nihthelm reblogged
so, for the sake of ease and checking in on fewer blogs (and my stress levels and general sanity) i’ve decided to move Caranthir over to my multimuse. if you’re interested, feel free to give that one a follow!
i feel like writing some meta or headcanons but idk what to write them about -- the curse of being on this blog (on and off) for four years is having written so much already, ha. so uh -- prompts or questions welcome?
silver-haired celegorm is the hill i’ll die on
nihthelm reblogged
Caranthir and those who followed him lived furthest east of any of the Noldor, in the foothills of the mountain range which divided Beleriand from the wilds of Middle-earth. they climbed those mountains, and they looked out into the realms beyond, and they met the dwarves there, and they were valiant in the defense of the inner lands also, holding the fortifications on Mount Rerir’s western slope and guarding the eastern end of Maglor’s Gap.
the people who would choose to follow such a lord, and to live in such a place, were bold ones. (Caranthir would tell you they were the boldest of all the Noldor, but then, he is biased.) bold, and not recklessly so, but with a certain dissatisfaction with settled ways and resistance to traditional constraints.
of course some were tillers of the earth or homesteaders who were by the nature of their goals somewhat more settled, but all of them had Fëanor’s dream of freedom in bright new lands burning inside them. there were warriors among them; for the times had made warriors of all the Noldor. there were hunters also, those who delight in wild and trackless lands. there were miners drawn to the peaks and the hidden caverns and the earth’s wealth which was hidden there to be found, and there were crafters and artisans eager to work it.
and to a one they were explorers, adventurers, those who would laugh at the boundaries drawn on a map of the known world and then push them out farther and ever farther. they laughed easily, and sang and danced often, and valued art and skill and beauty more highly than any other currency, and found as much joy in life as they were able in such times.
go not to the elves for counsel; for they are old as balls and probably fucking with you.
she spared no time in serving herself from the bowls of honey and oats and fruit. and such finely carved plate ware they were, intersecting pieces of wood smoothed and fit together with perfection, oiled not simply for the beauty of the grain but for the practicality of making such ware last longer. her father had told her stories of his life in thargelion, how beautiful the dark lake and tall towers and finely appointed halls and rooms. how elegant their clothing, expertly crafted as all things were beneath the hands of the noldor. it was one of the many tells that however much she had been raised in their customs and ways that arya stood apart from them, for her embroidery was abysmal, her teachers all at a loss for how to improve her. they had eventually given up when they saw that she could at least stitch tears in her clothes and her own flesh back together with competency, if not grace. it was only a slight sting, though one that made her practice all the harder at her other studies.
she savored the taste of the honey and oats mixed together, warm and sweet, and considered the options he presented. there was no need for an immediate response, the silence between them settling with calm familiarity. she noted briefly, and with some small bemusement, the strange flash in his eye of remembering something both comforting and painful, but asked not of it. some things were told only in due time, and now was not such a time.
as the scent of the tea filled the air, she pulled her knife from her boot. its handle was carved from ash, taught in its making by morifinwë, and she thought perhaps it was time to learn how to carve from bone. she took a fruit from her bowl and peeled it with the dexterity of a man twice her age, deftly avoiding the sharp edge with her thumb as a single rind fell into the bowl. she sliced a piece of the dark red fruit and ate it, contemplating.
“ culúrien asked to continue my studies with medicinal plants. if i practice my letters during those lessons by transcribing can i not craft a new blade with you this afternoon? we can practice taliska while we carve. ”
she looked up at him hopefully, even as he served them both their tea. the smell of it was inviting, now that the tart bite of the fruit had left her mouth dry. she rinsed her fingers in the small, shallow bowl at her elbow and tucked the loose strands of her hair behind her ears. her father had that same distant look to his eye again; it made her sad, somehow, her young face filling with concern. still, she asked not of it and only waited for his answer.
Briefly his lips curled into a smile, but the briefness of it was no testimony to a matching brevity of the emotion it displayed. Saving in his angers, which were sudden and fierce and hot, Morifinwë did not tend much to demonstrative emotion, nor did most of his folk -- at least as compared to humans, who had always seemed to him to wear all of their thoughts so openly upon their faces that ósanwe was barely required to read them.
Oh, but the elves did feel with a depth that might shock those who knew only the seemingly distant exteriors. They loved and hated with equal fervor, they desired and repudiated, they yearned and they dreamed. Their loves could be of a terrifying depth and strength; their drives obscure yet all-consuming and compelling. Nehtarincë, raised among them, was yet not of them; she could understand them better than perhaps any other of her race, and for all her running hoyden-wild in the woods before dawn, she had a quietness to her and a patience and a discretion which was quite nearly elven.
She seemed so normal to him. He wondered what another human would make of her. He wondered if his brothers had been right, and he ought to have handed her off to be raised by her own kind. There were no other children in the elves’ camp; elves did not marry nor procreate in times of war, and the days since the breaking of their leaguer had been a time of war unending and tears unnumbered.
There were no other children; and his little killer had no mother and no amilessë, no mother-name of insight or of foresight. The healer Culúrien, slender and kind, had helped to raise her; and in smaller ways so had many of the others, particularly Caranthir’s own folk -- those sworn to him of all the sons of Fëanáro. Perhaps some of them, too, wished to remember better the valor of the Haladin than the betrayals of Ulfang’s people.
“No,” he said finally, shaking his head, decision made. He sorrowed, somehow, to see her perched here so still and so quiet and sad as she looked at him. She should have been a child in the flower of childhood, running wild in the freedom of that state of being and not trammeled by the concerns of her elders, so heavy as they were for even his own broad shoulders to bear.
“That is, you may go to Culúrien for your letters and your plantlore... once your fast is broken and that belly of yours quite filled,” he added, a hint of tease in the last words. Standing, he moved to sit behind her, a wooden comb carved with snowdrops appearing in his hands as if by magic. With gentle care, he began to work the snarls from her hair and to fix her braids. “And then,” he said quietly as his fingers smoothed through her dark hair, “perhaps you will allow your father to run with you in the wood... with you and the overgrown wolf-pup you call a sister.”
nihthelm reblogged
me, 20:04: right so is the verb for taking quenya and making it Sindarin …. sindarizes, or sindarinizes @nihthelm, 20:04: it’s “fucking it up,” actually
nihthelm reblogged
He nods in Elvish. It’s just… a sexier version of a Common nod.
(via outofcontextdnd)
nihthelm reblogged
Bryn Celli Ddu Burial Chamber, Anglesey, North Wales, 14.1.18.
Built around five thousand years ago, this is still s structure of both beauty and ingenuity. I’ve visited so many times but on a wet Saturday afternoon in January, the site was very busy with visitors. Glad I paid it a visit again.
nihthelm reblogged
On Names:
Morifinwë Carnistir Fëanárion is his Quenya name, Quenya being his mother-tongue. Morifinwë means “black/dark Finwë” (Finwë was his grandfather; they all have -finwë names). Carnistir means “red-face,” for his unusual skin tone. Fëanárion means “Fëanáro’s son.”
Moryo is a familial nickname, short for Morifinwë. Ask for permission to use this, if you’re not related to him. You’ll regret it, otherwise.
Caranthir Fëanárion is the Sindarin (Thindarin) version of his name, with “Caranthir” being the translation over of “Carnistir.” (Sindarin/Thindarin was spoken by elves in Beleriand and is still spoken by some elven groups in Middle-earth in the Lord of the Rings timeline.)
Caranthir the Dark is something of an epessë (a sort of nick-name given as a name of honor or to describe some unusual/noteworthy trait), which might have been rendered something like Caranthir Dúath in Thindarin.
Colþegn Nihthelm is the Old English version of his name. “Col” has a meaning of “coal,” a reference to either his dark hair or his dark nature, or both – or just possibly to the fire of his spirit, related to his father’s, but less bright and more darkly smoldering. “þegn” has many uses, but in poetry is a complimentary way to refer to warriors. “Nihthelm” means “nightshade.” In headcanon, this is a a name given him by the Haladin. (Note: that’s not a letter P in Colþegn; it’s a thorn.)
Cantëa means “fourth” and is a name he has adopted in some of his reborn verses; he is the fourth son of Fëanáro.
Huinur is a male name derived from the Quenya word “huinë,” which means “nightshade” or “deep shadow.” Another name he sometimes chooses to go by in some reborn verses.
Cary or Carey are modernized/ anglicized versions of his name, by which he might go in a modern verse.
nihthelm reblogged
A scowl forms at the… title given. He was not the first nor the last to latch onto other words when talking about her and he would not be the last to annoy her by doing so. He did not have the honour of naming her, even if it was a title. She glances up to him, annoyance clear in each word spoken
“Probably for the same reason why you were given your name.” in all reality, she could have spun the question back at him. Why were they given names? But that would only make them walk around in circles “Names carry weight, weight that is not always welcome.”
His head tilted. An elf with no name seemed to him... no elf at all. From their very earliest days, the Quendi had been the naming folk, the folk who spoke with voices. Before they had been named the people of the stars, their first love had been words. Names. The Quendi were those who gloried in language; and the Noldor, of these, were the kindred most prone to it still. His father’s written tongue was a thing of grace and beauty and sweet logic; each of Caranthir’s brothers bore a fathername, a mothername, and some, an epessë.
Names were important, and heavy things; that much of what she said, he could understand. But to deny that weight, to set it aside rather than bear it proudly...?
“Who have you become, in the darkness of Middle-earth?” he asked again, this time shaking his head, the question all but rhetorical. He did not expect an answer which could satisfy him.
nihthelm reblogged
He had asked for this, he has to remind himself of that. Fingers fluttering pensively before himself, Dorian considers what is being berated with half a mind – though said so incredibly succinct. Part of his selection is chosen not by himself, but by the Herald. Unfortunately.
“You know, I’m certain you could put your talent of spotting such discrepancies to better use than on abusing one mage.”
“However,” he jested as if offended – and yet all but challenged, “if you’re so keen to right some of them now, certainly anyone enjoys a little manhandling. I would hardly object.”
Caranthir stared at the man for a second, then laughed sharply. “If you think that this constitutes abuse of you, mage, you’ve led a sheltered sort of life indeed.” He made a gesture with one hand, complicated and graceful. “My father was the greatest craftsman of my people. I cannot look at... flawed creations, seeing their flaws, and leave them to sit.”
The ghost of a smile. “He’d rise from death itself to chide me, else.”
The smile vanished again as if it had never been, eyes narrowing and brow creasing. “Had I access to the forge I would fix it for the sheer pleasure of so doing. Manhandling or no; you may tighten your own strap. Or do not, and wear armor which chafes you.”
for easy reference:
- noldo, noun, singular -- the ‘ethnicity’ or kindred of elves to which caranthir belongs. the plural is noldor. the descriptive adjective is noldorin. caranthir is a noldo. the feanorians are noldor. this embroidery style is noldorin.
- quendi, noun, plural -- the original name of the first-awakened elves for themselves, meaning ‘those who speak with voices.’ the singular is quendë. the descriptive adjective is quenderin.
- quenya, noun, singular -- ‘speech’ or ‘language.’ the original word used before the elven tongues diverged into dialects; related to the above (quendi) in etymology.
- eldar, noun, plural -- the name given to the elves by the Vala Oromë, meaning ‘folk of the stars.’ the singular is elda. the descriptive adjective is eldarin.
and there are. just so many others. calaquendi and moriquendi. amanyar and úmanyar. avari. vanyar. teleri. the elves have so many names for themselves, naming has been their Thing ever since the first days. it’s so complicated if you’re unfamiliar. but uh. if confused just ask?
so anyway who’s going to make a Bright verse with me where the Silmarilli are a set of three extremely powerful crystalline wands and the Feanorians are all Brights who are sworn to recover them from the Dark Lord and meanwhile run major international corporations on behalf of their father/grandfather and Caranthir is known for punching out paparazzi?