The Lays of Lasaralyn

The Lays of Lasaralyn tells short stories about Lasaralyn. Some of these stories are just Lasaralyn's interpretation of the tale, or just stories she likes.

The Funeral of Finwë

This tale tells of Finwe's funeral, even though his body was never found. This is Lasaralyn's interpretation and also tells why High Penguins have a tendancy to look left, not right.

A gathering there was to be in Castle Fullmoon of Frostborough, a gathering of the likes that those of the city had never seen before. It was a gathering not to celebrate a life, but to mourn the death of a king that many had loved and few despised. All three main races, tall, fair High Penguins and less tall, less fair, but still not unpleasant to look upon Penguins, and the Sroots, short, hairy, and bearing no resemblance to anything beautiful, laid aside their differences in height and magical abilities to come together to honor the death of Finwë, the Faithful. They threw down their unfriendliness in an attempt to maintain peace for the solemnity of the funeral, and indeed! they were able to keep the tension from blooming beyond a few rude gestures and the occasional display of a tongue, followed by a trumpeting noise with waggling fingers inserted in Srootish ears.

A magnificent hall they gathered in, of the like which had long been fabled to rival the glorious Hall of Valnor. A lofty ceiling it had, and boasted four walls to support its weight, and inside this edifice were lights, which glowed with a radience that was known to stave of darkness. Beneath it was a floor, upon which the mourners placed their feet, a necessary precaution, for without it, they would have plummeted from the second floor of the castle to the silver-carpeted ground below. Throughout the hall, resounding from the walls, reverberating off the floor, and breaking crystal chandeliers, rang the clear voices of the High Penguins, singing their Lament to Finwë:

Finwë, of thee we sadly sing,
Thy shining spear, thy gallant sword, thy magic-necklace-thing.
High Penguin king so fair and tall, renowned as such a hottie,
Thou wouldst be six feet under, but we could not find thy body.
You loved to harp, invent, and sing, three hobbies unrelated,
Thou couldst have done them longer had thy life not been truncated.
Finwë, o Finwë, we think that thou art groovy,
If thou hadst a good enough lookalike, we would hath made unto thee a movie.
Friend to Penguin and flufy Puffle, so quick to love and trust,
Thou slay'st Malcur with thy flippers, then bravely bit the dust.

To the front of the hall walked Luce, now Maiden of Light, great-great-granddaughter to the wife of Finwë's father. Her beauty, fabled among the world, filled the hall with a light rivaled only by the light emitted by the legendary candles. In the centre of her face were two glorious eyes; a beak there was also, the like of which had long been used to talk, and also to eat. Down her back flowed a black watefall of hair, which had been growing from her head for many a year, and above her tummy patch sat her thin black smile, which bent and flexed to assist in the utterance of words. Many words did the Lady Luce utter, word to honor the memory of Finwë.

"I utter words to honour the memory of Finwë," spake Luce. "Finwë, king of Valnor and Antarctica, named friend to the natives, and of whom he solicited the assistance to build his great halls, bearer of Tolamír, a gift from the aforementioned indigenous creatures, harpist and singer, hunter, friend to lowers, saviour of many Valnorian lives, slayer of the wretched Malcur, and doer of other lofty deeds. Ere the sun doth shine upon his grave in the land of deceased brethren and live in eternal bliss. O Finwë, beloved of all High kindred, we come to honour you this day by-"

The clarion call of a trumpet filled the air, the sound of the Sroots, overcome wit grief for the fallen lord, loudly blowing their beaks, which were so large as to resemble the beaks of hawks, and sobbing loudly into their long, neatly combed and braided beards, the symbol of all Srootkind. Luce gracefully turned her head to the left to view with her own two eyes, which sat in the center of her face, the cause of the noise which had inturrupted her utterance. Their thoughts clouded with sorrow, the High Penguins believed she indicated this was the manner with which they should honor King Finwë and so a hundred heads gracefully turned on a hundred slender bodies. Left they looked, and they looked in the direction of left, as the Keeper of Light had done.

At this moment the action became not just an honourific to the king, but a tradition, a custom instilled in High Penguin society. Never able to escape their grief, upon hearing a noise that resembled crying, such as the song of birds or the flowing of water, they turned their beautiful heads to the left in memory of Finwë. Soon this tradition became a habit, an action passed down unconsciously from father to son, until the action was so frequent that they rarely dwelt upon its sacred meaning. Indeed, even the skilled warriors of Freezeland continue to honour Finwë by looking left as a blessing upon their armies before going into battle.