wish to come nearer to the youths, even to spy on them… And yet— was this not exactly the sort of thing he ought to investigate? 

The darker, taller elf moved off, bidding his friend farewell. Turgon the Vala heard, and of the one left sunning himself on the library steps, Ingoldo. So— now two more branches of the mighty Finwëan tree had faces as well as names… 

His fear lifted somewhat… the blond one smelled of mixed bloodlines, rich and strong, seasalt and iron and gold. The Doom that hung about this one had not yet spun itself from fibers of potential to a single thread… at least, not one that pierced him through the core. Certainly, he was the most interesting opportunity the day had presented yet. 

Melkor unfurled himself just out of sight, farther up the marble stairs. With a subtle chime of metal shackles and a flutter of dark cloth, he approached, clearing his throat softly. 

“Greetings, Artafindë. Pardon me, but I can’t help but notice what a lovely ring you’re wearing. I’m very fond of serpents myself, but I don’t see them much depicted in Noldor craft. May I see it more closely?" 

It was just after his cousin had left (and earlier than he said he would, the dolt) that Findaráto felt some sort agitation at the back of his neck, no, deeper, as if his spirit might itch. An irritation of some sort and uncomfortable warm one and he set his palm to the nape of his neck as he looked about. It had been long since he had felt that, what his sister had once described to be, so seriously for her age and her words so foreboding for one who was barely old enough to sit on a horse, as a warning. A warning of something he couldn’t quite comprehend.

But there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen and he didn’t wish to become a sight himself by twisting around in search so he slipped a slim book of poetry from his sleeve and shifted so that the warmth of Laurelin’s light might overcome the agitated heat.

It worked for a moment, or so. It was Amarië’s poetry he was reading and if he could not concentrate on the words, his thoughts strayed only to what she might have looked at composing it. After all, there was no Turukáno to tease him, call him lovesick, so perhaps there was some gain to his loss. 

But it was only a moment. He felt something behind him before heard the voice, felt something heavy as if even from a distance it might cross his shoulders and bend his back. And while even in the Blessed Realm Findaráto had known fear, a dread that had visited at night and in kennels, it had never settled over until now with such form. He turned around and drew himself to his feet just as the Vala greeted him.

He wanted to run. 

Of course, he did not. Whatever tales of Cuivienen his cousins and friends told around campfires in the woods, tales of horrors and disappearances and devourings, it was not for him to question the judgement (mercy) of the Valar. Compassionate Nienna had made her plea and here was the result. Findaráto would not do his family shame, neither by showing fear nor insult. He was a prince of the Third House and a grandson of kings; he would not quake. 

Still, he wondered, what was the etiquette here? By what honorific should he call this power, how deeply should he bow – if at all? He settled on a deep one but no title, nor name, at all. Something in him balked at calling this one ‘lord.’

"If I may,” he said quietly as he rose, his voice steady even with his nerves (and meeting his eyes was as difficult as touching flame), “it is Findaráto.” Only his lord uncle Fëanáro called him that, with what Findaráto had to expect was some sort of spite, if not aimed exactly at he himself, and at times Curufinwë when he wished to throw barbs. Why Melkor should say his name thus, he did not know and he drew his hand closer to himself at the question, as if to protect it.

But to refuse might be to insult and so he held his hand out, slowly, gingerly, but steadily so. He was a prince of the Third House and a grandson of kings; he would not quake. There was no power, Findaráto felt, suddenly and fiercely, not even within Melkor, that might convince him to hand over his ring.

It was not to be offered to him.

“Ah, forgive me. I have only heard the name spoken by others… High Prince Fëanáro, for one.”
He slid the name easily into the conversation as though placing a card onto a gaming table.  

“Lord Findaráto it is then– and I do apologize if I have disturbed you…” slit pupils followed the hesitation and withdrawal of the prince’s hand. He could almost hear the bristling of hairs on the elf’s neck, smell the first hot sheen of sweat blooming on his skin. This conversation (and his chance to scrutinize) would not last long, if the prince were given cause to bolt. 

Melkor exhaled a laugh, and tucked a curling hair behind his ear. The gesture provided a small distraction while he willed himself imperceptibly shorter, softer around the edges; he withdrew the thorns he favored to nubs, reduced the gleam of his red eyes to something closer to dark amber, less startling to the senses. Full lips became a shield, disguising the tugging hiss of shark-ridged teeth. Long sleeves draped to cover the signs of his imprisonment. 

“I meant no offense. I was only curious. I often find myself curious about beautiful things… There are so many these days, all of them new to me. A feast for starving eyes!” He raised a hand, close palmed, almost shyly close to his chest. “If you will not show the ring to me, perhaps you could tell me who made it, that I may offer my compliments?" 

*looms over bath* I won’t tell if you won’t. ~Sauron

doegred-main:

misbehavingmaiar:

doegred-main:

doegred-main:

*pales, gripping the side of the tub, while breathing slowly through his nose*

“Get. Out!”

At the sight of the oil phial Maedhros’ lips bent in a light grimace as colour drained once again from hims face and he slowly started rising to his feet, trying not to inhale the aroma wafting up from the water.

“How lucky am I to have your world!” Despite the near panic chocking him the Fëanorion managed to keep his voice calm but sharp. “Your questions may be asked elsewhere.” He went on as his tone became dry. “I do not want you in my private space and, if your goal was to have a conversation with me and not harassment you would not impose your presence when it is clearly unwelcome.”

"You cut me to the quick.” Sauron rose, dripping, and wrung out a twist of his hair. “Very well, where would you prefer we converse? The parlor? The library?”

He stepped out of the bath— making no move whatsoever to retrieve his garments. 

There are battles you cannot win. That had  been a hard-learnt lesson for Maedhros so the Noldo allowed himself to be glad of simply having the Maia out of his bath-tub. He walked to the pile of his discarded clothes and the bathrobe nearby careful not to ever let the Ainu out of his field of vision.

He did his best not to appear too awkward as he put the garment on. Thankfully, at least, the belt had a loop on its left side so the Fëanorion could fasten it on his own. 

“There is another bathrobe on your left Thauron” Keeping his tone icy Maedhros told himself that, at least it was worth a try.

“Were I in my domains I would suggest the dungeon. Still Master Ciridan may not appreciate having you parade through his house. The room he’s kindly given me is on the other side of this door.”

That said he quickly grabbed a towel for his hair, sorely missing his old bath-robe with clasps that prevented it from opening.

The maia watched Maedhros maneuver his clothes with a mixture of curiosity and admiration, but made no comment. For a moment it appeared as though he would disdain this offered garment as well, but he thought better of it– there was something perversely delightful about wearing the robe offered to you by an enemy. 

It was by no means the right size for Sauron’s shoulders or arms; he made a marginal effort of tying it closed at the front (a strangely quaint gesture for one so massive), and let it hang almost entirely open at the chest. He looked down at himself, then back up at his unwilling host. “Will this do, master Noldo?”

By his look, it would not do, but Sauron ignored it blithely and continued into the waiting chamber, where he made a point of picking up and examining a selection of Maedhros’s books. 

Gold Threads

It was not often he had the opportunity to travel unattended through the cities of the Eldar; less often still that he had no errand set for him while he was there. A Vala, even diminished and in chains as he was, would find it difficult to go unnoticed about the Eruhini, and so, on this rare afternoon where he had been given leave to wander (for recent good behavior had won him a long leash), Melkor shed his golden flesh and walked unclad amidst the populace of Tirion. Free to slip unseen and unheard amidst the Noldor, he savored the chance to spy and collect news and gossip that were not meant for his ears. 

Delicious… 

It felt extraordinary to be unfettered again after so long! And yet, even now, there was a part of his spirit that felt as though it were lost at sea, missing an anchor, keenly desiring sensations to ground it… This worried Melkor, but it was not a matter he had time to spare attention to that day. Blissfully spreading himself over and through the unaware populace, he sampled the conversations of a hundred or more merchants and scholars and craftsmen, sifting through their various emotions and unguarded thoughts, panning for any gleaming nuggets of scandal or discontentment.

He reconvened himself, disgruntled. Only dull, trivial indiscretions, minor acts of selfishness. How boring…

The cloud of Melkor readied himself to take a plunge back into the crowd, when a shiver ran through his incorporeal spirit, like a plucked strand of spider-silk that makes the whole web tremble. Below (so to speak, for he was everywhere), sitting on the mighty steps of the Great Library of Tirion, were to young men in heavy discussion. One fair, one dark and tall. Both sons of sons of Finwë, he scented– and something… something more. A thread ran between the two of them, and alarmingly, through him; the Vala disincarnate and the elven princes. From his vantage point, Melkor could see that the thread ran far, far into the future of that Age. There was a darkness at the end of it. 

He found himself afraid, unwilling to come closer. He did not wish to come nearer to the youths, even to spy on them… And yet– was this not exactly the sort of thing he ought to investigate? 

The darker, taller elf moved off, bidding his friend farewell. Turgon the Vala heard, and of the one left sunning himself on the library steps, Ingoldo. So– now two more branches of the mighty Finwëan tree had faces as well as names… 

His fear lifted somewhat… the blond one smelled of mixed bloodlines, rich and strong, seasalt and iron and gold. The Doom that hung about this one had not yet spun itself from fibers of potential to a single thread… at least, not one that pierced him through the core. Certainly, he was the most interesting opportunity the day had presented yet. 

Melkor unfurled himself just out of sight, farther up the marble stairs. With a subtle chime of metal shackles and a flutter of dark cloth, he approached, clearing his throat softly. 

“Greetings, Artafindë. Pardon me, but I can’t help but notice what a lovely ring you’re wearing. I’m very fond of serpents myself, but I don’t see them much depicted in Noldor craft. May I see it more closely?" 

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