Favourite Female Tolkien Character Poll - Round 1, Match 32
Pick your favourite!
Fimbrethil
Dís
Voting ended onAug 12, 2023
Fimbrethil
An Entwife, the beloved of Treebeard.
“When the world was young, and the woods were wide and wild, the Ents and the Entwives - and there were Entmaidens then: ah! the loveliness of Fimbrethil, of Wandlimb the lightfooted, in the days of our youth! - they walked together and they housed together.
…I remember it was long ago - in the time of the war between Sauron and the Men of the Sea - desire came over me to see Fimbrethil again. Very fair she was still in my eyes, when I had last seen her, though little like the Entmaiden of old. For the Entwives were bent and browned by their labour; their hair parched by the sun to the hue of ripe corn and their cheeks like red apples. Yet their eyes were still the eyes of our own people. We crossed over Anduin and came to their land; but we found a desert: it was all burned and uprooted, for war had passed over it. But the Entwives were not there.”
Dís
The sister of Thorin, and mother of Fili and Kili. She lost all three of them in the same day, at the Battle of Five Armies.
Dís was the daughter of Thráin II. She is the only dwarf-woman named in these histories. It is said by Gimli that there are few dwarf-women, probably no more than a third of the whole people. They seldom walk abroad except at great need. They are in voice and appearance, and in garb if they must go on a journey, so like to the dwarf-men that the eyes and ears of other peoples cannot tell them apart.
Now something totally different for @secondageweek - an attempt at rhyming, metrical poetry. Why the heck not?
Was going to be for Day 6, Impactful Events, but it took me until Day 7, Freeform to finish it, so both?
Fimbrethil’s Lament
The War of the Last Alliance and the fate of the Entwives, as told by Fimbrethil. 183 words.
Read on AO3
Of old the Elves, sweetly singing, awoke us from our sleep
Then you, my love, walked with me in forests dark and deep
We passed away to orchards bright, while you in woods took root
Your Fimbrethil awaits you yet, in gardens rich with fruit.
Our secret art we taught to Men, of growth and flourishing,
Of sun and rain, of worm and bee, aid for earth’s enriching
The gift of grain we gave to them; those ancient days were blessed.
Then darkness came, and with it greed for more than earth possessed
Our corn they took, our apples too, our wood their fires stoked
By friends betrayed, by foes beset, our crops failed, their roots choked.
Swift ships I see, hastening down broad Anduin’s gentle stream
And in the East, a shadow grows, and murderous legions teem
Your Fimbrethil is caught between, her fields will be no more,
Food for Man and Elf, a hindrance in their Enemy’s war.
Foul smoke rises, torches burn bright, the land is scorched and dies
Your Fimbrethil to ash will pass, her seeds will never rise.
My gift to @raisingcain-onceagain for the @officialtolkiensecretsanta who requested a fic based on the Silmarillion. It will be posted on ao3, as soon as I have access to my laptop again.
I decided to go with Finrod and Edrahil from your list of characters. I hope you like it and have wonderful holidays.
Title : Work in Progress
Wordcount : approx. 3K words
Summary: Edrahil takes Finrod to meet and Ent. Meanwhile Finrod is working on a song and having trouble with it.
Characters : Finrod, Edrahil, Fimbrethil.
They reach the woods just before nightfall. Edrahil decides to set up camp under a great elm. The ground is hard and damp but Edrahil insists: no fire under any circumstance as long as they stay among the trees.
They wake up with the sun, quickly pack and continue their journey eastward. The air is cold and crisp, smoke-like, as sharp as the rays of the sun, skimming over the land. There are no clouds today, and the morning light, spilling over the forest makes everything almost too bright. From the white trunks of the birches, to the green shimmering patches of grass that have yet to be tamed by the frost. Finrod feels like he has almost forgotten how green a forest in winter can still be.
He does not dwell on that thought. Today he is an Elf on a mission. He is going to see the Onodrim.
It has been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Barely a few weeks ago he was telling Edrahil some anecdotes about his travels with Turgon, and briefly mentioned how they hoped to find some Ents in Nan-tathren but found themselves unlucky in the end.
That was when Edrahil, with that peculiar smile of his that Finrod has yet to decipher, answered that he, personally knew one of them, and that he could arrange a meeting. And very quickly after that, Finrod found himself on the back of his horse, following Edrahil to Ossiriand.
Edrahil has revealed very little about the Ent. She - for it is a female - used to stay every other winter for a month or two near the river Brilthor. He met her some time ago, when he still lived among his kin. Of the circumstances of that meeting, he said nothing. Finrod has debated whether to press him for more information, before deciding not to. Edrahil seems to enjoy keeping him in the dark and he will let him have his fun.
They find her after noon.
*****
She is smaller than what Finrod imagined. It is only when they get closer, that he realises he was wrong. She is bent over a young holly, patiently pulling the ivy from its trunk, her legs firmly planted in the ground, but when she turns around, unfolding her long limbs tearing herself from the mud, and stands before them in all her might, Finrod guesses she must be at least seventeen feet tall. She is covered in dirt, lichens and moss up to the waist, but her arms are smooth and silver-grey.
She has nine fingers on each hand, Finrod notices. And eight toes. And that makes him feel as giddy as a little child.
Edrahil greets her, and as she responds, Finrod realises that if he wants to make a song about the Ents, he'll have to transcribe it for an instrument other than his harp, which will never do justice to that low, rumbling, raspy and yet strangely melodic voice.
This is what Melian’s wooden throne would sound like if wood could talk.
- Seeds and grass. I did not expect to see you Edrahil. It has been many seasons since you last came to these woods.
- I brought you a friend. He was eager to see you.
Friend! He called me a friend!
The Ent extends her long hands toward them. Edrahil dismounts and climbs in the right one. Finrod hesitates.
- It would be easier for both of us, she says. I could bend but I would still be too tall for you.
Finrod steps in the open palm, and gently, the Ent pulls the Elves up to her eyes. They are dark green, with specks of white and gold thrown across. But more than that they are… old. Not old but ancient. Like a tree that’s been standing long before you were born, and that would still stand long after you die. And Finrod cannot recall ever seeing, feeling something like that. They are not timeless, like the Ainur are. This Ent has seen many days, many seasons pass. And, unlike the Elves she has changed with them. And yet she is still there. Green and strong, and will be there for ages to come.
She is older, and wiser and more importantly, more experienced than I am.
- Like a field of wheat in the summer. Edrahil, who is this friend of yours?
- He is the King of Nargothrond, beyond the Narog.
- King is he? I remember when these lands were claimed by Elu Thingol and Melian. Now everyday new kingdoms sprout from the ground like mushrooms after the rain. Are you one of the newcomers?
- I come from beyond the Sea. But I am kin to Elu Thingol, Finrod answers. My name is Finrod Felagund, of the Noldor.
- Saplings and roots, welcome, Finrod of the Noldor. But that is not really your name is it?
- I am not sure what you mean by…
- She wants the original version. In your language, Edrahil interrupts.
- Ah. My father called me Findaráto. My mother named me Ingoldo. For the Dwarves, I am Felagund. For the Men, Nóm.
- You have many names in many languages. The Elves here call me Fimbrethil, and so may you.
- This is all well and good, but you’ll notice Finrod, that she will never give you her true name, teases Edrahil.
- I would but I can’t. My language wouldn’t make sense to you and it would take too much time. My name is who I am. It is my story, and it is ever growing. It encompasses everything I’ve seen, and heard and lived. As I am speaking to you Finrod, it is changing because after we’ve met, I will not be the same person anymore. And neither will you.
- That’s Entish for you, says Edrahil. They take forever to speak because they strive to encompass every single meaning there is in their words.
- You Elves and your fixed names. You define a thing, a person and set the meaning in stone. You never think that persons and things grow and change and evolve. Instead of listening you cast your words upon the world and say: you will be a tree, you will be a stone, you will be a river and you do not care when the words do not fit anymore.
- That’s not entirely true, says Finrod. Some of us are always learning, and searching and eager to discover new things. And they will invent new words, and new names.
- Yes, this is what you do. You add names, you do not change the old ones. But many names do not make a whole. Once you were called Ingoldo, and now you are Felagund, and also Nóm. And what is there of Ingoldo in Nóm, and what of Felagund comes from Ingoldo? They will not say. You don’t see the changes. You don’t see the seasons. For you, either it’s the same tree with no leaves, or the forest died and sprang anew in the spring. It’s neither and it’s both.
She gestures around her.
- Far below the ground thousands of roots extend for many ent-strides. Where does the tree starts and where does it end? Look at the meadows. Is the grass a whole, or is every green blade distinct? When among us we speak about the forest, and the land, we speak of all of it. It takes time, but we find it. We are not hasty like Elves, or Dwarves, or Men are.
But when Fimbrethil turns to face Finrod again, there is a sad smile on her face.
- You used to know this. Elves were the first to wake up the trees and to talk to them. And the trees have not forgotten the sound of your voice.
- I thought you were the first. You are the tree-herds. Yavanna created you to tend and protect them.
- She did. And we cared for them, like shepherds care for the sheeps. And then you came along, having just awakened, childlike, stumbling through this new world and you started talking to everyone. The world was full of wonders and you wanted everyone to see it.
- What changed?
- The darkness. You fled across the forest and the mountains and the rivers, all the way to the great sea, and you hid among yourselves and even if you still talked and sang, it was only to yourselves.
- But the land still remembers you. And the trees long for you, Edrahil adds.
- Some long for you, corrects Fimbrethil. Some grew tired and bored of waiting, and some… Well, they started to listen to other voices.
The green leaves in her hair shiver.
- There are dark patches in this forest. And many more in the North, in hollow dales, where even I would not dare go. The darkness has poisoned everyone and even the land has been turned against us. Edrahil knows this. We take care of the land as well as we can but there are few of us, and the arm of the Enemy is far reaching. The earth is suffering, and we, its bones, suffer too. But I am not being polite. You came a long way to see me and must be tired. Your legs, and your horses’ are too frail to go far. I can take you to my house. It is an ent-house, not really suited for you, but you’ll be warm and dry.
- I would like to speak to the trees as well, Finrod blurts out
Fimberthil smiles
- I expected nothing else from you. Could you speak to them in your original language?
- Quenya?
- Yes. I do not know it yet and would like to learn.
She puts Edrahil and Finrod on her shoulders and they go deeper into the forest.
***
They make a small detour to see a young chestnut.
- This one likes mischief. They will always bear fruits after everyone else’s have fallen or rotten.
The chestnut stands apart from his siblings, proud and tall, straight like a spear.
Fimbrethil scoffs.
- They’re a bit vain. Like to be admired and flattered.
She takes them to see a hornbeam next.
- This one’s a… There is no word for it in your language, I think. What do you call someone who will always be here to listen to you, but does not care whether you come or go.
- A friend?
- A friend cares for you and misses you when you’re gone. This one doesn’t. But he is happy to see me nonetheless.
- Then he is to you whatever you are to me, jokes Edrahil.
Fimbrethil laughs, like tree-leaves rustling gently in the summer wind.
- Then he is an Ent to me. I will miss him. Miss all of them when I leave.
From the tone of her voice, Finrod understands she will not return.
- Where are you going?
- East. My sisters have made a garden, and I will go work in it. I will miss the forests of Beleriand, but this is where I must be. Fangorn disapproves of course.
- Fangorn?
- My lover. He, like the Enthusbands will never understand it. They are a bit like you. They like to watch and wander around the forests, and weed and protect the trees but will not do anything else. They say we do not listen, and prefer to order nature around, but they will let a tree die because everything has its season. And they care only about trees, but forget about the fields, and the orchards and the wheat that grows under the sun and will say that those are lesser beings because they were planted and grown by someone. But so are trees! Birds eat the nuts and scatter the seeds around. How is it any different from what we do? We see what the Enemy has done to the land. And we know we can heal it, and make it plentiful and peaceful. Those trees that have turned bad. Fangorn would leave them alone, and warn everyone against them. I would tend to them, and heal them. Because they were good trees once, and they may bear fruit again.
Fimbrethil’s pace has become faster, and her cheeks have changed colors, her hair is flying around her, ladybugs are buzzing around. And Finrod realises they have come from the leaves that cover her neck. There are ants, and beetles and woodlice in the mud and the moss that cover her body. Fimbrethil is carrying a small universe with her.
- I love Fangorn dearly. But he is a fool.
***
Finrod feels restless that night. Maybe it is the stillness of the air inside the ent-house, or maybe it is the thrill of finally having met an Ent; in any case after tossing and turning on his mattress of moss, he gives up, grabs his cloak and decides to go for a short walk outside.
As soon as he is outside, he is greeted by the stars.
He is not ready for that sight. Has never been. There aren't any skies like that in Valinor. Above him, or below, he cannot tell, the bottomless depth of the ocean of heaven, and the countless stars haphazardly thrown across it. Any wrong move and he would find himself slowly falling and sinking into the vastness before him. And Finrod has to lean against a tree. It is stupid, really, but what always strikes him is the sheer number of stars Elbereth has planted in the night.
- Can't sleep? I am sorry. I should have warned you.
Finrod turns around to see Edrahil, comfortably seated between the roots of an old oak. How long has he been there watching him?
- Ent water is strong. Too strong for us really. It will sustain you and give you all the energy you need but...
Edrahil chuckles
- You may find yourself becoming a couple of inches taller after that. I am sorry my lord, I should have told you.
The "my lord" surprises Finrod. Edrahil is never formal with him when they are alone. He will show deference when he feels like it, and right now Finrod is unsure of what he has done to earn Edrahil's approval.
- The stars are beautiful tonight, he blurts out, because he really has no idea what to say, but doesn't want the conversation to die.
- They are, Edrahil nods, his voice almost a whisper. A sky like this, it reminds me of the days before the Sun and the Moon. You wouldn't know of course, child of the Trees. But I wish you would have seen them in all their splendor, you would have loved them.
There is a veiled reproach in Edrahil's words. Something Finrod has been missing for a long time. And uncharacteristically he finds himself at loss for words. It is true, he loves the light of the Sun and the Moon, perhaps more than most. But the light of the stars alone is almost painful for him. It reminds him of the Ice and... Best not to dwell on these thoughts.
Edrahil has retreated back into his silence. Finrod looks for something to do. There is a song he has been working on for quite a time. But that song too has eluded him so far. He decides to give a try.
He walks back and forth between the entrance and the oak, warming up. The first notes come out, hesitant. They crash to the ground. Finrod winces. That won't do. Edrahil's eyes are following him. Finrod stops, refocuses and starts again. It comes out better this time. He finds the melody inside him and pulls. Musical phrases slowly coalesce, circling him. The shapes are not defined yet. So far, he has only the vaguest of outlines, the form eludes him. He has always crafted like that. Grabbing bits of inspiration left and right, letting the sounds flow, throwing them around and waiting for them to land. The song is slowly growing. It's supposed to be about Beleriand in winter. Supposed to, because right now the notes that bounce back are bringing new elements that don't quite fit. The air shaped by the song is cold and sharp and bare and it prickles the nose, but it also carries the smell of corn and apples, citrus and sage. And amid the brown earth and the bare trees there is a garden hidden within the song, pressing itself against Finrod's mind, beneath the smooth surface of the melody. Winter has given way to Spring, smiles Finrod, and he nudges two musical accents in a new direction, and changes the tonality. He pulls from the plants that lay dormant under the ground. Draws from the budding rowan next to him, and the red berries of the holly. The air around him becomes warmer. It smells like golden fields in the sun. And in the distance he can hear the gulls. The gulls? What?...
The song rises and bends and weaves a garland of notes around the trees. Something is missing. He pulls the stream nearby in it, hoping that its clear sound will counterbalance the rising earthy notes. There's sorrow in it. He can taste it. It's pulling him in a direction he doesn't want to go. He sighs. It's the lack of control over his song. Always has been. Maglor tried without success to drill it into him.
- A proper technique is not optional. You sing just and with good intentions but that's not enough. Without the technique you have no way to prevent accidents and unforeseen outcomes, Maglor would always say
- You're not doing it right.
Maglor and Edrahil. It seems nobody likes my singing.
- I know. I just can't make come out right.
- That's because you are still thinking your song comes from you. Your song exists independently. And it wants out. Don't fight it. Here. Step away from the tree. Stand upright.
Edrahil is poking his shoulders and his spine, and Finrod doesn't understand why he is blushing, nor why he suddenly feels embarrassed.
- Your song knows what it wants to be. You are just the vessel.
- You do know this is not how I have been taught my whole life?
- Well you do not seem to be going anywhere with that method right now.
- And I don't think I've ever heard you sing.
Edrahil smiles.
- That's because I never have. Not in your presence at least.
- Why?
- It's not... I did not think you would like it. My tunes are simpler than yours. I thought you'd find them poor.
- What are your songs about, Edrahil?
- Pebbles and stones and brooks.
- Pebbles and...
- Mostly. Well, someone has to sing about them. But they are not my songs. I did not create them. These are the songs of my brothers, the river's songs. If someone has already said it, why not use his words? I am singing about the world. And with all due respect, my lord, you Noldor, always end up singing only about yourself.
But can I sing about myself when I don't even know my own thoughts? I don't know who I am, Finrod realises. I have many names and many guises and I am scattered across Beleriand in many pieces I don't know how to assemble. And I am not the person I think I am. Andreth was right. Has always been right.
He thinks about Fimbrethil. I should listen more. I should be willing to learn more. And remember that this is not about me.
They say farewell to Fimbrethil the next morning. She is going East, across the mountains. Finrod and Edrahil head North, to meet Edrahil's kin. Edrahil is singing. Low enough that Finrod cannot hear the words. Something about Elves, and songs and harps of gold.
