#Rohanese

[kylobith]

LotR Week - Day 2 (12th Dec)

language | culture | beauty

Word count: 4,197

Under the burning afternoon sun reflecting upon the white city, Faramir emerged from the library, instantly shielding his eyes. Had he truly kept his nose buried in scrolls for so long? When he had entered, it was merely dawn, the palace still lulled in peaceful sleep. Constantly awoken by the tiniest noises and cracks from the hallways or outside, he had stirred out of bed and had decided to do what he did best in such irritating moments.

Studying.

Recently, he had found a plethora of reasons to delve into books again — not that he truly needed any — and learn as much as he could about a realm whose history and people that he admitted to not have paid heed to often enough.

Now that he and Éowyn were married, he felt a pang of guilt for not knowing more than he already did about her kingdom and her kin. Although they were to settle in Ithilien once their new home would be born from the ruins of a previous mansion, Faramir yearned to respect the customs of her land as much as his own within their household.

He was willing to compromise and demonstrate his sense of flexibility. Where their art of guest-receiving would align with Gondor’s standards, he saw no problem with providing a mixed education to the children he hoped to have and raise with her. Often had he pictured it; a blonde little being mounted on horseback with the poise of a court member of King Elessar’s entourage. The child would master Westron and Rohirric at equal level, speak Quenya fluently, and have at least some notions in Sindarin or Dwarvish tongues. They would be both wild and tame, proud of the two united banners of their bloodline.

Sensing that he was getting ahead of himself again, Faramir departed from the archives and set out for the citadel. As he paused to contemplate the breath-taking view upon the Pelennor, one which he should have long grown weary of, he found his mind drifting back to his research.

Rohirric. A language unlike any other that he knew or at least encountered, with its peculiar grammatical structure and malleable word order. For the first time in years, he was facing a barrier between the knowledge he sought and himself, as if the more he read about it and its phonetic system, the less he understood. It was as though he was grappling with a most complex device he needed to unlock, but missed the keys to access even the most basic notions of the dialect that she grew up speaking.

He had considered asking Éowyn directly to teach him, and the thought of having her sit him down at a table whilst happily scribbling away on a piece of parchment to also participate in the recording of Rohan’s oral culture sounded like the best way to ever spend time.

Faramir pictured her hardly-concealed impatience at his mistakes and his horrid accent, typical of beginners. How she would be unable to tame her reactions to spare his feelings, wincing whenever he would say something wrong or pronounced something to the point of complete incomprehension. And he would love every bit of it. She was Éowyn, after all. The fairest maiden he had ever beheld, the one who accepted his hand in marriage and shared his bed ever since the lavish wedding at Edoras.

But he meant for the whole learning process to remain a secret for now. It was all part of the grand gesture he wanted to make for her. He had already planned most of it. At sunset, he would take her to the garden in Minas Tirith, where he had held her hand for the first time. They would watch the golden and rosy hues of the evening sky from underneath the arches, and he would slip a carefully-picked flower into her luscious hair. Then, he would recite a love poem he would have written in her language, ending it with a simple sentence reflecting his adoration for her, and making a point of how beautiful she was to him.

If he finally managed to grasp the quirks of Rohirric, that is. Aware that each language reflects the culture of those who speak it, he needed to put himself in the boots of a Rohir, but he could not wrap his head around the way that they thought, the way that they felt and experienced the world around them. Something as simple as the subtlety of terms and the connotations of certain phrases eluded him.

He had seldom ridden through the plains and valleys of Rohan. Its landscape, although now somewhat familiar, remained a great mystery to him. Having lived all his life in Gondor, he had enjoyed the privilege of encountering visitors from nearly all over Middle-earth, engaging in hours-long conversations with them, but he had never known the challenge of settling down in a foreign land and immersing himself in another way of life. Faramir had offered to stay in Edoras until their Ithilien home was ready to welcome them; he would have gladly helped Éomer in his new role as king, to provide him with wise counsel and serve as mediation with Gondor.

But Éowyn had refused. While she was elated to have wed him in the heart of the colourful Meduseld, she was eager to start this new chapter in her life, to leave her past behind and begin her assimilation to Gondorian culture. Perhaps she was braver than he had ever been in this regard, he thought. There had been no hesitation on her part, and he had assumed that she would have wished to stay in Rohan longer in hopes to make a difference in the treatment of women. Or, more realistically, she would have barked at her brother until he would yield and introduce new laws while getting rid of archaic ones.

As he entered the Hall of the Kings, Faramir faced the two empty thrones ahead of him. Aragorn must be attending another council meeting in a different part of the citadel, he thought. It did seem rather strange to him that the hall was left vacant; what if somebody entered to beg for help? Would they even be heard?

A rustle coming from his right alerted him that he was not alone after all. Under the arches, studying one of the statues with passive interest, stood the king of Rohan himself, clad in his armour, yet comfortable enough to let his guard down.

‘Éomer, my brother!’ he exclaimed, walking up to him with a beaming smile and open arms.

The king pivoted and his stern expression softened upon seeing his sister’s husband. He indulged him to a warm embrace and patted the prince’s arm rather harshly, but the latter paid it no mind.

‘I did not know you were visiting!’ Faramir said, surprised to see him in Minas Tirith at all, especially in the empty hall. ‘Has anybody been notified of your presence? Have you been assigned quarters for your stay?’

‘Yes, yes, don’t worry. I wanted to enjoy a bit of peace before being swarmed with servants and diplomats.’

Faramir laughed and shook his head. He would have felt exactly the same way, had fate been different and had he become Steward in his father’s stead.

‘Does Éowyn know that you are here?’

‘Not yet. Ah, she will find out soon enough.’

‘Are you not eager to see her?’ he inquired, his curiosity piqued. ‘If you do not send for her, you know that you will hear about it until you are on your deathbed.’

Éomer laughed and responded with a simple shrug. Faramir invited him to his office so they could both sit down and share news of their respective lives. How things had changed! After the pouring of wine and the exchange of pleasantries, the prince noticed that he had left some of the borrowed scrolls from the library wide open onto the desk. Unwilling to stain them with spilled wine or ink, he began to roll them up again, but their content did not escape Éomer’s notice, who squinted at the writings.

‘That is Rohirric!” he noted with a pleased expression. ‘Are you studying our tongue, brother?’

Faramir blushed and sheepishly nodded his head. He hoped that Éomer would not start questioning him about his knowledge, since he still considered it to be awfully vague.

‘Indeed. I wish for our household to be shaped by Rohirric and Gondorian customs alike. Éowyn is my equal, she should not forsake her culture for my own, even now that she came to live in my land.’

‘How’s the learning so far?’

‘Not great.’

He placed the secured scrolls onto a nearby shelf, away from the dangers of clumsiness, and returned to his chair, picking up his goblet.

‘I cannot seem to wrap my head around the way that your people see and write about the world. Do you see the same things that we Gondorians do? Do you see the bud of a flower and feel the promise of a fruitful spring to come?’

Éomer snorted and chugged the rest of his wine in one, large gulp.

‘You are overthinking it, Faramir,’ he said in reassurance. ‘The Rohirrim are not as complicated as you think. We do not need a hundred words to describe a tree.’

With Faramir’s permission, Éomer helped himself to another cup, stretching out his legs in front of him.

‘See us as more… practical people. Where you might look at this desk and say “Here stands the pillar of knowledge, the support of my hours of contemplation and meditation, the theatre of my duty and of my wit, where justice is served and culture preserved,” us Rohirrim would just say…’

The king waved his hand with raised eyebrows towards the piece of furniture in brief silence.

‘“It’s a desk.”’

Faramir chuckled and sipped the deep burgundy nectar.

‘Well, you sound well-learned in Gondorian phrases and imagery,’ he teased.

‘That happens when your brother-in-law keeps pestering my men about lore, poetry and song whenever he visits Edoras.’

Their shared laughter fills the room and instantly brings more warmth to it. The new prince of Ithilien stared at his working table in deep contemplation and pondered Éomer’s words. It’s just a desk. And indeed, it was, but could there not be more to it?

There it was again, his damned eternal Gondorian perspective.

Faramir tapped his fingertips against his goblet and reclined in his seat.

‘What makes your people so practical indeed?’

‘You are asking the wrong person, brother. I can’t say that I have much interest in knowing about such things. But the way I see it, it has something to do with our lack of documentation. Our stories, our tales, our history… We share them orally. We don’t value written records the way that your kin do. I suppose that we do need to keep it simple so our message and our motivations do not get lost in translation and interpretation. Besides, we see beauty in simplicity.’

‘Is it so?’

It made sense to him. Éomer might not have been raised a scholar, but his argument seemed to have opened Faramir’s eyes to something he had never even suspected. Of course, he had forgotten about the risks of oral tradition! How many names, accounts and legacies had been misshapen by the trials of time? By the innocent romanticisation of narration at the detriment of facts?

Faramir drank his wine pensively and glanced at his guest. Perhaps he could let him in on his little quest. After all, Éomer was great at keeping secrets, and he spoke the language he sought to master.

‘Éomer, I wish to learn Rohirric for Éowyn. I want her to feel at home wherever she goes, and I want her to feel understood. I have been trying to teach myself in secret for weeks, but it seems that the more I learn, the less I know.’

His brother-in-law curved his eyebrows in surprise — although he did not expect any less of Faramir. The king put down his cup and opened his hands.

‘I am a warrior, not a scholar. But I suppose that if there’s anything you wish to know, perhaps I can help.’

His host beamed at the offer and put his cup aside as well. He grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, propping up the sheet on his knee with a thick volume on the history of scientific innovations of the Haradrim.

‘There is one notion that seems to differ much between our mentalities,’ he started, ‘and it is this of beauty. You said that your kin find beauty in simplicity, but what else? How do you express it?’

‘Oh, well, we feel connected to the earth and fire, where Gondorians evoke air and water to us. Any aspect of our world that we find attractive, we connect to these two elements. We like what is grounded as much as we like that which is fiery. Many of our sayings and expressions comprise these themes, when they don’t revolve around horses.’

Not wasting a single second, Faramir scribbles away, his brow furrowed in concentration. Earth. Fire. Noted.

‘Do you have vocabulary with elemental connotations to describe something you find pretty?’

‘Yes, we do,’ Éomer answers before marking a pause, seeking examples. ‘When we mean to say that someone is as beautiful as the sun, we say sunne fyrna. Burning like the sun. Like they radiate light.’

Rejoiced at the idea that he might have found something to use to compliment Éowyn, he continued to take notes, guessing the spelling from the rules he had read about.

‘Is it a powerful way to compliment somebody’s beauty?’

‘Yes, and no. It can be overused.’

‘Oh.’

Éomer chuckled and drank another gulp of wine, before scratching his beard. He pictured his sister and tried to imagine how she would like to be complimented by Faramir. Not how anybody else might, but which words she would value from his mouth. Then, with a smile, he held out his hand for Faramir’s quill, and his brother-in-law did not hesitate to lend it to him, alongside the parchment.

Not quite used to writing, Éomer’s trembling hand formed a few words onto the paper and showed it to his host.

‘This is the highest compliment that Rohirric women could ever hear. If you wish for Éowyn to fall for you all over again, this is your key. But let me warn you: do not blame me if her bairn sees the light of day nine months after you say it to her,’ he winked.

A few days later, once Éomer had departed Minas Tirith to return to Rohan, Faramir approached Éowyn and tenderly wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing the back of her head. Despite the tears of sorrow from seeing her brother leave again, she allowed herself to smile and turned in his embrace to place a tender kiss upon his lips.

‘How about you and I have a walk in the garden at sunset?’ he murmured, his fingers weaving through her golden hair.

‘I would rather stay at home, if you don’t mind,’ she said with a sniffle. ‘How about we sit by the fire and you read to me again? I love hearing you tell stories.’

Faramir’s disappointment was powerless compared to the thrill that invaded him to know that she enjoyed listening to his tales. So, he gladly accepted, but still took the time left that day to pick the most beautiful flowers at the market for her, as well as her favourite Gondorian pastries.

When the fire crackled in the hearth of their home, Faramir entered the room, finding her already nestled onto a chair, her eyes admiring the dancing of the flames. Éomer was right; the Rohirrim were particularly bound to this element.

And now, he found beauty in it, too. Perhaps not like a Rohir would, but he did.

He found elegance and refinement in the way that it illuminated her delicate traits, her chiselled cheeks and the lovely dimple on her chin that he so often kissed. In its halo, the fairness of her hair glowed and radiated like the summer sun and the bright moon had come together in one. Her thin, pale hand rested onto her lap, only adorned by her wedding band. It was the perfect image; the love of his life in the firelight, making him fall head over heels all over again.

Faramir stepped inside ever so calmly, holding the flowers in his hand. Éowyn, alerted by the soft footsteps, turned to him and instantly smiled.

‘Fari, are those for me?’

He nodded, mirroring her grin and brushing his fingertips against her cheek. He came to one knee before her, admiring her with the most loving eyes that any being would be graced with.

‘Beautiful flowers for my most precious lady. My gorgeous wife.’

She chuckled and leant closer to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him into a tender kiss. Then, she took the flowers and admired them with her lips parted in awe.

‘They are perfect! Thank you. Let me find a vase for them.’

‘Do this, and I shall find a book for us to enjoy.’

They parted ways with another kiss and joined again after a few minutes. Faramir sat on the chair by the fireplace and patted his knee. Éowyn kicked off her slippers and sat in his lap, tying her wrists around his neck and resting her head in its crook. He opened the book and proceeded to read a tale of romance, the type that they had both come to appreciate more ever since their first encounter.

As he spoke the words in his solemn and affectionate voice, his eyes losing themselves in hers every so often, she felt her heart slowing down. Passion that causes one’s heart to race at the sole sight of one’s lover sure is pleasant; but to her, there was much greater satisfaction in finding a person with whom one feels so at ease and at peace that their heart would feel tranquil at last.

When the story came to a close, Faramir felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. Now was the time to surprise her. He had written the poem with Éomer to help him translate his feelings in the Rohirric tongue, and his brother-in-law had provided with ample wordings and phrases for him to convey his affection for his wife.

But now that he had to recite it, he found himself at a loss. None of the words remained within reach. They eluded him every time that he thought he could reshape one of the verses. Oh, what to do?

Well, he would have to do what he always did in unforeseen circumstances as a Ranger. Improvise. At the very least, he could remember the loose vocabulary. He could manage to simply tell her that she is beautiful. That was easy.

Closing the book and placing it on the rug, Faramir held his beloved wife’s hand and stroked its smooth skin. Lost in her deep eyes, he let the words overcome him. He let them invade every piece of himself that was not already conquered by the sight he beheld.

‘Éowyn,’ he intoned with a lovestruck voice, ‘leofest wife min, is éosgitan prættigre thonne thé.’

Éowyn froze, her eyes round as marbles and her jaw slacked. Faramir beamed with pride at the sheer surprise upon his wife’s face. But when her bewilderment turned into a deep frown, his exaltation swiftly came to an end.

‘Did I mispronounce something?’

She blinked a few times before rolling her eyes to the ceiling with a groan. The tension in her shoulders decreased, until she met his gaze once more.

‘Did Éomer teach you this?’

‘Well, yes. I have been studying Rohirric for the past weeks, but I needed his help. I wrote you a whole poem, but as soon as I looked into your eyes, I… I could not retrieve the words and I felt rather foolish. So, I used the other words he taught me to compliment your beauty.’

Faramir ran a hand through his hair, rather embarrassed. Surely, if this was her reaction, he had done it all wrong.

‘Was my pronunciation that horrendous?’

Éowyn laughed and pecked his cheek.

‘No, my love,’ she consoled him. ‘If you need advice about learning Rohirric, here it is: never trust Éomer. What he taught you means that horseshit is prettier than me.’

‘Oh. OH. No, no, this was not my intention at all! I…’

‘Calm down, Fari. I figured as much.’

He sighed in relief and wrapped his arms around her waist.

‘Why would he do such a thing?’

‘He’s a big brother. That is what big brothers do.’

‘Boromir never…’

‘My love, from all the things I have heard about him, I can assure you that Boromir was no typical older sibling. Siblings bicker, they fight over the pettiest thing. Éomer and I often shouted death threats to one another!’

Faramir blanched and shook his head in disbelief. He could not fathom Boromir ever uttering such calamities to him. But come to think of it, his father had done that aplenty in his stead.

‘I see. Well… I apologise for my words. I never meant to insult you.’

‘I know, Fari, you do not need to reassure me. Take it easy on yourself. Éomer took advantage of your cluelessness about our tongue to trick you. In a way, I think it comforts me into thinking that he sees you as his brother now. Not only did he gratuitously insulted me through you, but he also played a trick on you to embarrass you without harm.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Oh, yes. He would not do that to just anyone.’

The pair exchanged a loving smile and indulged into a slow kiss. When their lips parted, Éowyn instantly forgot the incident and traced his jaw and chin with the tip of her nail.

‘So, you said that you are learning Rohirric? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I wanted to surprise you. I wrote a poem in your language for you, and I meant to recite it in the garden at sunset. But since you preferred to stay at home, I wanted to pronounce it here instead. Again, I forgot all of it. But I have it written in my office. Now, I do not know how much of it I can trust.’

‘You had Éomer translate it with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Expect the lewdest things, then. But I will read it, if you allow me. Perhaps he did grow some common sense and actually did a good job. You can never know, with him.’

She peppered his face with kisses, causing him to blush and giggle. Oh, how he loved it when she made him drop his guard and made him giddy with the simplest of gestures. None other could bring him to such heights.

‘Min se swetesta sunnan scima,’ she murmured into his ear.

‘Wait,’ he exclaimed, perking up. ‘Sunnan… It is the sun, is it not?’

‘See? You know more than you think.’

Faramir grinned from ear to ear in victory. At last! He had understood a spoken word! He felt like a child whose arrow reached the target for the first time. It did not matter whether he did not hit bullseye; he had reached it.

‘But what does it mean?’

‘It means “my sweetest sunbeam”. And seeing you now, I believe that it could not fit you more.’

He chuckled and cupped her face, gently tracing her cheekbones with his thumbs.

‘What word is there in the Rohirric tongue to describe what I feel when I see you?’

‘Your words were spot-on.’

‘Come on,’ he playfully groaned, rolling his eyes. ‘You know that I was the mere victim of a crude trick. I want, no, I need, a word to express the fact that you are my most precious treasure. A gem I shall never tire to behold. One I seldom dare to touch with my rough fingers out of fear that I might shatter you.’

Éowyn flushed red yet did not avert her gaze. She stroked his hair and sighed.

‘Sincroden.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Sincroden. It means “treasure-adorned”. Many maidens of the Rohirrim dream to have a man address them as such.’

A shy smile played on his lips as he registered the information. He shifted a little on his seat and, sensing her slipping off his lap, he held her knees firmly and pulled her back onto him, pressing her to his chest.

‘Sinchroden wife min.’

The twinkle in Éowyn’s eyes betrayed the bursting joy within her thundering heart. Once again, she bestowed him with a most tender kiss, and none of them let go for the rest of the evening. Clad in the flames’ cast orange hues, they no longer needed words to convey their devotion to each other. They spoke the universal and unspoken language of bewitched hearts, eyelashes grazing their cheeks and the caress of their mouths the only syllables they required.

#Please do not proofread my Old English lmao #I had to rely on online sources and my two textbooks #Then I had to tweak stuff to make it sound Rohirric #Faramir #Éowyn #Eowyn #Farawyn #lotrweek #Lord of the Rings #Éomer #Eomer #Rohan #Gondor #Rohanese #lotr #lotr fanfic #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #fanfiction

[borom1r]

I've always head-canon/referred to the language as Rohirric, just made sense in my mind, along the lines of Rohirrim-multiple people/nation, Rohir-singular person. I also use it to refer to anything cultural; a Rohirric poem/saga, a Rohirric wedding. Thoughts?

I tend to default to Rohirric = culture and Rohanese = language for no real reason other than Rohanese is the most documented term Tolkien used for the language in his notes, but at the same time even Tolkien went back and forth + other Tolkien scholars use Rohirric for the language so it really doesn’t matter— at the end of the day, use whatever sounds best to you!

(ultimately I do think Rohirric sounds better than Rohanese by a MILE and ik it’s more widely used in fandom so there’s that too lol)

#ive definitely gone back and forth/called the language ‘Rohirric’ bc it does sound better lmao #it’s also fundamentally upsetting to me how many resources are like ‘and here’s a list of Rohanese words :)’ and then it’s just the fucking #Old English. or ‘here’s a list of Westron words’ and it includes attested Rohanese words. I’m going to start throwing bricks #people cannot keep getting it this fucking wrong consistently I will start screaming. I will. #I need to go straight to the fucking source at this rate sir PLEASE #pspspspspspspsps ooooooooo I was a GNSD major ooooooo u wanna let me look at Tolkien’s notes so bad #(GNSD = German Nordic Scandinavian & Dutch)

[sotwk]

Only slightly majorly obsessed with Eomer's outfit that he wore to King Elessar's coronation. Especially that cape! So regal! <3 I love Rohanese fabric designs, I gotta say. And with Karl Urban as the model, you just can't lose.

#eomer #eomer of rohan #rohan #eomer eadig #rotk #tolkien #lotr costumes #eomer simping disease #karl urban #lotr behind the scenes

[mimilind]

Stranger of the Falls - Part 2

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: T

Chapter Word Count: 1600

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

※※※

2. Lord Främling

In the afternoon you became busy with a new patient; little Kalle, Vidar’s stablehand. He was a boy of ten, his hair a flaxen mane around a freckled face, and his arm had swelled into twice its normal size. 

“Was it Svarten again?” you guessed.

The boy nodded and swallowed a sob. Trying to be brave, young as he was.

“Vána give me patience; someone ought to do something about that black devil,” you grumbled as you helped him sit on your kitchen table and drink a cup of weak mead with willow bark for the pain. While it took effect you continued talking, again using your voice to calm a frightened patient. “I wonder why Vidar keeps that infernal, troublesome horse. This is already the third accident in that many months. If I were him I would have gotten rid of it a long time ago.”

“Svarten sires good foals,” Kalle objected.

“Still not worth the trouble keeping him, I would say, but I guess it is not my stallion.”

“Who is he?” asked the boy a bit unsteadily, trying to focus his gaze on the stranger.

“A man I found below the Falls of Rauros; I do not know his name. I will examine you now.” You began to carefully prod his arm. “Let me know if it gets too painful.” 

He winced. “It’s alright.”

“It does not appear to be broken. You were lucky,” you concluded. “In a few weeks you will be as good as new.”

When you helped the boy down from your table a while later, arm bandaged and supported by a sling, he went over to the bed. Kalle and you had been speaking Rohanese, but now he said in the common language: “Goodbye, Lord Främling, and I hope you get well soon.” 

You smiled; Främling was a fitting name for a stranger.

He did not react.

Kalle left and you went on with your day. In between chores, you checked on Lord Främling, emptied his bedpan and tried in vain to make him swallow anything. He made no movements, no sounds, and did not open his mouth.

As if he had decided to die.

Something about the set of his jaw made you certain Främling could be a very stubborn man, but you were a very stubborn healer. You would win this, you determined.

Drawing your comfortable chair closer to the bed, you studied his profile. Again you wondered who he was and what he had been through to make him capitulate so completely. 

Part of it might be because he feared becoming a cripple, you figured. He was tall and handsome, and strong. A mighty swordsman. Perhaps he had been a famous hero in his country – and now he was lying here, partly paralyzed and unable even to control his own bladder. It was probably enough to break the spirit of the bravest man.

Yet, you did not think it was only that. There was something else. The darkness in his eyes went far beyond hurt pride.

You wished he would talk and explain.

You wished you could help him – and not only with his physical injuries.

He intrigued you. 

※

You fell asleep in your chair again. When you woke, Främling was moving fitfully in his sleep. You immediately recognized the symptoms of fever.

As you checked him, you saw one of the arrow wounds had festered. Around the edges the skin was swollen and an angry red, and a putrid liquid seeped from the uneven hole. 

It was the one where the arrow shaft had been broken. Had a splinter become stuck in there? If so, its poison might spread into the bloodstream and kill the man.

You were uncertain what to do. You could cut away the infected flesh and try to find the splinter, but that would be unbearably painful for him without a strong pain killing potion. 

You decided to wait a while longer and smeared on more yarrow ointment. Maybe it would be enough to counter whatever was poisoning the wound. 

Lord Främling groaned and his eyes flickered open. He tried to push your hand away but had no strength in his arm. 

“You still do not want anything for the pain?” you asked.

He did not reply. Did he really not understand the common language?

There was no way to tell.

You had finished putting on new bandages when there was a knock and Maja, one of the shepherdesses, came in with a puppy on her arm. 

“Can you heal my Ludde?” she asked in a small voice. She described the symptoms, how the poor dog could not keep any food down and had diarrhea the whole day. It had started yesterday after she brought him with her to practice herding sheep. Could he have been poisoned somehow?

You examined the puppy but saw no signs of poisoning. No drooling, no trembling. This time of year there were not many poisonous plants or mushrooms around so you doubted that could be the cause anyway.

Maybe the water, though? The many puddles and pools near the river were none too clean, and several of them were natural tar pits where a thick, oily sludge occasionally bubbled up. Tar was a great resource for waterproofing baskets and roofs but less great for thirsty animals.

”Did he drink anything when you were out?”

”Just pond water. He had so much fun chasing water birds and I did not have the heart to stop him. Was that bad?”

“He must have caught something in it, but worry not, it will probably pass. I shall feed him boiled water with honey and broth, it will calm his stomach. He can stay with me today, and I will notify you as soon as he improves – and in the future, do not let him drink anything but river water or water from the well.”

A bit calmer, the girl left and you began preparing the treatment. 

There seemed to be no problem with the puppy’s appetite. He swiftly emptied the bowl you put down, licking it clean.

“There is a good boy. Try to keep that down now,” you instructed him. 

Thankfully he did not vomit, and after an hour or so you ventured some mashed potato with more honey water. When you took him out for a walk a while later his bowels were less runny. 

Relieved you went back inside. At least this patient would be cured.

But as for your other one… Främling’s face had grown pale and sickly, with droplets of moisture forming on his bandaged forehead. When you touched it he felt burning hot.

You tried to slip a spoonful of potion between his lips, hoping he was becoming too confused by the fever to remember to refuse, but he snapped them shut and frowned at you.

“Damn your stubbornness,” you muttered between clenched teeth.

He looked like he was thinking exactly the same thing about you.

You went to the kitchen, cooking yourself a warm meal. With luck, the irresistible aroma of lamb stew would make him so hungry he could not stop himself.

But in all honesty, you were seriously beginning to doubt that. The man’s willpower was unbelievable. You feared he would win – that he would die on you.

While you ate, Ludde was becoming increasingly lively. The food had revived him and now he bounced around the room, frolicking like a colt, attacking the furniture and chewing on your boots. 

You decided to ask Torsten to fetch the shepherdess; her dog was good to go. 

When you returned, you were surprised to see that Ludde had jumped onto Främling’s bed. But even more surprising, the man was clumsily petting the puppy with both hands, though the left one was still the most agile. He must have regained more mobility during the day.

“You can move your right hand,” you exclaimed, pleased.

He quickly put it down with an almost sheepish look, like a boy caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.

You sat in the chair beside him, leaning forward. “And – just now you heard what I said and understood it. Do not deny it. You put the right hand down. You have understood me this whole time, you stubborn man!”

He neither replied, nor looked at you, but it was too late. He could not fool you anymore.

You turned his face towards you, forcing him to meet your eyes. “It is a relief that you understand, because I need to tell you something important. I suspect there is a splinter left of one of the arrows and it is poisoning you. Corrupting the wound. That is why you have a fever.”

He did not reply but you knew he was listening. His gaze did not waver.

“I have to cut away flesh to find it and get it out. It will hurt. Much. I have a potion that can take away the pain and I need you to take it. I do not want to torment you needlessly.”

For the first time a hint of insecurity flickered across his eyes. Then he firmly shook his head. 

“Nno… lleave me alone,” he slurred, trying to push you away but he was weak as a kitten.

“I will not let you die,” you said with emphasis. “You are my patient and I am a servant of Vána; I have sworn to use her herbs and flowers to heal, and to do everything in my power to save lives. I will try and it will hurt. Please, accept the potion. It is stupid not to.”

His gaze hardened. 

You made yours equally hard. Stern. 

He frowned angrily, turning the left corner of his mouth down. “Uck you.”

“I will pretend I did not understand that.” You put the spoon against his mouth. ”Open up.”

With a last, furious glare at you he obeyed.

※※※

A/N:

Hurt/comfort incoming in 1… 2… 3… (Did I mention it’s among my favorite tropes?)

Trivia: Vána is one of the Valar, married to Oromë the Huntsman, whom the Rohirrim call Béma.

※※※

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

#boromir #boromir x reader #boromir x oc #boromir x you #lotr #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings #hurt/comfort #healing #boromir lives au #reader insert #heroism #Stranger of the Falls

[2x4swrites]

Hi.... hello... I'm too tired to make a polished post for this one, but here's 4k words of Théodred/Boromir/Aragorn fluff + smut that I reverse engineered Rohanese neologisms for.

if you read it I'm sending you 47,000 heart emojis

(link in notes)

#lotr #aragorn/boromir #boromir/théodred #aragorn/théodred #aragorn/boromir/théodred #aragorn #boromir #théodred #fanfic

[beebobaggins]

Tolkien related terms I've made!

Part 1 out of ??..

Hādekûdûk

Pronounced “HAAW-duh-KOO-dook” ..

Picked from words I fashioned together, hāde-kûd-dûkan

Hāde : Dative, singular, Old English for person/gender/individual

Kûd-dûkan : Rohanese, word for ‘hole builder’, refers to Hobbits.

A term that is meant for those who are Hobbits to use to help describe their experience with their personal identity that someone who isn't a Hobbit couldn't understand.

Prefixes would be used like:

Kûdûgirl, kûdûboy, kûdûbeing (equivalent to enby), kûdûgay, kûdûace, kûdûmulti,.. And so forth.

Hādekhûze

Mishmashed from hāde and Khuz

Pronounced “HAAW-duh-kuh-OO-zuh”..

Hāde: Dative, singular, Old English for person/gender/individual..

Khuz: Khuzdul, refers to dwarves themselves iirc :3

A term for those who are (Tolkien) Dwarves to use to help describe their experience with their personality that someone who isn't a Dwarf couldn't understand.

Prefixes would be used like:

Khûzgirl, khûzboy, khûzbeing, khûzgay, khûzace, khûzmulti.. And so on!!

Do not upload these anywhere without my permission thank you, I'll put these on wikis and Pinterest on my own time!!

#🌰 . the hobbit's saplings #mogai label #mogai safe #mogai coining #mogai friendly #mogai community #actually mogai #mogai blog #mogai post #i do not know what else to put huurrrhh...

[omgiamwish]

(1/?) You want more Smart Merry Appreciation? I'LL GIVE YOU MORE SMART MERRY APPRECIATION!!! (This is just off the top of my head) 1) Merry was the first one in the Shire to find out about Bilbo's Ring, admittedly by accident, but he did a great deal of investigating afterwards, including organising the conspiracy with Pippin, Sam, and Fredegar Bolger, meaning that they knew everything that was going on BEFORE Frodo told them, and were able to plan accordingly.

2) Merry was the one to plan and organise their route out of the shire, as well as organise their supplies and ponies. Frodo's plan was literally just 'leave'. 3) Keeping on the planning theme; while they were in Rivendell Merry took the time to study maps of the journey ahead.

4) During his time with the Rohirrim, Merry noticed many similarities between the Rohanese language and Hobbit vernacular and later in life went on to make a study and write a book about it; Old Words and Names in the Shire.

5) Merry wrote other books too! For example The Reckoning of Years, and Herblore of the Shire. I know there is more, but I need to do a re-read myself! Also, sorry if the layout/way I have done this is weird; Tumblr's ask system is being difficult!)

___

YES!!!!

Now that you say them, I remember most of these pretty well! They're just in parts of the books that are less interesting to me, which is probably why I have a hard time remembering them. But I knew about the maps! When I assigned Donnie to Merry, I was actually like "oh yeah, and Merry studied the maps. Donnie would do that too! I'm glad that's matching up good".

i am laughing at "Frodo's plan was literally just 'leave'." It was omg. (It would've been Leo's too if he'd thought he could get away with it)

oh man now i'm thinking about merry and theoden and how theoden was all ready to let merry infodump to him about herblore and then they never got to do that :(

WHICH IS SOMETHING DONNIE WOULD ALSO WANT TO DO I'M A GENIUS AND ALSO GOING TO DESTROY SOMETHING RRRAAAHHHH

anyway why isn't my lotrfusionau getting done faster <- i say as i procrastinate by drawing other things

[greypetrel]

For the Tolkien questions:

7. If you could download a Tolkien language into your brain and speak it fluently, which one would you pick and why?

Aaaaaah thank you for this question in particular! *_*

Tis the ask game

7. If you could download a Tolkien language into your brain and speak it fluently, which one would you pick and why?

ROHANESE HANDS DOWN.

Beside the fact that if I could choose to live anywhere in Middle Earth, I'd choose Rohan I'm not a horse girl I swear and that would come handy... It's inspired from Old English, and so it would give me the most chances at doing some good old linguistical analysis and comparisons, see how much and when the professor diverged from the original language and why and how.

I studied Germanic Philology at university, yes.

#ask game #tolkien twenty questions #petrel replies

[heilith]

may I ask, why is your name heilith? have a nice day!

Hey! Sorry, replying a bit late. 

Originally, it was supposed to be a Rohanese-style pseudonym for my OC, whose first name was Helanthir. I needed it to start with “HE” and to look like it had Anglo-Saxon origins, and there’s an Anglo-Saxon deity with a similar name (only the deity is Helith). I didn’t use that name yet, because that fic is on a prolonged hiatus. When I was starting my blog here, the OC was the first thing that popped up in my head, because it was a very spur-of-the-moment decision. 

Thank you for asking, and have a nice day, too! 

[kylobith]

My uni is offering me something that will definitely improve my future works about Middle Earth!

In about 4 weeks, I have a seminar dedicated to linguistics and grammatical systems in Tolkien's languages. I might be able to write Rohirric/Rohanese better in the future!

#plus my main teacher is fluent in Old English #I can ask her for help

[borom1r]

I need an essay prompt. I need to write essays again. 5-8 pages double spaced mla format. oooooooooo I have words in my brain and no acceptable outleeeeeeeeeeeeeet

#I FEEL SO BAD #it’s actually so fucking funny how it wound up that like #my mother is the only person who I like. give absolutely zero shit how she perceives me AND couldn’t care less abt her opinion so if she #makes fun of me it’s literally whatever. she gave me the tiniest opening and I literally ranted for like 10 minutes about Rohanese

[sotwk]

After much consideration, I would like to ask if I could request a fanfic.

I saw the post on weddings and would like to request an Eomer x Reader Wedding day?

(I've never done a request before, so I hope I'm doing this right)

ROHAN WEDDING WITH EOMER X READER!!!

@artemisotago My friend, I am honored to receive your first fic request, and I'm so thrilled with your selection! Honestly, it's also intimidating because Eomer is such a beloved character, and Rohan is a land with such a distinct, vibrant culture, so the task of taking on a ROYAL wedding is a bit of serious business in my eyes. This will require a lot of brainstorming and worldbuilding before I even get down to writing it. But I've desperately needed to develop more Rohan headcanons, anyway!

Also, thank you asking me to do an Eomer x Reader instead of the canon Eomer x Lothiriel because it gives me a chance to write about a purely Rohanese wedding without having to mix in Gondor's culture and politics. Plus, I've made no secret of my personal preference of pairing up Eomer with a Rohan-born maiden. ;)

But yes I happily accept this request and am very excited to have it on my WIP list! I beg your patience while I tackle it (I have several Eomer WIPs that definitely need to be completed first), but I hope I can make it worth the wait.

EOMER WEDDING. GAH. THE DREAM.

#sotwk answers #fanfic request #eomer #eomer x reader #sotwk WIP #eomer imagine #rohan

[kadaverinezine]

Summoning - With Doom We Come (2018) Album Review

On paper, Summoning do not work. Painfully slow song progressions, cheesy keyboard/symphonic parts and programmed lo-fi drum patterns. Yet they remain massively revered and respected despite very little musical variation since the icy Black Metal Helcaraxe that was Lugburz back in 1995.

Two words: Songwriting and conviction. They take all these aforementioned rustic elements and blend them into something that is genuine and captivating. Whether it be sombre tracks such as The White Tower (From 2013's Old Mornings Dawn) or a heroically Rohanese battlecry like The Glory Disappears from 1999's Stronghold. Their albums ooze with authenticity and sincerity which is impressive considering the band draws massive lyrical inspiration from the works of high fantasy progenitor J. R. R. Tolkien.

Carving a niche in a sub-genre as divisive as Black Metal is an accomplishment in itself. Never ones to be swayed or influenced by the rapidly evolving metal scene, in 2018, have Summoning been left to wander in the great void of irrelevance?

Unequivocally not.

With Doom We Come lights the beacon previously lit by their 2013 effort Old Mornings Dawn. The album is almost entirely mid paced and is heavily anchored by the creeping buzzsaw riffs that drive the majority of the 8 tracks on offer. Opener Tar-Calion starts with what sounds like war drums and it isn't long until your senses are enveloped by the familiar Summoning hallmarks. Mid-paced Black Metal riffage coupled with beckoning horns and synths are all present as the track's only vocals come in the way of what I assume is Tar Calion aka Al-Pharazon the Golden declaring his plans to invade Valinor (Spoiler alert! It doesn't end well for him). The album boasts Summoning's cleanest production to date and this is accentuated by the mournful synths which are far less bombastic than earlier efforts.

This decision to further this battle weary atmosphere opposed to the grandiose splendour of times past will not come as a surprise to attentive fans of Summoning's discography. This is the first Summoning album which feels like a spiritual successor to the previous one and this is perhaps best represented in the closing and title track With Doom I Come. Closing tracks on a Summoning album are typically the most epic and With Doom I Come is no exception. Protector once again displays his semi-clean vocals first heard in Old Mornings Dawn closer Earthshine. It works well within the track and is a refreshing alternative to the dual gnarled Wraith-like shrieks and wails of both members. Towards the end of the track, which has the strongest synth work on the album, a choral passage reminiscent of Oath Bound's Land of the Dead does enough to captivate you in the closing minutes.

My personal highlight on this album is without a doubt the fourth track Herumor. An ode to the Black Numenorean of the same name, the track is layered beautifully and features an impassioned vocal performance which can be heard when Silenius roars "And all I loved, I loved alone". This track is an encapsulation of every emotive nuance that Summoning manages to drag out of my cold, apathetic musical heart. The horns and keys are at their morose best while still maintaining enough melody to infer a glimmer of triumph.

Overall, With Doom We Come is most certainly still a Summoning record. The fundamental components are all in place yet presented as perhaps the most brooding and subdued offering yet. This does also give the record's songwriting and album flow a more consistent and focused feel which may leave some listeners ambivalent as it isn't a great departure nor a return to roots that a portion of most artist's demographic yearn for. I personally feel this album is more than a worthy addition to the band's mostly stellar discography. Only time and repeated listens will indicate whether or not it ranks up with the best (Stronghold is currently sitting above Caradhras) but at the very least this album is a reminder that Summoning are fervently relevant and necessary to the current age of extreme music.

Review by Floyd Elphinstone

#summoning #summoning band #heavy metal #kadaverine zine #album review #journalism #metal #j.r.r tolkien #tolkien #new album

[morwensteelsheen]

afta chapter 8 footnotes

The quote at the top is from Tom Bombadil :) 

If you notice me dodging giving the language of the Mark a name it’s because Tolkien’s lazy ass was super bad about doing that. It’s been referred to ex post facto as as “Rohanese” but I need you to know that I will literally die before I use that word. Garbage. 

Also, I am trying to be better about having the Rohir characters use “the Mark” and “the Riddermark” to refer to their country, because “Rohan” is the Sindarin — not native — name for it. If you see characters from Gondor calling it the (Ridder)Mark, that’s not me slipping up, it’s there for a ~reason~. xo.

The story Faramir is asking after is, of course, Beowulf, and Éowyn’s concerns are reflected of Tolkien’s concerns about translating, as published in this essay. There is debate as to whether Beowulf was originally told orally, I have come down on the side of “yes” because: fuck historical accuracy, it fits my story better.

Faramir’s fear of water is so, so, so shamelessly stolen from Khokali’s beautiful HC. I just love it so much.

The concern about the Orcs getting onto the river is based in canon — it’s mentioned in FOTR “The Great River” that Orcs have spent the past couple years harassing people from Rhovanion to Osgiliath (why nobody thought they might then be competent enough with boats to ford the river at Osgiliath, I don’t know...) 

Faramir’s wee panic about watching the Orc die is again one of Khokali’s brilliant innovations, from Hearts & Minds which is, imo, the definitive take on young Faramir. 

#e writes #afta

[borom1r]

[shaking, covered in blood] I’m thinking abt Rohanese again

#like ok old english/anglosaxon modernized was used to render Rohanese as a way to highlight the difference between it and Westron #and we know lô/loh v. eoh #I’m going to kill my fucking phone how many times do I have to tell it not to fucking autocorrect sth only for it to change it anyways. #ANYHOW. #we also know it pulls some grammatically from Scandinavian languages #and eoh is interesting bc it isn’t even the common word for horse it’s poetic; developed from protogermanic ehwaz #common prose in old English would be hors #or mearh #lô/loh can’t be traced along the same roots from what I can find but the Scandinavian grammar idea is interesting #at least as far as names/adjectives are concerned (Theoden King) #biting things I need to know more abt this language. digging will be done later #edit: the poetic choice is interesting bc it implies Rohanese words at least rendered into English could be traced back to the #elder futhark + their symbolism

[kylobith]

Hesitating to write some Éomer fic, but I have never written LotR stuff. Plus, I want to explore Rohanese, but we know so little, I want to take stuff from Old English and tweak it, but I don't want to sound like a dumbass by doing that

#am I overthinking this? #most likely #that sorta fear keeps me from writing what I want #Eomer #Eomer Eadig #Éomer Éadig