"Few escape her nets," they used to say in Rhovanion where I was born, in the East Bight of Mirkwood during the last gray years before the King’s return. "Why would anyone want to?" I always wondered. When the shadows spread and my family fled, I journeyed far in the realms of Men, but found them empty; nowhere did I hear the far-off laughter of the Wood-elves, their songs as they are rendered by the Wood-men, or the rare, precious sound of Elven voices raised to the stars. Growing up, I saw the Silvan Folk seldom, for they choose not to be seen. But I think they knew me even then, filigod, the little wren longing for them as they long for the sea.
You know me now. I sit on the balcony of my beloved teacher, Soronúmë, ancient warrior and poet from Nargothrond, and I am the happiest little bird in the world. Imladris' fair vale surrounds me with enchantment. I play my lyre for you, giving back to you in music every bit of wonder in my heart, telling you all that you have meant to Middle-earth. I sing to gladden your ancient hearts as you prepare to leave these shores, and I’m learning all I can of your lore, so that you will not be forgotten. Perhaps that's why you gave me one of your three Jewels of Light to bear: the Jewel of True Heart, you call it. I will try to be worthy of the gift.
Offerings of a bard
Filigod’s Tale Tinw’s autobiography. Also see the bottom of this page for her first official IC “Arrival” in Rivendell.
(OOC note: I fuse the best of Tolkien and Jackson, and if you believe "best" and "Jackson" are an oxymoron, you may not like the effect.)
- Gannad a Linnad i Filigod: Music & Songs of the Little Bird
- To My Master: short poem; one of many pieces written while Tinw was captive in Mordor
- The Quest: a poem about what it is to be a bard
- Season of Change: poem, a spontaneous improvisation on the theme “seasons” for a Bards’ Guild thread
- Tol in-Gaurhoth: a short poem about Beren and Lúthien.
- Legolas and Gollum. A poem. I am not even going to TRY to explain how this happened, except that I’d stayed up all night.
- A Jewel in My Hand, poem in Elvish and Westron about Legolas' worst momenta
- The Three Hunters - one last time, a short vignette set on the morn of the battle of Pelargir
- Twilight, a vignette imagining Legolas running into Arwen after the Council of Elrond
- Falling Gold: audition for School of Story (assignment: an incident in Elrond’s life, 5000 words or less)
- The Sundering Sea: story submitted for contest (theme: “while reading Tolkien, you are abruptly dropped into Middle-earth”. I chose a rather odd time & place.)
- A selection of Elvish Poetry and Translations: both my original work, and translations of Tolkien's English poems into Sindarin.
- Not Lightly Do the Leaves of Lórien Fall, award-winning, well-researched, ongoing story following the Three Hunters from Helm's Deep to the last years of Elessar's reign
Offerings of lore
This is my growing collection of musings, essays, and discussions about canon or film, including a widely-renowned article on all there is to know about the archer and the history of Mirkwood. (This is why I refer to myself as a victim of Legolas Research Obsessive Compulsive Disorder).
Offerings of silliness
Offerings of beauty
(the earliest of these are my oldest artwork; they get better as they go)
Offerings of Elvish
If you want to learn Sindarin, I highly recommend the lessons and discussion forum hosted at the "Languages" section of Council of Elrond. Lots of helpful people!
The following is my "Elvish Toolkit": they are what I use as references to compose in Sindarin.
My very first offering to my new home
This post was my arrival in Rivendell at the Hall Under the Stars, 5/11/03.
Audible to keen elven ears, there is a burst of distant laughter from the trees beyond the garden, from the wags who take sport at making silly songs about passing travellers. 'Have a care, filigod!' someone cries gaily. 'They may dock your ears!'
A short time later, a small figure slips out from between the birches on the far side of the stream, skittering to a halt on the bank, momentarily at an impasse. Then she shrugs cheerfully, whispers a prayer to the waters, and totters her way across, carefully wiping the mud from her bare feet on the grass beyond. She looks around at the garden in awe.
Wisps of reddish-brown hair fall over her freckled face, making a bird's nest around and over her ears; her blue eyes are guileless. A battered maple harp as ever is clutched to her chest, and bow and arrows of no great craftsmanship jostle at her shoulder. Glinting on the strap of her quiver is a single item of elven make: a gold buckle fashioned in the shape of a wren, no more than a bauble, but evidently a token. It looks to be of Mirkwood design.
A fíriel in the garden? Someone get a net! But she seems harmles enough, and the tune she was humming on her way across the stream was not one she learned among mortalkind.
Tinw draws her right hand to her shoulder and out, open-palmed, making courtesy to Lord and Lady both, but she does not intrude further on counsels or conversations between friends. She looks around, vaguely sensing burdens and sorrows which one so young can hardly comprehend. Abruptly, she drops to the grass with a faint rattle, bends herself around the lyre, and lets fingers and words speak for her, making an offering to the hearts of those who come here to find peace. The girl's voice is earnest if not elven-fair; her Elvish passable if not perfect. She sings:
A Celebrían, gelebren!
Anann io cîr nan Annûn.
Gûr în gâr naeth a rhaw nangen.
Adel-awarthant chîn a chîr.
| Oh Celebrian, silver-fair!
Long ago she sailed to the West.
Her heart held grief and her flesh was in pain.
She left children and lord behind.
|
I Gaim Elrond Edhelolwen
ú-ernir guru nestad dîn,
velethril în, egor ú-aun
amdir a phen ammell anin.
| The hands of Elrond Elven-wise
had not the skill of healing her,
his beloved, nor could he give
hope to someone very dear to him.
|
Meleth în dhaer: ú-chebin
velethril în, chiril velui.
Aun chervess în na Balannor
na nestad. Dorthant mi Ennor,
| His love was great: he did not keep
his beloved, sweet lady.
He gave his wife to Valinor
for healing. He stayed in Middle-Earth
|
beriol, tíriel, 'ni lû
ndenged e-goth, cared e-dass.
Gell thind: in edhil boe cired
a Elrond, iell awarthad.
| protecting, keeping watch, until
the destruction of the Enemy, the completion of his task.
A pale triumph: the elves must sail
and Elrond must relinquish his daughter.
|
Dan pedir ennas nestad farn
na naeg bân, na naeth bân a nîr.
Ennas melethril dîn darthol
athin. Gûr în gâr 'lass a hîdh.
| Yet they say there is healing enough in that place
for all pain, for all sorrow and grief.
There his beloved waits for him.
Her heart has joy and peace.
|
anglenna lû aderthad lín,
dan dartho al-lû andithin.
Si Iavas al-le mi Ennor,
dan Iavas gâr i laiss vainwain.
| The time of your reunion approaches,
But stay a little while longer.
Now it is autumn for you in Middle-Earth,
But Autumn has the fairest leaves.
|
Tinw smiles wistfully as she finishes, glancing over towards Laebeth and Arele in the manner of mortals who cannot look overlong at the sun.
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