#gatesofsummer2015

[teamedain]

Gates of Summer

... and now at length is that great feast Tarnin Austa or the Gates of Summer near at hand. For know that on a night it was their custom to begin a solemn ceremony at midnight, continuing it even till the dawn of Tarnin Austa broke, and no voice was uttered in the city from midnight till the break of day, but the dawn they hailed with ancient songs. 

-- “The Fall of Gondolin”, Book of Lost Tales - Part Two, J.R.R. Tolkien

[houseofhaleth]

The Last Tarnin Austa

FIC MUSE, YOU’RE BACK, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN???

Okay don’t get too excited. I managed a short fic from the 1920s AU – Idril at the Gates of Summer Party. (Paging avantegarda!)

Happy Gates of Summer!

*****

It sounded as though the party was in full swing downstairs. The place had looked just swell, she had to admit - the chandeliers polished, and the best champagne glasses out.  Idril had cried off the party, saying she was sick. Just the sight of the bright pearls and shined shoes made her stomach clench, and she didn’t know why. But she knew it meant trouble. Her intuition was rarely wrong.

There was a soft knock on the door, and she started. Automatically, her hand reached for her purse where she kept a small revolver-  ‘Idril? You resting, princess, or can I come in?’  She froze. I nearly drew a gun on my husband. What the hell is wrong with me?  ‘No, come on in,’ she said. Tuor slipped into the room.  ‘You don’t look too bad…but then you never do. Sure you don’t want to go to bed? I’ll blow off this party too if you want-’  ‘What, after Glorfindel went to all the effort to get you dressed up like that?’  Tuor put a hand to his chest as if mortally offended. ‘Hey, what makes you think he had anything to do with it? Maybe I just dressed this sharp all on my own-’  ‘Uh huh. Imported silk handkerchief and all.’  ‘He’ll get over it,’ Tuor shrugged, dropping the weak pretence. ‘He’s worried as all the rest are. You haven’t been right, lately.’  ‘Well, you know why,’ said Idril, eyes straying to the door to Eärendil’s room. ‘Nobody else quite gets it, though…’  Tuor crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. ‘We got the escape route, if we need it. Cars are full of gas, only we know they’re there. You want me to stay up here with you, just say the word.’  Plenty of men, she knew, would dismiss her worries out of hand. That’s what dames are like, get all emotional at the drop of a hat. But not Tuor – he’d had a rough time of it before making it to the city, and he knew what it was to get anxious. Plenty of her father’s men couldn’t imagine what it was like, growing up out in the sticks. But then the older ones remembered making the journey to the city themselves. They had a fair idea.  ‘No, you go enjoy the party. I know Dad probably asked you to get me down, and you’re doing the opposite…’ the look on his face told her this was perfectly true. ‘Tell him I’ve gone to bed. I’ll go in a minute.’  ‘I’ll-’  ‘You’ll enjoy the party, and be up later.’  ‘Soon,’ he promised. He kissed her forehead, warm and gentle, one hand cupping her chin. For a moment she was tempted to ask him to stay…but she clamped her mouth closed, and waved him out of the room.

 The second knock started her just as much as the first, and she found she was on her feet.  ‘Who is it?’ she called, trying not to sound as suspicious as she felt.  There was no answer, but the door eased open. A slim man in a well-fitted black waistcoat stood there – with his black hair, dark grey shirt and even a midnight blue handkerchief, his pale skin stood out, whiter even than usual. And Maeglin had been looking unusually grey and pale lately.  ‘Maeglin,’ said Idril, cautiously.  ‘Cousin Idril,’ he said, with a nod. ‘May I come in?’  ‘Why?’ she asked, frozen in the doorway. He didn’t seem offended by the question, but rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand – there was a sheen of sweat on his brow, she noticed, and damp patches under his armpits.  ‘Think it’s better…safer…if I do. But you can come out, if you prefer.’  ‘I’m sick, Maeglin, I’m not coming down to the-’  ‘I know. But we’re going to have to leave. Don’t worry about a bag, it’s all been taken care of.’ His foot was tapping with tense energy, and looking into his bloodshot eyes she could see he hadn’t slept in a while. Her heart was already pounding as she realised the pistol was way out of reach…but she wouldn’t shoot her cousin, any more than she’d shoot her husband…right?  ‘You’re not making any sense. I’m going to head in and lie down, and I’ll – I’ll talk to you tomorrow-’  His hand landed on the doorframe. ‘We’re in kind of a hurry, Idril.’  She took a step back – a mistake, as he moved into the room. ‘Maeglin what are you…what’s wrong with you?’  A sick smile spread across his face. ‘You know, cousin, you’ve been asking me that for a while. I think…you’re about to get your answer.’  Below, from the party, came the sudden, sharp crack of machine-gun fire.

[shewhodoesnotexist]

redolence

A ficlet about the people of Rhovanion celebrating summer solstice, or, a compromise between wanting to contribute to #gatesofsummer2015 and lacking the time. Partly inspired by Slavic customs.

Great fires blossomed into the night, the shortest night of the year, bursting with heat and light and smoke in the fragrances of dried herbs, filling the air with redolent, vigorous vivacity.

(It was said that in the dawn of time, there had not been a Sun; and that in the days before the Sun, there had not been not Men.)

Laughter rang out into the night, pealing through the warm, fresh atmosphere of a warm night, the shortest night of the year, and music followed; the sounds of pipes and drums, the solitary threads of violins raising amongst them in the vein of wisps of smoke, coiling and curling, adding a melancholic touch to the symphony of summer.

(It was said that in the days long gone, beneath the Sun, the Fathers of Men had passed through these lands; and earlier still, beneath the stars, the forebears of the Elder Folk, heading beyond the borders of the mortal world.)

Lines of dancers unrolled into the night, first slowly, rhythmically, their tempo gradually increasing until the dancers were out of breath, flushed with motion, flowers askew in their hair, and yet they danced on, carried by the scent and the music and the vitality of this night, the shortest night of the year.

(It was said that some of the marchers, stepping lightly through the woods in the world before the Sun, had left footprints of starry flowers; and that on this one night, the flowers bloomed again and could be found by those who knew how to look.)

Youths and maidens went into the night to search beneath the trees for the mythical flowers that would grant them happiness and bless their love; some would later claim they found one or two, scattered about in a trail of starlight, so pure in their fragile beauty that no hand dared pick them, only stare in wonder.

(It was said that those who saw such a flower carried a faint reflection of its shine in their eyes henceforth; and it was said that such people indeed saw more joy in the world, yet more sadness as well.)

And so went on the night, the shortest night of the year, in celebration and in wonder, until the breaking of the dawn which marked the gates of summer.

[bloodynoldor]

I wrote something for The Gates of Summer. Enjoy!

I was there, my friend, in that night so many years ago. When after the freezing breath of winter the time of spring had followed, and the hearts were warmed by the sun. It was a night like this, the stars shone brightly, and Tilion’s light fell upon us, as we waited for the first rays of Anar at dusk. When the dark one retired, and his spies disappeared from our borders and the grip of his cold hand faded away, when we thought he was scared. That he would leave us be. We thought we were strong.

I was there at Tarnin Austa, when the the snow melted on the mountains and flames arose in the north. When our peace was disturbed as Ulmo prophesied through the adan Tuor, whom he sent to the king, I was there. And the hasty muster, the glory of our armies before the blow I will never forget.

I was there at the battle, and I led my house. But I dare not to speak of this dreadful night when I lost my home and many of those whom I loved.

I felt the defeat, the enemy was too strong, heard the king’s last words when he decided to stay. When the last glimmer of hope through Tuor and Idril was revealed and in secret led us away from the city. My heart broke this night when I dared to look back, and behind the mist of the valley the city was on fire. I cried in silence, for the trees and fountains, for the towers and the halls, for the songs that were sung of the city and its seven names.

I fell at Cristhorn, as you know, and into darkness I fell. But not for long I remained in Namo’s halls, and now I am here. And seeing you here, my friend, makes me feel proud, for it means that my sacrifice was not of useless nature.

Let us hope that this valley turns into a brighter future, and the Gates of Summer will bring nothing but joy!

[teamedain]

Thrice only in each year the King spoke, offering prayer for the coming year at the Erukyermë in the first days of spring, praise of Eru Ilúvatar at the Erulaitalë in midsummer, and thanksgiving to him at the Eruhantalë at the end of autumn. 

[teamedain]

Númenor-to-Be

Then Tuor fled from the fury of the sea, and with labour he won his way back to the high terraces; for the wind drove him against the cliff, and when he came out upon the top it bent him to his knees. Therefore he entered again the dark and empty hall for shelter, and he sat nightlong in the stone seat of Turgon. The very pillars trembled for the violence of the storm, and it seemed to Tuor that the wind was full of wailing and wild cries. Yet being weary he slept at times, and his sleep was troubled with many dreams, of which naught remained in waking mem­ory save one: a vision of an isle, and in the midst of it was a steep mountain, and behind it the sun went down, and shadows sprang into the sky; but above it there shone a single dazzling star.

-- Tuor’s vision of Númenor-to-Be, in ‘Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin’, Unfinished Tales, J.R.R. Tolkien

[teamedain]

Erulaitalë

Near to the centre of the Mittalmar stood the tall mountain called the Meneltarma, Pillar of the Heavens, sacred to the worship of Eru Ilúvatar ... There no tool or weapon had ever been borne; and there none might speak any word, save the King only. Thrice only in each year the King spoke, offering prayer for the coming year at the Erukyermë in the first days of spring, praise of Eru Ilúvatar at the Erulaitalë in midsummer, and thanksgiving to him at the Eruhantalë at the end of autumn. At these times the King ascended the mountain on foot followed by a great concourse of the people, clad in white and garlanded, but silent. 

-- ‘Description of the Island of Númenor’, Unfinished Tales, J.R.R. Tolkien

[teamedain]

#gatesofsummer2015

Midsummer is almost upon us! In Númenor upon the Meneltarma it was celebrated as Erulaitalë Praise of Eru, and in the calendars of Arnor and Gondor the day called Loëndë. In Gondolin Tuor knew the day as Tarnin Austa, but joy was turned to sorrow when Morgoth assailed the city on that day. 

To honour the day, and to celebrate pretty-forest-fairy​‘s #gatesofsummer2015 Legendarium Appreciation Day, teamedain will be devoting the day to posts about Tuor, the Fall of Gondolin, and the Meneltarma. 

No veren!