#andvir

[elronds-library]

Two Captains

by mouse (@misst1ff)

Beleg leads Túrin through some ancient Elvish rites. Or, date night for the Two Captains of Dor-Cúarthol.

Mature, No Archive Warnings

Words: 4,530

[pukiirice]

Andvir and his parents, aka Androg being a bad dad and generational trauma

[thelordofgifs]

Obscure Tolkien Blorbo: Round 1

Makar vs Andvír

Makar:

A warrior Vala from an early draft of the legendarium, brother of Meássë.

He is a Valar who in old drafts was almost as evil as Melkor. So, if u want a beautiful  story where u try to claim that Melkor did nothing  wrong, u can just blame Makar. Then he is not really  blorbo, but he can work as such.

Andvír:

Son of Andróg and a member of Túrin’s band of outlaws.

He literally only appears in a footnote in HoME. But his impact is huge! He is responsible for filling in the blanks of what happened between Turin fleeing Doriath and him being brought to Nargothrond by Gwindor. Without him recounting the story, there would be a huge part of Turin's story missing. He is also just really tragic - he was an outlaw in the wilds with his father Andróg, and he seems to have been the only survivor (other than Beleg & Turin) of the attack on Amon Rudh. He saw all those people die :(. But he got to live to be an old man! What a life!

Who is your blorbo?

Makar

Andvír

Voting ended onMay 29, 2023

Round 1 masterpost

[maironsbigboobs]

Some Andróg fatherhood feels.

G, 628 words. Andróg takes his son out for an archery lesson, and reflects on fatherhood.

“Keep up, Papa!”

Andvír raced ahead of him, the bright yellow of his tunic making him hard to miss against the melting spring snow. His mother always worried when he went out with Andróg – too wild, she called him, too reckless, too irresponsible. He wouldn’t argue, but in that tunic, he doubted even he could lose the boy. She worried too much.

He grunted, shifting the weight of the equipment on his shoulder. Still… he shouldn’t let Andvír get out of his sight. “Alright, alright, I’m coming. Don’t run off!” His son was really too small for archery, having only just passed his fourth spring, but Andvír had begged and begged. He had promised not to cry if it was too hard, he had offered to do extra chores (that had not mattered to Andróg, who did not live with the boy) and even had tried getting his mother to intercede on his behalf. So Andróg had given in and he had retrieved his own childhood bow, dulled the heads of a few arrows, and here they were, trudging up the hill to a makeshift target. Andvír was sitting on a boulder and swinging his legs as Andróg came over the hill. For a moment, his heart swelled, to see that little grinning face – he had never expected to be a father, really, not when he was only twenty-one winters himself, and he didn’t think he was particularly given to it. He would rather have been spending the afternoon with his friends, getting drunk and daring each other to increasingly dangerous stunts. Andvír had been the result of one such afternoon, though the only danger he had been in on that night had been from the girl’s parents. He remembered when she had told him. He had not taken it well; he had laughed at her, thinking it was a joke, and then he had been struck silent with shock. It had all worked out in the end, but at the time it had felt world-ending and he remembered the fear of being a father so keenly. But maybe… maybe it was not so bad, when Andvír looked up so adoringly at him, like he was the best thing in his entire world. Had he looked at his own father like that, when he was young? He couldn’t imagine it swaying his father’s heart. It surprised him that it even worked on him – he was not moved by pity or softness, and he never had been. But Andvir was his boy and he could not deny him anything. “Alright, kid, up you get. Stand in front of me.” For the next few hours, he guided Andvír through the motions of archery, though the boy struggled with holding his arm straight, and the draw was a bit too heavy. But Andvír squealed in delight when he saw his arrows hit the edge of the target, even if they fell to the ground a moment later. “You’ll be a great archer one day, son.” Andróg declared, ruffling the golden curls of his son’s hair. “Will I have a bow like yours, Papa?” “Of course.” He laughed, thrilled by how much Andvír looked up to him. He swept the giggling child up onto his shoulders as they headed back down the hill. “I’ll make you one for your next birthday, one you can keep on your wall until you are big enough to use it.” He was not Dor-Lómin for Andvír’s next birthday, nor any birthday after. But twelve years later, when Andvír came to him out in the wilds, fleeing a life of thraldom in Dor-Lómin, Andróg made him a bow of his own. And though the winters were harsh and wilds unforgiving, in their own way, they were happy.

[arofili]

three houses of the edain ❂ house of hador ❂ headcanon disclaimer

          The Gaurwaith, or “Wolf-men,” were a band of outlaws who plagued the woodmen of Brethil in the years after the Nírnaeth Arnœdiad. They were composed of outcasts mostly of the Edain, though as their numbers grew, Men of other houses joined their ranks. Their first leader was Forweg, a man once of the House of Hador, who had deserted the field of the Fifth Battle and fled south to live as an outlaw. He was a hard and cruel man, leading by fear rather than respect, and few men were bold enough even to stand at his side. His lieutenant was Andróg, a man who had been forced to flee from Dor-lómin for the murder of a woman, almost as harsh as Forweg himself.           When Túrin fled Doriath after causing the death of Saeros, he counted himself as an outlaw and took the name Neithan. When the Gaurwaith encountered him in the wilds near Brethil, they challenged him, and one outlaw shot an arrow his way. But the arrow missed, and Neithan slew the man then offered to fight the rest of the outlaws to prove himself. Ulrad, a friend of the fallen archer, stepped forth in anger, but when Neithan approached he gave way in fear. Andróg alone faced Neithan’s challenge, but seeing his strength and bravery instead suggested he join their group. Forweg acceded, allowing Neithan entry into their band, but the next spring he would come to rue that decision.           When one day Forweg and Andróg disappeared from the Gaurwaith’s camp, Neithan, irritated by the squalor of their hideout, went wandering into the woods. Suddenly he saw a young woman running through a hazel-thicket in fear, chased by two men. Neithan rushed to her defense, killing one of her pursuers, realizing too late that it was Forweg himself. Andróg then appeared, shocked at his captain’s death, but would not strike Neithan for the murder, knowing he would be beaten. The woman demanded Neithan kill her second pursuer, but he refused and sent her home. While Andróg buried Forweg, Neithan returned to the camp and reported his deeds, claiming leadership of the Gaurwaith. Some men wished to kill Neithan, but Andróg arrived to confirm his story and support his claim, and they were forced to accept Neithan as their captain.           Neithan led the Gaurwaith southward, stopping them from raiding the houses of Men and hunting only orcs. When a band of orcs passed nearby, several of the outlaws demanded to kill them and steal the fruits of their plundering. While Neithan thought this unwise, his men were hungry and he knew he was dangerously close to losing his command, so he ordered them all to stay put while he and the best tracker of the group, Orleg, scouted out their enemies; in Neithan’s absence, Andróg was left in charge.           Meanwhile, Beleg Cúthalion, the greatest of Doriath’s marchwardens, had long been searching for Túrin, whom he counted as a dear friend before his flight. Now at last he drew close to Túrin’s camp, and meeting the man Larnach and his daughter Thoriel, whom Túrin had saved from Forweg and Andróg, he learned of Túrin’s position among the Gaurwaith as their captain, Neithan. Beleg discovered the outlaws’ camp, and unwilling to fight the companions of his friend he allowed them to take him captive and tie him to a tree. Andróg questioned him ruthlessly and resolved to kill him, envying his great bow, but Algund, the eldest and wisest of the outlaws, stayed his hand.           Neithan and Orleg were absent for several days, for they had been discovered by the orcs and forced to flee. Orleg was slain by many arrows, and Neithan barely escaped with his life only by running in the direction opposite of his camp. It was a long journey back, and when he finally arrived it was to the shocking sight of Andróg and Ulrad preparing to press a flaming brand to Beleg’s skin in an attempt to torture him into giving them more information.           Horrified and enraged, Neithan freed Beleg and chastised his companions, ordering them to make a vow they would never again raise a hand against elves or Men. The reunion of Beleg and Túrin was one of great love, though Beleg’s petition for Túrin to return with him to Doriath was denied. In sorrow, Beleg returned to pass the tidings to King Thingol, though before long his heart was turned again to Túrin and he journeyed in search of the Gaurwaith once more.           While Beleg set out into the wild again, Neithan and his outlaws had found a more permanent settlement. As they traveled ever southward, the Gaurwaith discovered three dwarves carrying heavy sacks, and as their vow did not prevent them from attacking dwarves they swiftly moved to raid them. The oldest dwarf was captured, while the younger two fled with arrows at their backs. The captive was Mîm, a petty-dwarf who was an outcast in his own right, and in exchange for his life he was forced to lead the Gaurwaith to his secret halls in Amon Rûdh. Ulrad searched Mîm’s sack and, finding nothing, demanded why he had been so protective of an empty bag. Neithan, finding pity in his heart for the dwarf, upbraided Ulrad for speaking without thought, a gesture Mîm would not forget.           Arriving in Amon Rûdh, Mîm first sought for the other dwarves, his two sons. Ibun, the elder, revealed that his younger brother Khîm had been slain by an arrow. In fury and grief, Mîm cursed Andróg, who had fired the arrow, that he would die from an arrow wound himself if he did not forswear his craft and break his bow. Sensing the power of his words, Andróg obeyed, but ever after there was hatred between them.           Neithan expressed regret for the loss of Mîm’s son, and this as well as the promise of gold should he come into wealth softened Mîm’s heart to the outlaw’s captain, though not his men. Having little choice but to allow the Gaurwaith to dwell in his halls, Mîm gave them entry to the Bar-en-Danwedh upon Amon Rûdh. Suspicious of their unwilling host, Andróg spied around his dwelling and discovered a secret stair to the summit of the hill, though he said nothing of it.           Aside from Neithan, the only member of the Gaurwaith who had any interest in Mîm was Blodren, an Easterling man whose father, Ban, had marched under the banner of Bór the Faithful in the Nírnaeth Arnœdiad. Ban had known dwarves in the east before he entered Beleriand, and knew a little of their tongue, which he passed to his son. Though Ban was slain in the battle, Blodren had survived and escaped the captivity of Morgoth before he had been taken to Angband, but the Edain despised him for the actions of Uldor the Accursed, not distinguishing between the two groups of Easterlings. Thus Blodren fell in with the Gaurwaith, who also held him in suspicion, and found a strange kinship with Mîm, a fellow outcast among outcasts.           When Beleg returned to the Gaurwaith, this time he gave to Túrin the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin, an heirloom of his House, and declared his intent to stay by Túrin’s side forever. Overjoyed to be reunited with his dearest companion, Túrin welcomed him gladly,  though he was distrusted by his men and by Mîm, who despised the Sindar who had once hunted his people for sport. Yet Túrin and Beleg were happy together in this time, finally realizing their mutual love and taking each other as husbands. With Beleg supporting Túrin, the Gaurwaith became a formidable rogue militia who fought against orcs: their territory grew, as did their numbers, and their lands became known as Dor-Cúarthol, the Land of the Bow and Helm.           In this time, emboldened by their victories, Andróg grew arrogant enough to take up the bow once more. As Mîm had declared, he was struck by a poisoned orc-arrow and would surely have died—had not Beleg, whom he had help captive and mistreated in the past, not healed him with his elven skills. Mîm’s hatred of them both only grew, though he yet fawned over Neithan, even though the interest Túrin had once shown in him had begun to wane.            But this would not be enough to save the Gaurwaith in the end, for the Curse of the Children of Húrin followed Túrin wheresoever he went, and as his dominion grew so did the malice of Morgoth. On one winter morn, Mîm and Ibun went out into the wild to gather roots and herbs and were taken captive by orcs. Pleading for his life, Mîm quickly offered up the location of the Gaurwaith, begging only that the Dread Helm be spared; he thought not of even Blodren, whose friendship had not wavered.            Mîm led the orcs to Amon Rûdh in the dark of night, and a fierce battle took place upon the top of Amon Rûdh. Every man was slain except for Túrin, who was captured; Mîm witnessed Blodren’s fall by an orc-arrow, but thought only of his revenge against Beleg, who had been bound and left alive on the hill’s peak for Mîm to kill him personally. But as Mîm’s knife was about to strike, Andróg crawled up the secret stair despite his mortal wounds and halted the blow. He chased Mîm away and cut through Beleg’s bonds, then died in the arms of the elf he once had tortured.           The only survivors of that bloody battle were Túrin, carried away captive by the orcs; Beleg, who chased after them to rescue his husband; Mîm, who fled into the night grieving the death of his final son, Ibun, who had been killed in the crossfire; and the youth Andvír, son of Andróg, whose father had sent him away at the first sign of trouble. Andvír eventually made his way to the Havens of Sirion, where as an old man he served as a source for Dírhaval’s epic poem about Túrin’s life, the Narn i Chîn Húrin.

[princess-faelivrin]

so I was looking at all the tolkien wiki pages for the Gaurwaith for ummm reasons and apparently Andróg is listed as having a son named Andvír who escaped Amon Rûdh and told the tale of the outlaws to the poet who wrote down the Children of Húrin. Anyway this is super weird to me because I really cannOT see Andróg as having been old enough to have a son who joined him with the Gaurwaith (seeing him with a son at all is weird enough) so I have come up with two alternate explanations

1) Andvír existed and was in fact a separate person but he wasn’t actually Andróg’s son, he was just another dude with enough of a passing resemblance (plus the name similarity) that people kept asking if they were related and Andróg finally was just like “yes he’s my son now fuck off” to mess with them. And then it became an outlaw in-joke that went so far it became a small part of recorded history

2) Andvír didn’t exist at all, actually. Beleg managed to save Andróg, then told him to change his identity and one day maybe tell the story of all that happened with the Gaurwaith because he guessed, correctly, that it would eventually be the matter of song or whatever. Also it’s funnier if Andróg is the one who told the story because every time it’s like “oh yeah and the meanest fuck in the whole bunch? it was this dude called Andróg” is just him roasting his past self to the person who wrote it all down.  (Andróg, staring off into the distance while talking to the poet: lol wow we were such a bad influence on Túrin, good times. Also i was a fucking asshole lmao) 

[thelordofgifs]

Obscure Tolkien Blorbo: Round 2

Beleth vs Andvír

Beleth:

A woman of the House of Bëor, first cousin of Beren.

One of the few survivors of the Dagor Bragollach in Ladros

Andvír:

Son of Andróg and a member of Túrin’s band of outlaws.

He literally only appears in a footnote in HoME. But his impact is huge! He is responsible for filling in the blanks of what happened between Turin fleeing Doriath and him being brought to Nargothrond by Gwindor. Without him recounting the story, there would be a huge part of Turin's story missing. He is also just really tragic - he was an outlaw in the wilds with his father Andróg, and he seems to have been the only survivor (other than Beleg & Turin) of the attack on Amon Rudh. He saw all those people die :(. But he got to live to be an old man! What a life!

Who is your blorbo?

Beleth

Andvír

Voting ended onJun 13, 2023

Round 2 masterpost

[maironsbigboobs]

👉🏻👈🏻 can I get andvir and androg reuniting in the wilds?

"Someone's watching us."

For once, there was no one on watch. Well - one of the newer members of their band was supposed to be on watch, but in the celebration of their latest raid, no one felt like enforcing it. A trading cavern had made the mistake of passing too close to the wilds, and now they had new furs and shiny trinkets and booze aplenty. Trinkets might be useless out here, but the prize still put even the surliest of outlaws in a good mood.

Ulrad's declaration was, therefore, met with a groan. "You're spoiling the fun." Andróg complained, squinting out into the darkness. There was nothing - oh, he saw it. The brief flash of something bright, moving like no animal did.

"Oi, Captain." Forweg looked up from his tankard and frowned when he saw the look on Andróg's face. "Bring us a torch. Someone out there."

Forweg - taller than either of them - lifted a torch above their heads. Their shadows danced over the leaf-litter. Ulrad had the sharpest eyes - or perhaps the best nose for blood - and drew his sword, stalking into the darkness ahead of them.

Scuffling and swearing followed, Ulrad's gruff voice and a higher, softer one. Andróg's ears twitched. Taliska. Valar, what sorry bastard out of Dor-Lómin was this?

Ulrad dragged a boy out of the bushes, his laughter cold. The boy had fought hard - Ulrad's nose was bloody.

"What's this?" Forweg laughed, "A feisty little pup. What are you doing out here, boy? A scout of the damned woodsmen?"

The boy was tall and lanky, his face still round with youth,  only the faint hint of stubble. Hardly even old enough to grow a beard.

Andróg scoffed. "He's a little skinny to be out of Brethil. They feed their spies better."

His voice made the boy's frightened gaze. Something changed in his face then - there was a flash of recognition; he squirmed against the hand at the scruff of his neck.

"I am Andvír of Dor-Lomin." He tried to draw himself up, make himself prouder.  "I came looking for my father. And I have found him."

Ulrad barked in laughter. "You've a pup, Andróg?"

Andróg froze. He thought of his son. His little boy, as he remembered him - small and chubby, with a thick head of shining golden curls. The youth in front of him was the right age and had the right name: but how could it be him?

Andvír had been bright and joyful. He'd been a large child for his age; promising strength and height. The youth had the height, but he was so pale, almost ashen, and not much more than skin and bone. His curls were dirty and dull. How could this be his Andvír?

"Like you haven't spread your oats further and wider, Ulrad." Forweg snorted, looking expectantly at Andróg. "Well, is he your spawn or should we gut him, Andróg? I want to go back to my beer."

“Pa?” Andvír’s voice shook with fear despite the boy’s brave face. His face - it was like looking in a mirror, but distorted. He did not see his own face. Andvír took after his mother, mostly. But he saw himself still: reflected in his eyes, in the jut of his jaw, in his stubborn pride.

Andróg extended his hand and Ulrad let Andvír go, wiping his nose with a grumble.

Andvír picked himself and dusted himself off, as the camp drifted back to their partying - none of them were that interested in domestic drama. 

“Let’s get some food in you, lad.” Andróg tried to fall back into fatherhood, but the words felt awkward on his tongue. “What has your mother been feeding you? You look like you have spent half a year in the wilds.”

“Pa,” Andvír winced around the word, as if it tasted strange. “There’s nothing to eat in Dor-Lómin now. It might as well be the wilds.”

It was Andróg’s turn to wince. He did not want to imagine what Dor-Lomin was like now, in the hands of their enemies. Perhaps he was fortunate to have left - no, there was no doubt about it. If he had not left when he had, he would be dead.

“Ah.”

“It’s…” Andvír struggled to continue. “It’s bad, Pa. We are thralls in our own homes. People get out, or they die. That’s why Ma told me to leave. To find you.”

Andróg ushered him into the camp and sat him down, handing him a bowl and a tankard. He didn’t know what to say: that he was sorry, for fleeing Dor-Lomin? He wasn’t and he had no choice in the matter either way. He had not spared much thought for Andvír in the intervening years. He’d been with his mother and her family; he hadn’t needed Andróg.

“You’ll be alright out here, lad. Just stay near me, and I’ll keep an eye on you.” he smiled and clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. He could make up for lost time now. “I’ll make you a bow. We’ll have a good time out here, you and me. And your Ma was right: If we die, we die free.”