Why do I love Tolkien’s stories so much?

It is difficult to explain, because there are many reasons. The first time I read The Lord of the Rings the book fascinated me. I just fell in love with the universe. I could read the book over and over again. I have to say that sometimes I was a little jealous that it wasn’t me who invented this magical world. But then I read The Silmarillion and I saw a chance. Tolkien gave me the opportunity to interpret the stories in the way I really wanted. And I guess this is one of the reasons of my fascination.

Love has many shades. It can mean happiness, family, friendship, but also madness and obsession. Among the many colors of love there is also hope. In Tolkien’s world there are lots of love stories. Some of them are very romantic and happy. Despite danger and obstacles, in the end characters can be together. But there are also very meaningful tragic love stories.

I have no doubt that Gwindor was thinking about his beloved Finduilas when he was coming home. I like to imagine that it might have been the thought of her that kept him alive. He was forever wounded – both body and spirit, and darkness would never abandon him. Yet, he thought about his love for Finduilas and wondered whether there could be the hope of new life for him. After all he had gone through he deserved to be happy. But then... there was Túrin.

Gwindor did not know what was to come. Even if he might have predicted that the presence of Túrin could be sort of hazardous, he still brought him home. Was he blind? Was he not thinking about the consequences? Or was he just a good person who did pity Túrin, because he knew what darkness and loneliness really meant?

Everyone knows how the entire outcome ended. I wanted to take a glimpse at the love story that in my opinion is one of the most poignant motives in Tolkien’s universe.

Also, one of the reasons why I decided to submit this double drabble for the B2MeM project was also the fact that this is my first serious story. So, it’s a kind of personal satisfaction. ;)

  close my eyes and then I see you, my beloved, stand on the terrace in the glistening of the stars, more beautiful than the moonlight. You turn to me and smile. In your eyes I can see the promise of a better tomorrow. How I wish to touch your golden hair! To take your hands in mine and tell you all those words that I didn’t tell you before. But then darkness surrounds me and I can hardly breathe.

Do you still love me? Will you care for me, when you see how miserable I look now? Will you understand what I went through?

In the toughest moments of my slavery, the thought of you alone kept me from losing my mind. Now I’m free! And I’m coming home, longing to meet you and unsure of what might happen. I keep telling myself that if the love I saw in your eyes is as strong as mine, then nothing and no one will ever tear us apart, my fair Faelivrin.

The sunbeams warm my face and I open my eyes to look around and see my companion. He stands over the bank of Narog. When I walk over to him I put my hand on his shoulder with a smile.

“Come, Túrin. We will soon be in Nargothrond.”

Familial love is often explored in the relationships between Finwë’s immediate family (him and his wives and sons), but what about other generations? In my story “Anticipation”, I present Finarfin awaiting the return of his beloved daughter. Even if she was prideful, stubborn, haughty, and a rebel, he had to have been proud of Galadriel for her accomplishments. I would like to think that the mighty Galadriel was a daddy’s girl. I have seen how mortal men can be so completely wrapped around the little fingers of their daughters, so why not elven daddies, too?

ccording to reports, my dear daughter has also changed much over the millennia, molded and shaped by the experiences of her life. Galadriel she calls herself now, the name given to her by her silver-crowned husband Celeborn Galadhonion. Lusting for power, she departed Aman as an ambitious princess, married a Sindarin prince, and fled two homes as a refugee with little more than the clothes on her back. She bore a child and ruled a kingdom as its Lady. She wielded a ring of power for more than three thousand years and in the fullness of her wisdom, rejected ultimate power when it came within her grasp. Indeed, my little one has grown up, and I could not be more proud of her.

At last the white ship arrives, gliding almost soundlessly into the docks while I watch, breathless with anticipation. I hear the collective gasp as Galadriel - princess, granddaughter, sister, niece, mother, cousin, aunt, daughter - disembarks. A radiant vision in white, she approaches us gracefully, almost the equal of a Maia in the full flower of her beauty. But when my eyes meet hers, all I see is the smiling little girl who stole my heart so long ago. The moment she sets foot on the solid ground of Aman, she flies into my outstretched arms.

“Ata, I have missed you so,” she whispers in my ear amidst her tears.

I choke on my own tears and the emotions vying for control of me, but at last I find my voice and speak the words I have longed to say for so many thousands of years. Then I lift her and swing her around, my heart light with the joy of having my dreams and visions come true at last.

My baby girl has come home.

In Tolkien’s world the professor describes the Númenoreans and men as fervent sea lovers, always being drawn to the sea, feeling the need to go West and sail the seas. I always wondered why Eärendil would prefer to sail above staying with his family, hardly knowing his kids, and even at the end tamed the skies... Yet, loving the sea myself, I can understand how someone, when encountering it for the first time and coming from a city in stone like Gondolin, could have felt so overwhelmed by its raw beauty. The sea is a mysterious phenomenon: it is alluring, soothing, and mysterious and yet can be so cruel and dangerous at the same time. Still with this piece, I could see and understand how this could have enamoured Eärendil’s heart and how he deeply fell in love with this fickle mistress.

he first thought that came to him was the mysterious greyness that met his eyes instantly. This vista presented from this cliff seemed to call out to him. Eärendil knew better by now that things happened for a reason and he drank in the very sight of Her. The thought of exploring Her, making Her his own, made him wanting to best Her to his will. A thrill surged through him when he tasted the brackish mist on his lips: the yearning grew. Then he realised that he lost his heart to Her smooth expanse and The Mariner was born.

This was not the first time I had ever written Glorfindel, but it was the first time I wrote him at some length. I'm not sure what prompted me to write this story, only that for some reason I was compelled to write an extended glimpse into the life of Glorfindel. To give him something more than what is given in the books. This particular story was just meant to be a one-shot PWP, but I couldn't leave it alone, and others who had read it wanted more. So I indulged both them and myself. Of course, I also had a very smutty-minded muse with me for this particular tale... Let me amend that: the smutty-muse really never goes away, but in this story, I think she had me write smut in very nearly every chapter! Anyway, Glorfindel became a fascination for me when I wrote this story (and the few before it), though he never really became my favorite character. I like to think of him as more a guilty obsession, and he certainly delivers. ;-)

urriedly, he went to their bedroom and directly to their bed, dropping Melui down on the mattress. For a moment, he gazed at her, and his heart swelled with love and pride. Here was the woman who tempted him from afar, ensnared him when he least expected it, and gave him so much more than he ever thought he’d have. Here was the woman who married him, gave him two wonderful sons, and made his outlook on life change for the better. Reaching out to her, he caught one of the lacings at the side of her gown and toyed with it.

“What is it, beloved?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowing slightly with worry. “Are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly well. I was just thinking about something.”

“About what?”

Glorfindel grasped her shoulders gently and pulled her up to her feet, wrapping his arms around to hold her. Melui’s head rested on his shoulder and her arms wrapped around his torso. Peace and quiet settled around them, and it was a long while before either moved or spoke.

“What were you thinking about, Glorfindel?” she asked again, leaning back to look at him.

“You have given me so much, beloved. More than I ever thought possible.” He relaxed his hold around her and worked the lacings of her dress loose. “I think I loved you even before I met you.”

All Elves are serious and lordly, aren’t they? Not if they are as complex as Tolkien’s writing makes them sound. Even the High King and his Queen can enjoy each other.

Another joy of The Silmarillion is creating names for the unnamed characters. The High Queen’s name sounds properly regal.

indeidus looked at Ingwe as he clawed his way up the hill.

“Do you need assistance, husband?” She asked, then dodged the mud he threw at her, as did the couple behind her. All in Aman knew what the High King and Queen did for relaxation.

“After all this time I should know better than to trust your directions.” Ingwe said.

“I did show you the fastest way down the hillside.”

“Yes, like this.” He grabbed her and rolled down the hill with her.

Every married Elf-woman turned to her mate and said, “Don’t You Dare!”

Every mate looked innocent.

I remember reading this scene for the first time when Robinka showed it to me. There is magic in the air with this scene, just as the moment when Melian and Thingol met. It simply draws you into their world, their love and their bond. I simply felt enchanted by her writing. In this scene, we hope that we captured that feeling: the magic and deep love between these two characters that formed the foundation for Doriath.

Ever since I completed my first proper reading of The Silmarillion, I have been fascinated by the relationship between Thingol and Melian. When I read the list of topics announced for the Back to Middle Earth project, I pondered submitting something I had written about the royal couple of Doriath. A chance came when Rhapsody and I decided to go with the idea of submitting bits of our co-written story. Here, we present a more tender side of our tale. Thingol and Melian are not the only ones among our characters that we already have, or are planning to have, involved in a romantic relationship, but for now we will keep that in secret.

hingol smiled at his wife and reached out, walking over to the chair. She took his hand, squeezing the fingers lightly. Thingol bent his head and placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.

“My Lord?” she asked. “Is the council finished?”

“Yes, my Lady,” he answered, wrapping one arm around her waist, pulling her gently to him. She smiled again and leaned against his body, her head nestling into the richly decorated fabric of his robe. “At last,” the king murmured into her hair, kissing the top of her head.

“My Lord.” Melian pulled back. “You are too generous.”

Thingol chuckled softly. “No, I missed my wife.”

Melian gave him a heedful look. Freeing herself from his embrace, she turned to the window once more, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the rim of the neckline of her gown. A small sigh escaped her lips.

“You are perturbed, my Lady.” Thingol took her by the shoulders and stood in front of her.

“So are you, my Lord.” She pointed to the two sentinels, who had begun the next round of their patrol.

The king looked out of the window. “Mablung has not returned. But, my Lady,” he kissed her hand again, “let us not disturb this evening further with our troubles. Let us enjoy it.” Thingol led her back to the middle of the room. He retrieved a soft woolen coat that lay on a stool beside a small table and draped it over her shoulders.

“It will be raining soon, my Lord.” She pretended she didn’t want to leave her bedchamber.

His fingertips brushed her hair and neck as he asked, “Are we afraid of the rain? Let us go to the garden. May the freshness of the air ease our troubled minds.”

This topic was, in many ways, the most difficult to select a piece to include, and, at the first, I found this a bit baffling. Leafing through my ficlet collections, most of the stories are about--what else?--love. A good many of my short fiction pieces are about love in its myriad forms; my novel, even, is largely about love. So why the difficulty?

As I reread pieces that I haven't looked at in years, it occurred to me that the challenge for this theme wasn't finding a piece about love--that was simple--but finding a piece that adequately conveyed the power of love, and that was more difficult.

Because love is one thing that we all know, and it produces some of the most intense emotions of any of the B2MeM themes. And writing about love ... it's harder to fake. It's all been done before. As such, I hold my stories about love to a higher standard than any other.

I'm still not entirely satisfied with the excerpt that I have chosen, but I do like it for several key reasons. For one, it is about Fëanor and Nerdanel, and, in my personal verse, they have the most passionate love of any: a love that encompasses romance, friendship, and familial affection. For another, writing about this pairing--and indeed, this excerpt--is largely inspired by my love for my husband. I still, at times, cannot believe that one as charismatic and wonderful as he chose me, the geeky artist. But, like Fëanor and Nerdanel, our love began as close friendship, evolved to romance, and has since made us into a family. I hope that my luck in finding him to love makes my stories about love--while never perfect--maybe just a bit better.

he jerked awake at the sound of stones on glass. It was not a dream.

It was coming from her window.

She flew to the window as another handful of pebbles clattered against it. There he stood below, bold in the Treelight, wearing a plain tunic open at the throat and dusty breeches, barefoot, with his eyes bright in the near dark. Beautiful.

She opened the sash and gestured for him to be quiet. Her parents slept in the room next door, oblivious. Already, he was fitting his bare feet to the stones that made up the side of the house, climbing with the steady, fearless ease of a chameleon scampering up the patio wall. When his fingers curled over the sill, she made to scold him for his impertinence, for risking another week's punishment, but he did not allow her the chance. He kissed her open mouth, and she responded with such fervor that they both nearly toppled from the window.

"I have thought of nothing but you," he said. "Nothing. I cannot bear a moment more away from you."

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