This is one of my few-and-far-between forays into the realm of visual art, and after a bit of prodding, I decided that I liked it enough to show it to the world.

I often find myself thinking, “Wow, I am such a Silm geek!” For example, after deciding that I was, in fact, proud of this piece, I said to myself jokingly, “Love not too well the work of thy hands!” I think that once a person starts quoting Ulmo’s warnings, one has officially crossed the threshold into “hopelessly nerdy”. Not that I mind, of course!

As anyone who knows me can attest, I have something of an affinity for dark fiction. I love reading tragic, melancholy, heartrending stories. I like happy fiction also, but if the word “angst” appears in the summary--especially alongside “sons of Fëanor”--I am likely to have a look. And The Silmarillion provides me with not only a tragic tale, but several tragic tales within the whole story. I’m drawn to the Fëanorians--though I cannot say exactly why. Perhaps they are interesting because they are some of the most villanized characters with some of the least--in my opinion--characterization. It’s interesting to ponder their motivations and experiences, especially on the individual and familial levels. And ponder I do. Incessantly.

The ending of Feanor and his downfall was the beginning of the end of the Noldor in Middle-earth because they listened.

eanor thought the death of the Balrog caused the light to dim, until he realized his sight was gone. All light was leaving him, even that of his Silmarils. But as sight left his eyes it entered his soul. Morgoth’s amassed power was worthy of a Valar. Power so great the Noldor could not break it. The fight against him could only end in defeat. He had deemed the doom of his people. There was only one thing he could do.

“My sons, the Oath. Keep it! Remember it! Never let Morgoth escape! Fight on for Glory!”

And he died.

This small bit of History, the sinking/downfall of Numenor, caught my attention in that it never really said why Tar-Miriel was too late to get to the Meneltarma and to safety. For the longest time, I sat there and imagined what exactly would create a sufficient enough reason for her lateness. Then, it struck me. Her children; two young, beautiful children, who had been hidden from their power-crazed father and from the evil influence of Sauron, would certainly detain the queen long enough for her to see them safely away from doomed Numenor, and then to keep her from getting to safety herself. And this is the second story (I think) that I've ever written that didn't have a happy ending. Do I get points for that? ;-)

he currents were strong, tugging and pulling around her legs, as if it sought to topple her and drown her before she reached the safety of the Holy Mountain. Míriel fought it all, struggling with the will to live, to defy the darkness that threatened to suffocate her. She wanted to live, by Eru, and hold her children again!

But it was all for naught. A loud roaring noise filled the air, and Míriel had to cover her ears. It was no use, but she kept doggedly on. When she looked up, she gained her bearings.

She was so close! But not nearly close enough.

Her gaze went beyond the Pillar and focused on the great wave that rushed for them. The water around her was now up to her waist, and she was out of time. Still, she fought the water and pushed on. Hope died in her chest, and yet she refused to give up.

"Curse you Ar-Pharazôn!" she cried with all her power and might. "You usurped my rightful throne, you forced me into a marriage I did not want, and you beat me until I submitted to your will! I could not be a proper mother to my beautiful children. I shall hate you for eternity, and curse your name forever!"

The wave was closer, towering over … everything.

She could smell the tang of the seawater.
She could hear the roar of the water and the terror-stricken cries of her people.
She could taste their fear, and her own, mixed with the salty brine of the water.
She could see nothing for all was now enfolded in darkness, with no hope or escape left.

Míriel screamed one last time, just as the wave crashed down upon Númenor and she knew no more.

The Valar blamed Morgoth for the downfall of the Noldor, other kindreds blamed Finwë and the strife in his House for it, while most of the Noldor blamed Fëanor himself for it. But what about those who loved the so-called guilty, how guilty are they? In my story “Like Roses Over a Fence”, I explore the feelings of the wives of Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finwë as they sit alone in the dark in a dying palace garden wondering if they themselves could have prevented the downfall of the House of Finwë and thereby the downfall of the Noldor.

here did we go wrong, we wives of the House of Finwë?”

“Once that Vala was set loose amongst us, was there even a hope we could change them? Was there ever the possibility we could help our lords to conquer the poison taking root in their hearts?” Anairë asked, letting the remnants of the flowers fall through her elegant fingers to the ground.

Nerdanel smiled sadly for a moment. Then at last she spoke, “I tried. Oh in those last years I tried so hard. I did not want to lose him. I would have done anything to keep him as the noble prince I had wed. But while I could restrain and redirect the fire of his passions, I could do little about his possessiveness, his cruelty, and his distain of the Valar. So greatly was he misled, that it was beyond my love and strength to change his mood.”

Anairë nodded with understanding. “I encouraged my husband’s strengths and tried to help him fortify his weaknesses. I looked for opportunities to help him see himself as the high prince I, and many others perceived. But despite his nobility, all he ever saw was what he lacked. All he could ever see was what Fëanáro had that he did not. And the one thing he wanted most of all, Fëanáro somehow managed to horde to himself in such great store that only meager shadows ever fell upon my Nolofinwë.”

I was challenged writing this character by a dear friend and it turned out to be a dynamic piece as this elf falls down to his death. Maeglin is a fascinating character who was born into captivity and went unnamed for so many years simply because his father did not feel the need to. To me, in his essence Maeglin is a tragic hero, a character etched and his traits most certainly make him walk between dark and light, just as his parents who mirrored this classic theme raised him. When reading the Silmarillion the battles between dark and light are prominently present in the professor’s writing and Maeglin’s life is not an exception on this.

This gives us, as Tolkien fan fic writers, a lot to work with. One can choose to portray him as an agent of evil or simply as a misguided elf who thought he was fighting at the right side. Or, in my case, I chose to approach him as a character born in twilight and who always was searching for the light in his life, only to be corrupted and forced by the other element in this zone: darkness. Did he ever leave the twilight or was he forever doomed to live in the shadows of his father or uncle? Whenever I think of Maeglin, I feel sad to see such potential wasted and a man like many others just playing his small part in the Music. To me he is most certainly an interesting character to explore!

he perfect image of her started to haunt my dreams once I realised that the lady my mother always so fondly spoke off in her memories, was as beautiful as Varda's stars. The first day I saw her and watched her graceful moves, I noticed the light in her eyes and became enchanted of her melodic voice ever since. My muse through words and tales, my passion once I was close to her. Her scent, her long silken hair, her soft hands that caressed my cheek on the day my father poisoned my mother.

Ah, how I wished for your lips to touch. And how I craved to taste your sweetness, to make you mine by the bond of marriage and love. And yet, that Adan stole you away from me. From me! The righteous heir of your father's throne. Have I not fought bitter battles on behalf of your father's Kingdom? Have I not always stood by his side with council? Haven't I been your champion? All these memories are engraved in my mind and even now, my beautiful Idril, you are the only thing I can think of while the wind cannot bear my weight and the cold air encompasses my body. Death will be imminent soon, my life is laid in ruin, and yet all I want is you.

It was for the Fëanorians that I started writing stories based on The Silmarillion. My narrow exposure to Silmfic at the time had shown me only stories that portrayed Fëanor and his sons as evil. Yet even in my first awkward reading of the book, I knew that this wasn't so. That such an interpretation, in my opinion anyway, missed a major purpose of the story. And so I set to right this wrong through story.

Today's topic is Downfall, and the Fëanorians embody this principle. Who had a better start than Fëanor?--yet, immediately, his failing began. The Fëanorians are heroes, yet they make the same mistakes that you or I would, if we stood in their place. For this reason, they appeal to me.

But why? Isn't this strange, that one should want to embrace failure?

But it's not entirely failure. The Fëanorians make more than their share of mistakes, but, in the end, their actions lead to the salvation of Middle-earth and all of Arda. They are a reminder that, while even the mighty can fall, no one falls forever.

here is a Noldorin proverb that a house shall have a memory for each stone. Perhaps that is why Fëanáro--with the birth of each son--added to me. To make room for more memories.

Nelyo had his first kiss, Tyelkormo left to ride with Oromë, Macalaurë presented a ring to Vingarië here, in the courtyard. Curufinwë and his wife conceived their son. Carnistir met a girl called Taryindë. Ambarussa became enamored of the briar-tangled wilderness of my grounds.

But even scores of stones are finite. The end did come for me, for us.

My final memory: Finwë died here.

Well, what can be said about this? First of all I would like to apologize for any mistakes that render the Númenorean text incomprehensible. But other than that, somewhat unrelated to the content, my main concern here is very obviously language itself. Tolkien's enormous linguistic skills should be enough of a justification for wanting to honor his achievements. So why Adûnaic? Sindarin and Quenya are both beautiful, but often done and often studied, and for the prompt 'Downfall', the language of Númenor seemed the most fitting choice after all. We know that this language is a blend of Taliska, Khuzdul, and various Eldarin dialects – it bears traces of (nearly) every people of Middle-earth, and later evolved into Westron. By that survival, the endings are not really endings, the stories (as well as the road) go on, and “though now long estranged / man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.” I like that thought, and the fact that it features so prominently in Tolkien's writings makes them all the more attractive.

And not only that – the number of real-world details that entered into Tolkien's mythology and languages makes it all the easier to believe that his stories happened. Who knows, maybe the idea that “all speech of men in this world Elvish in descent” is true after all. I like that thought even more. And even if not, they happen in our heads and continue to inspire us. That certainly is not a downfall.

dô dulgî dolgu nakhî,
Balîka 'nAr-Pharazôn êphal êphalak.
Bîtha lôkhî Anzigûr magra balîka adûni
Du-azgar 'nAr-Pharazônun avalôiyada.

Idô azra-dalad zirân Anadûnê,
Balîka an-Nimruzîr êphal êphalak.
Bîtha izindi 'nEru magra balîka azûlada
Du-azgar an-Nimruzîrun zigûrada.

Batân lôkhî, batân izindi,
Idô kâtha batîna ayadâ zâirada.

Translation (or what this was intended to mean):

Now Black Night comes
The ships of Ar-Pharazon are far far away.
Crooked words of Sauron drove the ships westward
For Ar-Pharazôn's war against the Valar.

Now under the sea is beloved Númenor,
The ships of Elendil are far far away.
Straight words of Eru drove the ships eastward
For Elendil's war against Sauron.

One road was crooked, one road was straight,
Now all roads lead to longing.

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