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kylobith · 5 months

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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

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southfarthing · 1 year

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For the ask game: Faramir of course 🤭

one aspect about them i love

EVERYTHINGGGGGGGGGGGG ok ok. I love how committed he is to his own moral stance. he won't be swayed - not by the ring, not by his father - from his decision to do the honourable thing

one aspect i wish more people understood about them

HE'S NOT A PATHETIC BABY ohhhhh my god. oh my god. this guy basically told his dad he was a dumb bitch who killed his own son. to his face!!!!!!! and that he therefore has reason to not take his father's advice!!! faramir is smart and honourable and good yes but he is also shrewd and bitchy <3 and a literal mind-reader??? with prophetic dreams??????ok

one (or more) headcanon(s) i have about this character

finduilas used to read stories to him about numenor and dol amroth and the sea, so after she died, he felt closer to her among the dusty bookshelves in the archives. he determinedly learned how to read so that he could find her in the pages whenever he wanted to. this is where gandalf first found him - this small, black-haired boy with a book half his size in his lap.

one character i love seeing them interact with

eowyn....gandalf.......any and every hobbit........

one character i wish they would interact with/interact with more

ELROND!!!!!!!! you don't understand I'm obsessed with the idea of these two meeting at midsummer in minas tirith. also a scene or two with boromir would have been 🥹 oh and beregond!!!! like 'hi i committed treason and murder to save you. also i've been your biggest fan for years. and now i've been exiled/rewarded by being your personal guard. do you want to be my best friend' '...who's this guy?'

one (or more) headcanon(s) i have that involve them and one other character

he and eowyn write books together about rohirric culture and history and legends and songs <3 wait i just had a Thought i'm gonna make a separate post

#thank you!#filmamir #faramir #lotr #replies #hc #my hc

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camille-lachenille · 1 year

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Day 21 of All of Arda is Autistic:

Prompt: unmasking/confidence

Rating: Gen

Éowyn/Faramir

Éowyn closed the door of her room and sighed with relief, slumping from her straight and tense posture. Then, she shook her head and started humming a silly drinking song as she started undressing from her heavy velvet gown. She was happy to be home one last time before leaving Medulsed for the fair Ithilien with Faramir. A knock on the door made Éowyn startle and she immediately put back her composed mask as she shrugged on a dressing gown before letting her brother in.

When the doors of their rooms closed behind them, Éowny let go of Faramir’s hand and made a beeline for the settee in front of the fireplace. She sat on her hands to still them, but her new husband gently pulled them away and placed them on her lap. “Please, don’t hide from me,” he said softly. Éowyn focused her gaze on her fingers drumming the rhythm of a Rohirric riding song on the soft fabric of her wedding gown. There was a moment of silence before she started humming the melody, slightly out of tune, and she relaxed a bit.

“It will take time, you know?” she murmured after a while. Faramir was sitting next to her, his gaze lost on the intricate pattern of the rug. “Not hiding behind my mask. It kept me going for so long…”

Her husband extended a hand, hesitantly, and she grabbed it with eagerness. “I know. I am learning too,” he admitted with a little squeeze to her hand. “But I don’t want to hide anymore. And you don’t ever have to pretend to be someone else with me. Ever!” he added with a quiet passion. And Éowyn curled against Faramir, her chest ready to burst with relief and love.

“I can’t be how I was before. Not now that I am learning who I truly am,” she said after a comfortable pause. “But I am scared to show the world who I am. I think I am scared to see it myself…”

The White Lady of Ithilien wandered around her blooming garden, a skip in her steps and a song on her lips. She regularly paused to pick some useful herbs, weed a bed of flowers or simply watch the dance of a bee. She had leaves in her hair and dirt on the hem of her dress. The morning council had gone well, and her project for a new wing for her House of Healing had been accepted. She would celebrate this later with Faramir, there was this victory song in Rohirric she really wanted to teach him!

#all of arda is autistic 2023 #tolkien #the lord of the rings #eowyn #faramir #autistic characters #autistic masking #unmasking #autistic eowyn #autistic faramir #faramir x eowyn #ficlet #writing prompt

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dalleyan · 1 year

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Elfwine Chronicles (new LoTR stories, Detente, ch 3 posted, 3-15-23)

Eldarion was good at everything he attempted, except love. (Drama, Angst, Romance, Family)

Détente - Chapter 3

When Elfwine and Dariel returned to Edoras a fortnight later, matters were still unsettled. Eldarion continued to watch Luthiel from afar, completely at a loss as to how to win her. She was so utterly outside his experience that he found himself floundering most of the time he was in her presence. Before they departed, Elfwine recommended, “Stop trying to woo her and just be her friend. Let it build from there. Give her a chance to like you first.”

And so he had, month after month. Slowly, the results were encouraging. Now, whenever there was a dance, she expected him to seek her out at least once, if not more, and she always reserved time for him. She laughed more when she was with him, and took to teasing him relentlessly. At first, he thought he could do very well without that, but over time, he came to realize how much he enjoyed it when she poked at him. Perhaps because he felt absolutely certain it was not malicious, and because it reflected how well she seemed to know him, he found it a pleasing occurrence.

By the time March arrived, Luthiel was eighteen years, Elfwine and Dariel had been wed a year and Eldarion joined Faramir’s family on a visit to Rohan. Even more than spending time with Luthiel at Minas Tirith, he enjoyed being away from the city. There was less to distract her, like other men seeking her favor, and it felt deliciously pleasant to have her practically all to himself, her parents notwithstanding.

Talk had never been something he did with women. He focused primarily on their appearance and let it go at that, yet he had come to realize that Luthiel was not only beautiful, but intelligent. To his surprise, she had a fondness for healing, like her mother. It seemed incongruous, considering her skill with a bow and her expertise at riding, for her to be so intrigued by such a predominantly indoor activity. In fact, that was the problem she had with healing as an occupation. She enjoyed being outdoors so very much, that it was difficult for her to endure the idea of spending long hours inside on a beautiful day.

It was also on this jaunt to Edoras that Eldarion finally learned the secret to her skill with a bow. The subject of her incredible shot had come up, and he had congratulated Faramir on what he had taught his daughter. Faramir laughed and told him, “I was skilled, in my day, Eldarion, but I fear I cannot take credit for that feat of Luthiel’s. Legolas is the culprit there. He has been a frequent visitor to our home whenever he is in Ithilien, and once he recognized Luthiel’s aptitude with a bow, he was pleased to work with her during his visits. At this point, I would honestly have to say her skill is far greater than mine ever was.”

As Luthiel was also skilled with a sword, Eldarion ventured to invite her to practice with him during their journey, and to his immense surprise, he discovered he did not mind when she bested him. At least, unlike many others, she gave it her best effort and challenged him. Too many men preferred to go easy on him and make sure he won, rather than risk causing him any embarrassment. He doubted that most of them could beat him, even at their best, but it was still annoying that they didn’t at least attempt it. Certainly he could not hope to get better if he already surpassed everyone else’s skill. Luthiel was even willing to share some of the tips Legolas had given her, and he could tell her guidance much improved his control and range in archery.

Eldarion’s main purpose in visiting Rohan, aside from spending time with Luthiel, was to obtain a horse. He had reached the conclusion it was wise to give in to admonishments from both Elfwine and Luthiel on the matter. Once again, he discovered Luthiel’s knowledge exceeded his own. She clearly knew horseflesh, particularly Rohirric horseflesh. However, he could hardly bristle at her greater talent when it meant spending considerable amounts of time with her, looking over prospective animals and taking them out for a ride to see how they suited.

Seeing his best friend again, visiting with his sister and spending copious hours in Luthiel’s company made for an excellent excursion from Eldarion’s perspective. He was sorry when they finally arrived back at Minas Tirith, knowing he would see far less of the girl than before.

continue reading on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45599791/chapters/115193497

#Eomer #Lothiriel #Lord of the Rings #Elfwine Chronicles #LOTR #Eldarion #Luthiel #Aragorn #Faramir #original characters

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scyllas-revenge · 2 years

Text

Chicken Soup for the Soul

Eowyn/Faramir

Word count: 1,740

Rating: G

Summary: Eowyn has a cold, and Faramir wants to comfort her. Unfortunately, Eowyn’s never been good at accepting help when it’s offered, and she’s not so sure about her husband’s methods.

Because I wanted to answer the question: Does Faramir know how to cook?

Read on AO3!

“Faramir?” Eowyn rubbed her eyes blearily as she stepped into the kitchens. “What in the world are you doing?”

Her husband jumped, abandoning the pot he’d been stirring over the fire and hurrying to her side. “Me?” He smoothed her long hair out of her face and pressed a kiss to her temple, heedless of the sheen of sweat on her brow. “What are you doing, my love? You said you would try to sleep.”

“Sleep,” she repeated dismissively. “I cannot. It is barely sundown—” Her words were cut off by a wild coughing fit, and she sagged against the kitchen doorway, cursing her sudden frailty. She was a shieldmaiden, a daughter of kings, and was learning the healing arts besides—she would not let a simple cold overpower her!

“Come now, my brave warrior,” Faramir said, supporting her weight with a broad arm around her waist. “Easy does it.”

“Faramir—let me go,” Eowyn protested, wincing at the childish whine in her voice. “It is only a cold, I am entirely capable of standing on my own...”

But her husband held her firm, damn him, and guided her to a chair near the fireplace. At least he knew better than to try to pick her up, she supposed. “You must rest, my love,” he said. “And if you will not see to your own wellbeing, then I shall have to do so for you.”

“Is that what you’re doing, then?” Eowyn eyed the pot over the fire. “Seeing to my wellbeing by burning down the kitchens?”

“Burning down the—” Faramir scoffed in mock offense, chuckling to himself as he turned back to his work. “I’m merely making you dinner.”

“Another one?” Eowyn had left their evening meal after mere minutes, unable to stomach the rich food the servants had prepared. She’d told her husband she’d try to sleep for a while, but had forgotten how dull being sick was. Just lying there, aching and feverish, waiting for sleep to come and her body to heal—Faramir was lucky she’d stayed in bed as long as she had!

“Yes, but this dinner will be better, I assure you.” He twirled a soup ladle in his hands as he grinned at her.

“Dearest Faramir,” Eowyn groaned, drawing a hand down her face in exhaustion. She didn’t have the energy for this! “If you are so concerned for my wellbeing, the cook might have prepared something. You needn't have bothered…”

His smile widened, and he shook his head. “And you would only have protested my calling the servants back to the hall after they’d been dismissed.” He pitched his voice high, exaggerating the harsh sounds of her Rohirric accent. “I am entirely capable of missing one meal, you know. As though I need to be doted upon by servants at every hour of the—”

“Bema, stop it,” she cried, laughing despite herself. “You are right, I suppose—I do not wish the servants to go to the trouble. But neither do I wish you to take such pains for me, especially when…” She trailed off, not wanting to betray her lack of faith in his cooking.

“Well, unfortunately for you,” Faramir replied, now ladling the contents of the pot into a small wooden bowl, “I do wish to take such pains for you.” Gently, he set the bowl on a tray and handed it to Eowyn.

She looked down at the meal, then back up at Faramir’s open face, a soft, earnest tenderness crinkling the corners of his eyes, and all at once she was overwhelmed. “Thank you." Her voice was small. She took the tray with shaking hands, struck by the sudden knowledge that no one, in all her life, had ever made her a meal except for those who had been employed for that very purpose. It no longer mattered if the soup was terrible—he had cooked. For her. For no other reason than because he wanted to. Sweet as the gesture was, she felt strangely exposed, and fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself.

“Try it,” he prompted. “It’s no healing medicine, but it should soothe your stomach.”

Her hands still trembling, Eowyn brought the spoon to her lips. Even through her running nose, she could smell its warm, comforting fragrance. The soup was nearly scalding hot, but it was a balm to her raw, scratchy throat. Pieces of tender chicken mingled with lentils and sweet onions and a medley of fresh herbs, though Eowyn did not presume to guess what they were. “Faramir,” she cried, nearly dropping her spoon in shock. “This is delicious.”

Faramir rolled his eyes fondly and sank into a chair on the other side of the fire. “Oh, how little faith you had in me.”

“Well, I suppose…that is, you—” She hesitated. Perhaps she had been too presumptuous, but she certainly couldn't cook like this—for who would have taught her? She was the Lady of Rohan, very nearly a princess. In recent years, she had only ever entered the kitchens to discuss her uncle’s diet and healing remedies with the household staff, as Theoden's illness had grown worse and worse...“You are the Prince of Ithilien—a son of the Steward of Gondor,” she said at last. “You cannot know any more of cooking than I do.”

Faramir shrugged, resting his elbows on his knees and gesturing for her to keep eating. “As a child, I often…disappointed my father," he said carefully. "When my practice sword did not strike true, when my tutors were unsatisfied with my studies, when I disagreed with my father on a matter of battle strategy, he would send me to work in the Citadel kitchens.” Something hardened in his voice. “We are all in service to Gondor, he would say. But it seems your only worth to your country is to stay out of sight, toiling amongst the servants.”

“Faramir…” Eowyn’s hands tightened on her tray as she broke into another series of coughs. Her father-in-law was long dead, but oh, she would have dearly loved a chance to gift him with a piece of her mind—

“You need not pity me,” Faramir reassured her. “The offense is old, and the hurt has long healed.”

“Nevertheless,” she insisted, not sure if she believed him. “He should not have treated you so. Indeed, he should not have,” she repeated furiously, seeing the chill behind his eyes. “For you are—” She broke off, hardly able to articulate her anger on his behalf. “You—oh, Bema help me, Faramir, your worth is greater than the whole of Gondor!”

He looked away, his smile stiff and not quite reaching his eyes, and he changed the subject. “Nor should my father have belittled the servants’ work as he did. I was proud to have learned from such honorable men and women as our kitchen staff. Prouder still,” he added, nodding to her, “that my service in the kitchens might be of some use to you now.”

Faramir spoke on as Eowyn ate, his tone reminding her of a rider calming a spooked horse. He told her how bitterly he had wept upon first being banished to the kitchens, inconsolable until the head cook had comforted him by plying him with cakes—how Faramir took to stuffing his pockets with sweets for himself and his brother—how he had learned, little by little, to chop vegetables, and butcher meat, and make stews and breads and mulled wine—how he would bring this very same chicken soup to Boromir when his brother fell ill, when their father would refuse to let his favored son and heir rest for even a day...

Eowyn’s heart softened as she listened to him. But she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, that feeling of being exposed returning stronger than ever, and at last she had to interrupt—

“Faramir, you need not do such things for me.”

He broke off, looking surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that…well, I am not on death’s door. I could have lasted until the morning to eat something else. I have…” Her breath trembled, though she wasn’t sure why. “I have cared for myself, alone, for many years. Just because you can cook does not mean you must do so, for my sake.”

“I told you already, I wish to.” Faramir knelt by her side and pressed his lips to hers.

“Faramir!” she cried, drawing away. “You will catch my cold and fall ill, you stupid man—”

“Then I shall fall ill, and gladly,” he murmured, kissing her again defiantly. “I do not question your independence, or your strength. But you are not alone in this world, Eowyn. You are loved, and cherished, and I would ensure that you are well enough to keep such strength for all the long years of your life.”

Eowyn sniffled—only because of her cold, of course, there was no other reason—and kissed him back until she nearly overturned the tray of soup in her lap.

“Eat,” Faramir chided her, straightening her tray and smiling. He stood and fetched a blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders, and neither the soup, nor the blanket, nor the roaring fire was enough to explain the warmth that flooded through Eowyn’s body as she looked up at him.

“Perhaps…” Eowyn cleared her throat, suddenly shy—shy, as though she were not already married to this man! “Perhaps when this cold has passed, you might teach me what you learned in the kitchens of Minas Tirith?”

“You wish to learn to cook?”

“Of course!” She straightened in her chair, nearly spilling her soup again in her earnestness. “Of course, for who else is to make you this soup if you fall ill?”

Faramir's breath hitched. He bent down to kiss her once more, cupping her face in his warm hand and pressing his forehead to hers. “As soon as you are well, then.”

Eowyn smiled, returning to her soup with renewed motivation—for who would care for Faramir if she did not stay well?

Faramir settled back into the chair across from her, and she paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. “You need not sit here with me and listen to me cough all evening,” she said apologetically. “If you would rather prepare for bed…”

He smiled softly, and Eowyn knew what his answer would be before he said it: “Not a chance, my love.”

#eowyn #faramir #lotr fanfic #lotr #eowyn x faramir #farawyn #lotr fluff

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miriel-therindes · 2 years

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So I know that I love getting asks about my OCs and so, if this holds true for you, would you like to talk about Lopowen, Faenel or Turunís (or any combination of the three of them)? Or maybe give them each a colour palette, if that is more your thing!

Oh thank you for the ask!!!! I'm always delighted to ramble about my babies <3

My OCs masterlist

I talked a bit about Turunis previously in this post, but here's some more about her: -She's the daughter of two politicans (her mother is one of the Noldor and her father a Teleri). But in general she considers herself a Noldo, and that's who she grew up mainly with. -She's two years older than Curvo, so they're very close in age and were apprentices at the same time, and huge rivals, always vying for their teachers' approval. -Eventually they became friends, though they were still very competative. -They worked on projects together and invented some things -Turunis thrives on being around people, though she tends to be shortspoken and stoic -She's a very commanding person, who likes being in charge and getting her own way, though she's open to new ideas. She's fairly manipulative and can be charming when she wants to -She's a very *careful* person though and through, and will always play the long game -Unlike Curvo who sometimes...lacks impulse control and patience -She's very loyal to those who she has decided are Her People, and *very* protective, especially of Tyelpe -Finduilas is one of those people. After Finduilas’ mother dies she latches onto Turunis, and Turunis took one look at her and went "oh, shit. i feel...love??? for Orodreth's brat??? uh;; guess i have another child now" , adds her to the list of Her People, and goes "I've only had this child for a day and a half but if anything happened to her I’d kill everyone in the room and then myself. -So Turunis becomes Finduilas' morally ambiguous adopted aunt -As Finduilas grows older and Turunis' rapidly morally degenerates and mentally/emotionally breaks down their relationship does become somewhat strained over basic ethical conflict, aka Finduilas says "murder is not ok??" But Finduilas still loved Turunis despite how conflicted her feelings are and Turunis still would do absolutely Anything for Finduilas -After she and Curvo separate he and Finduilas is the two people she has left and she will do absolutely anything to make sure they’re safe, strained as their relationship might be -She dies in the fall of Nargothrond, trying to hold off Orcs with her spear to give Tyelpe and Finduilas more time -And it was not in vain, Tyelpe and several elf children with him managed to escape and flee to Gondolin -Finduilas was, however, taken captive while fleeing, and later pinned to that tree

Turunis at the kinslaying of Sirion from this character creator

Colour palette for Turunis

There's some more of Faenel in this post, and here are some thoughts I have on her life after the War that I'm not sure I've posted here before:

-She becomes somewhat friends with Faramir in the aftermath, building a friendship over their shared grief. He can never convince her to like Aragorn, though. -She becomes very close friends with Eowyn as well! They meet because Faenel designs and sews Eowyn's wedding dress. -Faenel never went through exactly what Eowyn did, but she can somewhat relate to he crushing weight of duty and responsibility and fear. They help each other heal -Faenel often visits Ithilien to see her and make her clothes (Eowyn insists she shouldn't work on her free time, but Faenel is fascinated by the rohirric fashions and has fun combining those and gondorian styles for Eowyn, so she convinces Eowyn to let her design a few things for her on visits) -Eowyn also teaches Faenel to ride horses. She had never learned before because she lived in Minas Tirith and rarely travelled so there was little need to, but once she learned the basics she loves going on rides with Eowyn and Faramir -Miri and her husband live in another circle of Minas Tirith, but they come down to Faenel's shop for tea nearly every day. -They've all been so very hurt by the War, and Faenel no less, but she learns how to heal and build friendships out of sorrow and find new things to love.

Colour palette for Faenel

Lopowen is one of my newest OCs and she isn't very developed yet, she came into being this February when I was writing a leetle Valentine's day fluff for fun. But she’s a Teleri Elf who was childhood friends with Maglor and they later wed, not long before the Rebellion of the Noldor. She is a poet and storyteller, but a very grounded, practical person. She does go into exhile with the rebellion, but she’s horrified by the kinslaying at Sirion and furious at how Maglor went along with it, killing her own people. So she leaves the host of Feanor and joins that of Fingolfin, meaning that she’s left behind from the ships (Maglor is filled with rage at her and still burns the ships with his father and brother. When he realises that he had doomed her to the Helcaraxe, he regrets it.) She survives the Helcaraxe, and I’m not sure what happens to her in Beleriand yet. I think she might survive the first age, but I’m still working on her story :DD

Lopowen on the Helcaraxe from this character creator

#turunis aira #oc faenel #oc lopowen #my oc #colour palettes #mine #my scribbles #tolkien #silmarillion #lotr

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lesbiansforboromir · 3 years

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I was thinking about Faramir and his whole attitude towards "lesser men." I find your writing on that topic so interesting and different from most stuff I see about Faramir! (I still love him but...well). And I was thinking about how he later marries Eowyn, the rustic illiterate of those very "lesser" folk, and what, if anything, that implies about his character arc. I wondered if you have thoughts about that? I tried searching your blog but the search function has been wonky lately. Thank you!

Well firstly thanks very much :) glad you find it interesting.

SO. I've tended to avoid talking too deeply about farawyn because I am aware I am not precisely... UNBIASED... when it comes to this ship. I've said this before but Eowyn's marrying a man was the first #lesbianidentifyingBETRAYAL I ever experienced and it has emotionally stuck with me. So I restrain myself from throwing my numerous thoughts onto the dash because I can't be sure they come from a COMPLETELY honest place and also like... I dO try to not yuck anybody's yum and people seem so attached to Farawyn... BUT if you come to ask me directly-

It's a quite common thing with characters in LoTR that they dont really HAVE arcs in the books. Many characters do not change in any big or definable way throughout the course of the tale and what you actually feel is that like... the book's tale and it's eventual ending with Sauron's defeat essentially releases them TOO grow. Character growth often feels like it happens offscreen. Faramir is one of these characters.

I think Faramir justified his attraction and growing feelings for Eowyn as due to her 'uniqueness'. He placed her on a pedastal above her people because of her own dunadain heritage and royal status. The rohirrim are not usually tall like Eowyn or grey-eyed but, due to her amrothian grandmother, Eowyn does have those features. And, more than that, it's known that the household of Rohan's Kings often don't know how to speak Rohirric but can speak Sindarin (because Thengel lived most of his life in Gondor rather than Rohan and only returned upon his father’s death). So even Theoden's behaviour reinforces the idea that the royal line of the rohirrim 'aren't like the rest'.

So not only does Faramir internally say 'she's not like those OTHER girls rohirrim', he also entirely believes that's what Eowyn thinks of herself too. He thinks she would agree with him! “Yes, the Rohirrim are men of the twilight but I am of a different and higher state.” And I'm afraid Eowyn likes the way he treats her because of this! Faramir's attention and admiration is quite heady and Eowyn's at the end of five years of muting her own personhood, having someone treat her as special and unique is very soothing and gratifying.

LIKE... god I could talk a lot about how much her epilogue frustrates me, how much this whole ‘she learned to live in peace’ doesn’t WORK when she’s immediately married off to the Steward of a land that is not her own BUT... to keep my mind on task... This state of affairs couldn’t have held up long term, obviously. Eventually Eowyn would realise that Faramir’s view of her people was not the fair-minded criticism that she hoped it was.

And they would have a fight! And... this is where I lose my general ability to predict endings and possible threads. Because in canon they have a loving marriage that lasts their whole lives, so this fight must have an end that includes Faramir’s growth and realisation that he has been wrong about the ‘men of the twilight’. And one would hope so since Aragorn reclaims all of Harondor so the people there are now Faramir’s closest neighbours!

BUT I JUST... I do not know how this happens. I expect it’s a combination of Eowyn’s impressive ability to form a point into incredibly cutting metaphors, plus the general fear Faramir must have of losing Eowyn’s favour. BUT... BUT... I just wish he could have come to that decision by himself, and without that his ‘growth’ feels quite hollow to me. Like Boromir was there his whole life verbally and passionately advocating for the Rohirrim, Denethor speaks to Theoden through letter as not just an equal but with a tone that’s respectful and thoughtful. And then there’s his “let all who fight the Enemy in their fashion be at one” line too. Imrahil weeps open tears at the sight of Theoden’s body! Imrahil!! Lord of Elf Fuckers City Central!! Like... why was Faramir the only one out of this family who went SO blood purist and faux traditionalist? What about Eowyn convinced Faramir finally? That he loves her? Did he not love his family? IF IT WAS INSPIRED BY HORNINESS IT DOESN’T COUNT. There I said it.

#I'm sure if I could be bothered to look at his lines towards eowyn again I've have something more precise to say but #sleepy uwu #tolkien #erran vs tolkien #chats #I wont put this in faramir's tag #lotr #anyway I guess Eowyn looked at Faramir and was like 'I can domesticate him'#I'm not even gonna go into how eowyn is denethor's most pertinent narrative parallel I WILL NOY

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 5 months

Text

A Need of the Soul

Summary: Éomer is teaching Faramir how to speak Rohirric as a surprise for Éowyn. Come for Faramir being a sweet husband, stay for the emotional links to Boromir and Théodred. Oh, and for Éomer being a big horse dork.

Context: I pulled a JRR and wrote a whole story around a special word I like! More on that at the very bottom. You can read this without knowing any of my personal Rohan head canon, but just in case it’s helpful: In my world, Éomer is married to his childhood best friend, Mereliss. My Théodred (who you can read more about here or here if you’re interested) was a nurturing soul with a curious mind, and I may be obsessed with him. And damn it, my Éomer can absolutely read and write! (See here for why that’s the case in my HC.)

As soon as Éowyn left for the morning, Faramir pulled out his secret stack of papers, the ones he had started requesting from Éomer six months ago when he first decided to try learning Rohirric. He wanted to master the language as a surprise for Éowyn, ever conscious of how much she had sacrificed on his behalf when they married. Although he knew she loved Ithilien, he also knew that sometimes she still longed for the familiarity and comfort of home, for the people, places, and culture that were now many miles away. If he could bring some of Rohan to her in the form of her language, he hoped he could brighten her heart on those days when she looked most in need of a reminder of all that she missed.

With this goal in mind, he had thrown himself wholly into the pursuit, but the process was more difficult than he had hoped. The Rohirrim didn’t keep written records in their own language, nor did they have textbooks or primers made to learn from. All Faramir had were the pages that Éomer would write out and send to him every few weeks, using Westron to describe basic grammar rules and listing common Rohirric words and phrases by their definitions and rough pronunciations. Working from written materials to learn a language that was only taught orally was maddeningly difficult, and Faramir spent long hours alone at his desk laboring at the exercises Éomer sent, unsure if he was even getting close to the sounds he was attempting to produce.

At least he would be aided today by the presence of Éomer in person. The king of Rohan was coming to Gondor to take counsel with his allies on military matters, and he had agreed to make time for some lessons while his own wife, Mereliss, kept Éowyn occupied in furtherance of the surprise. With Éowyn gone now to meet her sister-in-law, Faramir looked down his lists of Rohirric words and tried to commit a few more to memory, repeating them slowly out loud to himself while he waited for Éomer.

“If someone back home heard you slur your way through those words like that, they might assume you were a drunkard.”

Faramir looked up to see Éomer smirking at him from the doorway, still dressed in his riding clothes and holding a small pack. “Well, if the performance of the student falls short, I think we have no option but to blame the instructor,” Faramir returned with a smirk of his own.

“A fair point, I will grant you.” Éomer strode in and tossed his things on an empty chair before pulling Faramir up into a strong embrace, thumping a fist on his brother-in-law’s back with enough enthusiasm to knock the breath out of him.

When they separated, Faramir smiled and held up his stack of papers. “I do appreciate all of this. It’s a lot of work for me, but for you, too, I’m sure.”

Éomer gave a dismissive wave. “I have the easy part. Besides, there’s some benefit to me in all of this, as well. I’ll certainly enjoy the show the next time you visit Edoras and all the ladies at court discover that you can actually understand their scandalous comments about how handsome they find you. Your admirer’s club is in for a big shock.”

They both laughed, though Éomer noted the flush of pink in Faramir’s ears and cheeks and that only made him laugh all the harder. “Don’t let them see you blush, you’ll only make it worse!” He plopped down into a chair and put his feet up, smiling.

As Faramir took a seat across from him, he felt a warm, familiar echo in his heart. The easy camaraderie, the good natured teasing balanced with true affection…it couldn’t help but bring Boromir to his mind. Faramir still missed his brother every single day and looked for reminders of him everywhere that he could. But he didn’t think it was a stretch to see clear elements of Boromir reflected in Éomer–in his strength and brashness, his earnest intensity, his fierce loyalty. They were both proud men of action with an unshakeable sense of duty and love for family. Éomer could never replace Boromir, and he was surely his own man, different in many ways from the brother Faramir lost. But it lifted Faramir’s spirits to once again have such a figure in his life.

Now his brother-in-law reached into his pack and pulled out more pages, covered from top to bottom in his own scrawly handwriting. “I’ve brought you some more to learn–words you’d hear often around Rohan and that any self-respecting Rohirrim would know.”

Faramir accepted the papers from him and skimmed his eyes down the first page, but a look of confusion slowly built on his face as he read. “Am I understanding this correctly? Why do you have twenty different words for ‘horse’?”

“I have not given you twenty words for ‘horse’! Each one of those means something very different.” Éomer grabbed the page back and pointed. “This one here, éotynde, this is an old, calm mare that would be suitable for a young child just learning to ride.” He pointed again. “And this one, éoweder, is a high spirited horse that has quickness and agility but is unpredictable and difficult to control. The others are equally unique. Do you not see?”

Faramir gently extracted the page back from Éomer’s grip, hoping to avoid a further explanation of each specific variant on the list. “I understand those distinctions, but are they really significant enough that I require a whole separate word for each one? We make do in Gondor with but one term. A horse is a horse.”

“A horse is a horse?” Éomer gaped at him, incredulous. “You think the language of the Rohirrim would put a courier horse, whose purpose is swiftness and endurance, in the same category with a farm horse, who sacrifices speed in favor of strength and power? They aren’t remotely the same thing, and a proper language wouldn’t treat them as such. If we went by your rules, we’d all be calling the blacksmith a baker because they both make things with heat!”

It was obvious from the truly scandalized look on his face that Éomer would never concede the point, so Faramir held up his hands in smiling capitulation. And if all these varieties of horse were important to Éomer, likely they would be to Éowyn as well, so Faramir would learn them as best he could. But he desired to speak to Éowyn of many things, and horses were nowhere near the top of the list. He shuffled through the papers one more time. “Have you finally given me anything that would be suitable to say to a beloved wife?”

Éomer shot him a look. “I am not the right person to consult for words of romance. And certainly not when the woman to be romanced is my own sister.”

Faramir laughed. “Fair enough. Let’s get back to your many words for ‘horse’ and I will ask Mereliss to help me with some more emotional thoughts later.”

Éomer sat back, satisfied. “I will have you sounding like a Rohirrim in no time. Now, do you know the word for a horse that likes to cause trouble in the stable with the other horses?”

**********

The next morning, Faramir spent two hours with Mereliss while Éomer and Éowyn went for a ride. When the siblings returned, Éomer sent Éowyn to Mereliss’s quarters and went himself to check on Faramir’s progress. He found his brother-in-law once again at his desk, bent over his work, and dropped casually into a nearby chair.

“Did you get all of the flowery and eloquent phrases you need?”

Faramir put down his pen and smiled. “Mereliss helped me to write a special toast to Éowyn for our upcoming anniversary. I knew what I wanted to say, and Mereliss made sure it will sound not just like a bunch of Westron bluntly converted into Rohirric words but rather something that was written by a native speaker. Something truly of Rohan. She has quite a talent for beautiful language and imagery.” He gave a sly smile. “Though she told me that you also have something of a poet’s heart when the two of you are alone in your own chambers.”

Éomer’s head snapped up, a tinge of dark red sweeping across his cheeks. “She told you what?”

Now it was Faramir’s turn to laugh at his brother-in-law’s furious blushing, so out of character for one who was otherwise always self assured and confident. Faramir had faithfully reported Mereliss’s remark, and it was clearly true that Éomer really did speak his softest thoughts to her or he would not be so flustered by the possibility that she had shared those thoughts. But Faramir had no need or desire to prolong Éomer’s self-consciousness.

“There is nothing to worry about. I know only that you are capable of words to enchant and delight your wife, which is no bad thing. But she didn’t reveal what those words are. She wouldn’t betray your privacy, and I would never ask her to.”

Éomer’s shoulders noticeably relaxed, and he laughed a little at his own embarrassment. “Well, your discussion of my clumsy attempts to please my wife aside, I am glad that she helped you. Westron is very useful, but there are some things that just cannot be said as effectively without our own words and expressions.”

“Indeed. She gave me a number of things that I quite like, ways to convey entire concepts with a single word that has no direct equivalent in any language that I know. Like sáwolthearf. Every language should have such a term.”

Sáwolthearf. The word sent a wave of fond remembrance through Éomer’s heart. It translated literally as ‘a need of the soul’ and was used in Rohan to mean someone who is necessary in order for another person to feel truly happy and complete. His late cousin Théodred, who had always been so free and generous in expressing his feelings, used to call his bride-to-be sáwolthearf, and Éomer could easily picture Eadlin practically glowing with love and pride whenever Théodred referred to her that way.

To hear Théodred’s words coming now from Faramir’s lips was no great shock to Éomer. On the contrary, it only intensified a feeling he had long had in the presence of his brother-in-law: a sense that he was not with Théodred himself, but with a kindred spirit of his cousin. Someone whose modesty, eagerness for knowledge, gentle heart and dreamer’s mind so thoroughly echoed Théodred’s own nature that Éomer felt immediately at ease in his company. Théodred had been many things to Éomer–a deeply loved cousin, but also much like an older brother and at times even a father figure–and he had carried Éomer through some of the most difficult moments he would ever experience. Éomer could never truly reconcile himself to Théodred’s loss, but having Faramir in his life helped to salve that wound.

Watching Faramir now—shuffling again through his notes and drafts, applying himself so diligently to such a difficult task and all for the purpose of simply making Éowyn smile—Éomer was struck by a profound feeling of gratitude, one that he felt should be voiced even if it was not normally in his nature to speak of his innermost feelings. He cleared his throat, and Faramir looked up.

“What you’re doing for my sister is very admirable. I know it will mean a lot to her, and for that reason it means a lot to me. Thank you, eyre-brothor.”

Faramir frowned slightly and looked back at his papers. “Eyre-brothor? I don’t think I’ve learned that yet.”

Éomer smiled. “It means ‘brother by choice.’ Write that one down.”

**********

[Language nerd notes:

“Sáwolthearf” is a real Old English word (though I modernized the thorn in the middle for readability–it’s actually “sáwolþearf”) and it really does mean “a need of the soul,” which I just think is incredibly beautiful.

I made up “eyre-brothor” by combining two other real Old English words, “eyre” (“a choice made of free will”) and “brothor” (“brother”, though once again I turned the thorn in broþor into a “th” to make it smoother to modern English-reading eyes).

“Éotynde” comes from an approx combo of “eoh” (“horse”) and “tyende” (“teaching”) for a horse that’s calm enough to be good for beginners.

Éoweder comes from an approx combo of “eoh” (“horse”) and “weder” (“weather”) because to be impressive but quick-changing, unpredictable and uncontrollable is to be like the weather.

And it’s not in the story, but Éomer’s word for a horse that likes to cause trouble in the stable with the other horses is an “éodrefa” from “eoh” (horse, again!) and “drefan,” which is “to stir things up or cause mischief”.]

#lord of the rings #lotr #tolkien #lotr fanfiction #eomer #éomer #faramir #boromir #theodred #théodred #brothers #making up words #middle earth languages #brotherly bonding #divider by saradika #the rohirrim are such horse dorks #y’all of course i’m gonna put théodred in anything i can!

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starsspin-a · 3 years

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now that youve added him, hcs for elboron?

aahhh yes okay - elboron is fluent in westron, sindarin and rohirric - he inherited all of his father’s smarts and charm and all of his mother’s strength. and when he wants to be can be overly stubborn. - as early as he learned to walk and ride he learned to swim and it is his most favorite thing. and more than once faramir has had to go in after him and drag him out of the water. - he loves to go riding too and learned very quickly to ask his mother to go riding rather than his father. - as a child he demanded to be told / read a story from each parent every night and would refuse to sleep until such demands were met.

#II elboron II headcanons #there's some of faramir's chaotic energy in him but it shows in different ways #Anonymous

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heckofabecca · 4 years

Text

some headcanons for morwen steelsheen’s daughters

l-r, oldest-younger, Morneth, Cynwise, Forodiel. (WIP. Not pictured: Théodwyn.)

1. Morneth, b. winter 2953.

Stern, book-smart, and patient.

Morneth, like her mother, has black hair that she likes to leave unbound before she marries. (Her mother is scandalized—Gondorian girls bind their hair from childhood.) She also has her mother’s gray eyes.

She takes easily to reading and inhales the written word.

Her handwriting is fantastic, and she’s a good harpist.

From age twelve, she serves as a scribe for her mother and Morwen’s Gondorian ladies-in-waiting for non-private matters.

Her harp skills stem more from patient practice than innate talent.

Morneth is a middling fighter and poor bookkeeper—when she eventually marries a lord from Lossarnach, she has a kinswoman to help manage her household, and she never picks up a sword again.

Morneth is only a few months older than Elfhild, Théoden’s wife. She has little in common with Elfhild, but she appreciates how Elfhild listens closely whenever Morneth is explaining something. During the spring of Théoden’s courtship, Elfhild and Morneth practice harps together.

Elfhild and Théoden marry in 2977. Morneth and Elfhild become closer over the following year, but Elfhild dies in childbirth while Morneth is in the room.

Elfhild’s death brings Théoden and Morneth closer than they had ever been. The relationship she has with him in the next few years is the closest she ever is with a sibling.

Morneth dotes on baby Théodred, but as he’s given to a nurse, she soon longs for her own child.

Morneth marries in 2980 at 27, just a few months before her father dies.

She leaves for Gondor and rarely returns. She (and Morwen) return when Théodwyn dies in 3002, which is the only time she meets Éomer and Éowyn as children, and for Théoden’s funeral in 3019.

She and Théoden exchange letters a few times a year until the war—and Théoden’s health—make it difficult.

In Lossarnach, her interests are limited to her three children (two sons and a much-longed-for daughter, Lassil), her nearby relatives, and her library.

Unfortunately, Morneth never achieves a truly close relationship with Lassil, who’s too sociable to enjoy being holed up in a study like Morneth is.

When her second son is grown, he becomes Morneth’s true favorite.

At her husband’s urging, she takes an interest in local education.

Lothíriel of Dol Amroth visits Morneth and Morwen in Lossarnach in 3015 and helps in one of Morneth’s schools for an afternoon. She is deeply struck by the experience, and later bases her efforts to educate the people of Rohan on Morneth’s work in Lossarnach. (Lothíriel’s efforts in Rohan are less successful—she is seen as colonizing and southernizing the Mark—but useful for those who seek it out.)

After Théodwyn is married in 3890, Morwen returns to Lossarnach and eventually settles into Morneth’s household. She joins Morneth on a final voyage to Rohan after Théodwyn dies in 3002.

As the years grow darker under the shadow of Mordor, it is Morwen, not Morneth, who writes to Théoden to encourage him to join with Gondor.

Morneth is little bothered by war and politics; Morwen is far more politically astute.

After the war, Morneth travels north to Rohan for Théoden’s burial. She stays a short time and returns to Lossarnach.

Her wedding gift to Éowyn in 3020 is a set of books about Gondor.

2. Cynwise, b. spring 2955.

A sharp tongue, a passionate temper, and a snarky sense of humor.

Cynwise has brown hair, gray eyes, and a heart-shaped face. She’s the most comely of her sisters, but her face lights up in the best way.

She is the best shieldmaiden among her sisters, though like Morneth she prefers reading.

She marries Théoden’s lieutenant Egric at 26 in 2981, but he is killed by orcs a year later. As a childless widow, she returns to her father’s house.

Cynwise stays in Meduseld until her youngest sister Théodwyn marries Éomund in 2990. At 35, she moves with 27-year-old Théodwyn to Aldburg, where she becomes fluent in Rohirric, becomes lovers with Éomund’s widowed sister Effe, and teaches her niece and nephew to read and write.

At Thengel’s court, Westron was used more than the language of the Mark. Only Théoden gains fluency in the Mark’s native language before coming of age, and Morneth never really learns it at all.

Cynwise is bisexual. She loved her husband and mourned him; she loves Effe and hopes to never mourn her.

More notably, Cynwise teaches Éowyn to fight.

After the deaths of her sister and brother-in-law in 3002, Cynwise, 47, Cynwise brings Éomer and Éowyn to Meduseld and stays for some months before returning to Aldburg and Effe. They keep house in Aldburg, finish raising Effe’s two sons, and wait for Éomer to reclaim his seat.

Both of Effe’s sons are of age within five years. The elder joins the éored that will one day be Éomer’s command; the younger works overseeing Aldburg’s herd and training young horses.

Effe had three other children, but they all died in the cradle.

Cynwise spends three years in Meduseld (3014-3017, ages 59-62) to tend to her ailing brother before she is driven out by Gríma Wormtongue, who publicly exposes her relationship with Effe. Their relationship was a badly-kept secret in Aldburg, but once out, had to be addressed.

Cynwise is not very patient with her brother. She’s a poor nurse at the best of times, and to watch a brother she admired become so frail is more than she can bear. Not to mention Gríma, who becomes bolder during her stay.

While in Edoras, Cynwise becomes close with her nephew Théodred, who has a secret love of his own. When Théodred dies two years after Cynwise’s expulsion from Edoras, Cynwise goes into full mourning, which is normally reserved for parents and children.

With Cynwise’s forced departure, Éowyn, 22, must now bear the brunt of Gríma’s emotional abuse essentially alone.

After the War of the Ring, Cynwise, 64, stands in for Éowyn’s mother during the wedding preparations and ceremony. During Faramir’s long stay in Edoras after Théoden’s burial, he and Cynwise talk at length about Théodred and Boromir. (It’s not a subject Éomer is comfortable with.)

Despite having no children, despite her relationship with Effe, despite her temper, it is Cynwise who proves the most dutiful of her sisters where the Riddermark is concerned. She is the most involved in the Mark’s politics, provides useful council in Edoras and Aldburg, and is the only sister to tend to her ailing brother.

3. Forodiel, b. autumn 2961.

Sharp-tongued, perceptive, creative, and bipolar.

“Daughter of the North.” Forodiel is the first of Morwen’s daughters to have her father’s yellow hair and blue eyes. Like Morneth, she has a long nose, and like Cynwise, a heart-shaped face. The shortest, slightest, and most beautiful of the sisters.

She’s aware of her beauty, and she can be vain.

She’s a difficult child, and can be a difficult adult. As a girl, she had few lasting friends, and as a young woman, few suitors who persisted for reasons beyond her beauty and position. But she’s a fundamentally good person who generally means well, even if her “meaning well” often goes beyond a scope most people could manage.

Forodiel reads slowly—she’s dyslexic. Other than that, she works quickly when not in a slump, so she dislikes reading as a rule.

However, she’s a gifted archer. Women’s archery contests are common festival events during her youth, and she excels. At ten, she shot an apple out of Cynwise’s hands during a summer picnic, which got her a beating.

Forodiel and Cynwise do not get on. They’re both sharp-tongued, and Forodiel would constantly get underfoot as a girl. Plus, they competed for Théodwyn’s attention. By the time Cynwise is 16 and Forodiel is 10… well.

She’s also a good singer and harpist. When she hears a song or chant that she likes, she learns it quickly.

Unlike Morneth, she has a natural gift for both singing and the harp. She wouldn’t have had the patience to persist at it if she wasn’t a talented (and quick) learner to begin with.

Swidhelm, her eventual husband, was born the same year and is bipolar himself. He’s the grandson of a lord from the West-enmet; his visits to Edoras are almost always short, but he recognizes Forodiel as a kindred spirit. However, he manages to get himself a post in Edoras in 2987. Forodiel falls in love with him quickly.

Still, she refuses him multiple times between 2987-2988 before she’s convinced he knows exactly what he’s getting into. Forodiel is privately uncomfortably aware of how difficult she can be by the time she’s of age.

Théoden is not happy that a sister of his—his most beautiful sister! a real beauty!—should want to marry the second son of a second son. Nor is Morwen, for that matter. Still, when Swidhelm asks permission, Théoden agrees on the spot without consulting his mother, which Morwen resents.

The crux of the matter for Théoden: Forodiel’s unwillingness to marry any of her more suitable suitors left Théoden in an awkward position with more than one of the Mark’s best men. Having her settled far from Edoras makes her less of a sore subject.

Forodiel and Swidhelm marry in Meduseld in April, 2989. They remove to the West-enmet in May.

Forodiel’s grandfather-in-law, the lord, is alive for two years after her marriage. He’s extremely fond of Forodiel and calls her the jewel of the West-enmet. At his death, he bequeaths a parcel of land to Swidhelm close to Fangorn, where Forodiel oversees the restoration of a ruined tower-house with alarming competency.

This somewhat reconciles Théoden to the marriage: Forodiel’s children will now have a home of their own, one that befits the children of a princess.

Forodiel has six children.

A son (Aeldun, b. 2990) and daughter (Aethelfled, b. 2992) both die as children from a plague in 2997 while visiting their lordly uncle. No one in Forodiel’s family ever met them.

Her twin sons Oswald and Ethelwold (b. 2994) meet their mother’s family in 3002 after their aunt Théodwyn dies. They die in skirmishes: Oswald in 3016 and Ethelwold in 3018.

The youngest children, Thengel (b. 2999) and Aelfrith (b. 3001), are too young to truly fight in the war. Still, Thengel takes an active part in the ongoing struggles against orcs and hill-men sent from Isengard to weaken the West-enmet’s defences. Both children fight alongside their parents when their keep is under direct attack in early 3019. Aelfrith loses an ear in the fight.

After the war, Forodiel, 58, and Swidhelm travel to Edoras for Théoden’s funeral. Forodiel is privately satisfied to think that she was more beautiful than Éowyn at 24; Swidhelm teases her about it, but concedes that she’s right.

Once home, Forodiel and Swidhelm work closely with Swidhelm’s second cousin, the new lord, to manage rebuilding the West-enmet. Forodiel’s skills are praised, and her advice is sought by others around the Mark.

4. Théodwyn, b. summer 2963.

Gentle (no one knows where she got that from), clever, and generally cheerful, but prone to depression.

Théodwyn has gold hair and gray eyes. Like her mother, she’s tall.The most beloved of all the girls—beloved by her father, her brother, and all three sisters. She was a happy, shy baby, more lovely as a young child than even Forodiel. Despite the favor she has, she’s rarely haughty.

Théodwyn doesn’t really understand Morneth, and Forodiel scared her too often as children for Théodwyn to be fully comfortable with her. Her favorite sister is Cynwise.

Théodwyn is a slow reader—she has a slower processing speed than the rest of her sisters.

She has a beautiful voice, though it takes her a long time to memorize a song.

After Cynwise’s husband dies in 2981, Théodwyn becomes closer with her than ever.

Her voice and smile captured Éomund’s heart more than anything else.

They have a short courtship. They meet properly and marry in 2990.She’s clever and gentle enough to calm much of his anger in far less time—and with far less shouting—than others would take. It doesn’t take too long for him to realize how well she manages him once they’re married. After that, he’s even happier about his choice.

Théodwyn is hugely relieved when Cynwise agrees to come to Aldburg. She’s less pleased when she finds out some months later that Cynwise and her new sister-in-law have become lovers, but she agrees not to tell her husband unless he explicitly asks.

Éomund’s duties as Third Marshall take him from home often, and Cynwise and Effe are discreet enough to evade notice while Éomund is alive.

Théodwyn is reluctant to let Cynwise teach Éowyn to fight, but Éomund rightly points out that Cynwise is the best fighting woman in Aldburg.

In time, Théodwyn accepts Cynwise and Effe’s relationship.

Of all the sisters, Théodwyn has the “best” marriage. She’s married to one of the highest lords in the land, and she’s the only sister who hosts Théoden in her married home. However, Éomund’s long period away from home make it less happy than Forodiel’s marriage and far less blissful than what Cynwise and Effe have.

When Éomund is away, Théodwyn is far less cheerful than when he’s at home. Cynwise and Effe go to often great lengths to keep her active and involved.

When Théodwyn is dying, she asks Cynwise and Effe to raise her children. Instead, Théoden brings them into his household to raise as his own.

Cynwise brings Éomer and Éowyn to Edoras when summoned, where she tells Théoden of Théodwyn’s wish. Théoden tells Cynwise that she can stay in Meduseld to assist, but that the children will be far better for growing up in Edoras. Cynwise longs to argue, but she can’t bear the thought of leaving Effe, even for her niece and nephew. It’s a decision Cynwise grapples with for the rest of her brother’s life, particularly during the years she spends nursing Théoden before the War of the Ring and seeing how Éowyn and Éomer are still scarred by their parents’ deaths.

Théodwyn’s death in 3002 prompts a Meduseld family reunion of sorts, one that is never repeated. Théoden (54) and Théodred (24) receive Éomer (11), Éowyn (7), and Cynwise (47) from Aldburg; Forodiel (40) and her twin sons Oswald and Ethelwold (8); and Morwen (80) and Morneth (49) from Lossarnach.

Forodiel takes an instant liking to pretty Éowyn, and her sons, like Éomer, latch onto Théodred.

Morneth and Théoden take early rides together whenever he can manage it.

Morwen checks that the scribe she left in charge of Meduseld’s library has kept things up to standard. She tells stories to the gathered grandchildren, and even Théodred listens, if only to hear the melody of her voice.

Forodiel and Morwen talk about losing their children. Cynwise and Forodiel make peace.

At night, Éomer and Éowyn sneak into Cynwise’s bed. She holds them tight and tries not to let them feel her crying.

#morwen of lossarnach #morwen steelsheen #théodwyn #théoden #rohan #lotr #tolkien #lotr headcanons #morwen's daughters #my art #FEEL FREE to ask more anything #i know this is thousands of words but uh #feel free lol #this consumed me for many hours

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canuckianhawkbi · 4 years

Text

the Star Wars / LotR crossover / side-story I didn’t know I wanted

Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas are members of the Pathfinder commandos

Aragorn is a tracker, survivalist, and linguist (“who needs droids?”)

Gimli specializes in heavy weapons

Legolas is a sharpshooter (obvs)

the hobbits are from a little known world in the Outer Rim, and joined the Rebellion after the TIE Interceptor “Wraith Squadron” carried out a reconnaissance mission in their system. They are constantly mistaken for Ugnauts and Jawas everywhere they go

Merry and Pippin are Rebel Fleet Troopers

Frodo flies an X-wing, Sam flies a Y-wing (the potato of the Rebel fleet)

Boromir and Faramir are Rebel shocktroopers (like Cara Dune), Boromir was killed by an Imperial sniper

Denethor is an Imperial Governor from the Core

Éomer and Éowyn are Alderaanian survivors; Théoden escorted them out of the system but his ship was shot down by the Empire

Gandalf, Saruman, and Radagast are ancient Force wielders, similar to the Mortis Gods

Elrond is old enough that he witnessed the fall of the Sith Empire 1000 years BBY

Sauron is some kind of powerful Dark Side entity being studied by the Emperor

Gollum is the sole inhabitant of a desolate planet in the Unknown Regions

Barliman Butterbur works at Maz Kanata’s castle

story ideas below the cut

after the Battle of Hoth, Palpatine discovers a palantír ancient Sith artefact through which he can commune with a Dark Side entity calling itself Sauron – the entity sends a servant, Saruman, to the Emperor, to guide him to a forgotten kyber weapon called the One Ring

Sheev dispatches Saruman and the star destroyer Nazgúl to deliver Wraith Squadron to a remote Outer Rim world on a covert reconnaissance mission to locate an ancient temple containing clues to the Ring’s whereabouts

Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin leave their homeworld following the Empire’s arrival, joining the Rebel Fleet shortly before the Millennium Falcon arrives from Cloud City

having witnessed Wraith Squadron’s operation firsthand, they provide the Alliance with valuable intel, but Rebel leadership cannot divert any significant resources to investigating their claims, so a special strike team is formed, including three Pathfinders (Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli) and two shocktroopers (Boromir and Faramir). Frodo and Sam transfer from their fighter escort detail to join Merry and Pippin

the CR90 Corvette Fellowship under Captain Elrond delivers the unit to Maz Kanata’s castle, where a Rebel contact named Gandalf will assist them in finding a suitable transport

Gandalf introduces the strike team to a pair of Alderaanians, Éomer and Éowyn, co-captains of the VCX-100 Rohirric, who are sympathetic to their cause; the Nazgûl arrives in the system and Imperial forces touch down in the forest outside the castle

Boromir is shot by a scout trooper while providing covering fire for the rest of the team to board the ship, which has to flee while under fire by Wraith Squadron

Rohirric becomes damaged in a similar manner that allowed Vader’s ISD Devastator to track the Tantive IV years earlier; with Nazgûl is in pursuit, the captains decide to make a jump to the Unknown Regions in hopes of throwing the destroyer off their scent

Frodo has a premonition in the Force that leads him to sneak out in Rohirric’s attack shuttle Gwaihir, with Sam stowed away on board. Gandalf realizes what has happened, and urges the team to continue with the mission as planned, lest they lead the Empire to whatever the pair might find

Wraith Squadron are deployed to pursue Rohirric into an asteroid field before its hyperdrive can be repaired; with Faramir manning the nose gun and Éowyn in the turret, they manage to cripple the Imperial fighter wing, destroying five Interceptors before the remaining TIEs break off

the Force leads Frodo and Sam to an unknown planet, where they meet a bizarre alien called Gollum who is cursed with knowledge and obsession with the ancient Ring; at Frodo’s urging, Sam reluctantly agrees to let Gollum lead them to the weapon

Saruman learns of the pair’s location through Dark Side divination; Nazgûl and the remaining half of Wraith Squadron are diverted to pursue

while work on the Rohirric’s hyperdrive is being finished by Gimli, Aragorn figures out how to locate the freighter’s shuttle, using the similar energy signature shared by the linked ships; the strike team reach out to Elrond on the Fellowship, urging him to appeal to Rebel command for support on their behalf

Frodo and Sam arrive on the planet where the Ring’s control matrix is located on a mountaintop; but the Nazgûl is not far behind, and scrambles its full compliment of ground forces and fighters, including Wraith Squadron, to comb the planet for the Gwaihir

the Rohirric enters the system, and is able to avoid Imperial detection long enough for Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Gandalf to disembark in search of Frodo and Sam, leaving Éomer and Éowyn, Faramir, Merry and Pippin to run interference against the Imperials in the lone freighter

Gandalf goes off alone and locates the abandoned shuttle, which he uses to seemingly surrender himself to the Nazgûl, when in reality his plan is to confront Saruman; meanwhile, the Pathfinders take down an AT-AT (mostly thanks to Legolas) and manage to hijack another

the mountain Gollum leads Frodo and Sam to is really an active volcano and a place strong in the Dark Side, where beings strong in the Force can remotely control the Ring; Frodo and Gollum grapple in the Force for the kyber weapon, which Sam can only watch

though impossibly outnumbered by the star destroyer’s security, Gandalf mind-tricks his way to the bridge where Saruman is waiting

with Imperial forces surrounding the mountain, everything seems hopeless, but Fellowship arrives with the rest of the Rebel fleet to take on the Nazgûl and its swarm of TIEs; Éowyn manages to personally shoot down Wraith Leader from the turret of the Rohirric

the Pathfinders manage to cut off Imperial ground forces on their way up a narrow mountain pass, and use the terrain and their captured walker to hold off the pursuit of Frodo and Sam

as the Rebel fleet cripple the Nazgûl with sheer numbers, Gandalf and Saruman duel on the bridge of the destroyer; the reactor of the huge ship is ruptured, and it careens into the Ring, sending both objects on a collision course with the planet below

the Nazgul and One Ring make impact dangerously close to the increasingly violent volcano, and the resulting tremors break Gollum’s mental link with Frodo, sending the alien creature falling to his death; miraculously, Gandalf survives the crash landing, and evacuates Frodo and Sam in the shuttle, picking up Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli on the way to regrouping with the Rohirric and the Rebel fleet

having strangely lost contact with Sauron, Palpatine shrugs the whole thing off, since he was building the second Death Star anyway

after Endor a year later, Faramir and Éowyn settle on Yavin IV next door to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli’s fellow Pathfinder Kes Dameron and his wife Shara Bey, because shut up

#crossover #dumb idea #this wound up more elaborate than it should have #star wars #lord of the rings

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dolamrotha · 5 years

Text

In which Eomer plays hockey on a team with Boromir and Theodred (coached by Aragorn), Lothiriel is a figure skater, Faramir is Lothiriel’s trainer, and no one has any chill.

“Oh, c’mon, Eomer. It won’t kill you to have a little fun for once in your life.” Boromir’s grin is wide and his hand is heavy as it falls on Eomer’s shoulder, nearly knocking the heavy bag’s strap from its place. “Come have a drink with us.”

The game had been brutal and brutally close, but the victory of their win was still coursing through his blood, so Eomer shook his head and adjusted the strap of his bag.

“Fine,” he says. “One drink.”

They all pile into Theodred’s giant truck: Boromir and Theodred in the front, Eomer in the back. But it isn’t a restaurant or a bar parking lot they pull into, it’s a smaller skating rink ten minutes from the arena.

“What are we doing here?” Eomer asks, glancing up from his phone as they pull to a stop, mid-way through replying to Eowyn’s latest text.

“Thought I’d bring my little brother and my cousin along,” Boromir says. “They deserve a night off, too.”

Theodred parks and they pile out of the truck, heading into the building. The high school girl at the lobby’s skate-rental desk waves cheerily to Boromir, who waves right back. Moments later they push through a door and into a familiar chill. Long, sweeping lines intersect one another on the surface of the ice, their cause a pair of white skates on a slender young woman who spins in the very middle of the ice. As she spins, her back arcs backward, arms lifting toward the sky as one leg lifts backward. Each graceful spin barely seems to move her from one single spot on the ice, and Eomer - who has never considered figure skating as anything more than glittery costumes - finds himself transfixed.

Boromir’s cousin, Lothiriel Prince, had come to several games. She always ran to greet Boromir afterward, laughing with her arms around his shoulders when he lifted her up and spun her around. She’d even joined them for other celebratory dinners following big wins. But it had been a long time since he’d seen her, and he’d never seen her like this.

Her heart is still pounding as she skates her way toward Faramir, knowing the routine had been as close to perfect as it could be. But before she can open her mouth to speak to him, someone shouts “FARAMIR!” across the ice. It’s Boromir’s voice, she’d recognize it anywhere, but Boromir isn’t the first person she sees when she turns around. Instead, she immediately locks eyes with Eomer, and (oh, Valar!) she can already feel herself blushing. Luckily, between physical exertion and cold, she has an excuse for rosy cheeks, and once she makes it off the ice, she’s lifted into the air, skates and all, by Boromir’s strong arms.

“Olympic gold for sure, little swan,” he says, and she laughs as he sets her down again.

“Try not to jinx it,” she tells him, planting a kiss on his cheek before peering around his shoulder. “Hi, Theodred, Eomer.”

Faramir passes her skate guards, and she sits down on the lowest bench of the bleachers to attach them.

“What brings you here?” He asks, turning to look at Boromir, Theodred, and Eomer. Even as he speaks, uncaps a bottle of water and passes it to Lothiriel. Gratefully, she takes a large sip of it, studiously looking only at her cousins and failing at every test. She can’t seem to stop glancing at Eomer. She had been attracted to him from the very first time they met (how could she not be?), and had felt herself slipping slowly but inexorably into a crush from which she was sure she would never recover.

To judge by the looks Faramir was occasionally throwing in her direction, it wasn’t her most well-hidden secret.

“We won!” Boromir replies. “And the two of you have been here since the crack of dawn.”

“We did take breaks, you know,” Lothiriel says from her bench, capping her half-empty water. “And I had a class at nine.”

“Doesn’t let you get away with much, does she?” Theodred asks, nudging Boromir’s shoulder with his own.

“I blame her brothers,” Boromir replies.

Lothiriel catches Eomer’s eye over Boromir’s shoulder, and dips her head to hide her smile at the amused gleam in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Boromir, we have to be here early tomorrow...” But Faramir makes the mistake of looking down into his cousin’s suddenly wide and pleading eyes. To make her point, she even adds a pout.

Faramir lets out a long-suffering sigh, and soon enough they’re all piling into Theodred’s truck. Boromir and Theodred are in the front again, but this time there are three in the back: Eomer on one side, Faramir on the other, and Lothiriel - the smallest of them all - tucked between them.

Tucked between them and breathless, because even the spacious back seat of Theodred’s car is a squeeze when your seat partners included Eomer and Faramir. It pressed her hip-to-knee-touching close to Eomer, and highly aware of it.

He is too, it seems, though she doesn’t think it can be in a good way. He’d shifted over when she’d first climbed in, and now he was sitting stiff as a board and turned to the window, his hand clenched on his knee. Her stomach seemed to sink, and she felt the need to blink back unbidden tears. All this time, she’d thought he at least liked her, even if he didn’t, well...like her.

It was time to stop being silly, she told herself, and rested her head on Faramir’s shoulder until the car finally came to a stop.

At least, she thought, the others would put it down to fatigue.

Even through two layers of jeans - his and hears - he could feel the warmth of her leg where it pressed against his, and felt the desire to reach out and rest his hand on her knee so strongly that he had to curl his fingers into a fist.

The more he thought about it the more he realized he’d been thinking about her as something other than Boromir’s little cousin for a very long time.

All those times she’d gone to the game and something in him had driven him just a little bit harder than usual. The gratification of watching her cheer for them from the sidelines, even if he knew it was mostly for Boromir. The slow discovery of just how smart and determined and kind and just plain too-good-for-him she was.

She smells like coconut and vanilla and something floral that he can’t name. He’s noticed it before, the few times they’d been close enough, but never so close for so long. Eventually, he turns his face to the window in the hope of distracting himself long enough to talk himself down from having any feelings at all for her. Long enough, he hopes, to convince himself that it’s only a physical reaction, something mental or instinctual, something he can ignore.

It isn’t until Lothiriel leans away from him and tucks her head against Faramir’s shoulder as though to create some distance - any distance - that he realizes he’s not convincing himself of anything.

Lothiriel recovers after her first gin and tonic, laughs happily at Boromir’s attempts to convince Faramir to drop some hint about the “mystery woman” he’s been seeing. Eomer, on the other hand, only seems to stare more and more deeply into his glass of beer.

Lothiriel, as it turns out, isn’t the only one who notices. Theodred takes his next chance to sit down beside his cousin and sling an arm around his shoulders.

“You could just, you know....ask her out.”

Eomer splutters against a mouthful of beer that seems to have suddenly chosen the wrong way to go down. He gives it a moment when the others all turn to look at him, carefully avoiding Lothiriel’s grey eyes until they turn away again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I am talking,” Theodred says, with utmost patience, “About the fact that you’ve been brooding over Lothiriel all evening. And I’m willing to hazard a guess that you’ve been brooding over her for a long while and never realized it.”

Eomer downed the last gulps of beer rather than answer. Theodred only grins, pats Eomer’s shoulder, and sits down next to Boromir. Whatever he whispers into Boromir’s ear causes the other man to look directly at Eomer....and grin. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but the most disconcerting part of all was Boromir leaving the table entirely. There’s a small band setting up across the bar, and Boromir approaches them to great excitement. They call out his name as he approaches, and Eomer sees Boromir ruffle the hair of the one who looks the youngest.

As Boromir walks back to the table with a smug grin slowly spreading across his face, the little band picks up a brisk tune that makes Lothiriel’s eyes light up. When Boromir reaches the table again, he executes a solemn, formal bow in front of his cousin and holds out a hand. In moments, they’re whirling across the empty floor in front of the band, Lothiriel’s light feet following each of Boromir’s sure steps. It’s a fast song, all quick movements and complicated turns, but the two move through each step with fluid grace.

Lothiriel’s eyes are brighter than ever when the song finishes, and she says something to Faramir, laughingly, but Eomer’s attention is caught by the fact that Boromir is steering them both toward him.

“I asked Merry and Pippin to play a Rohirric song next, Eomer. My cousin loves to learn new dances, you should teach her the steps.”

Lothiriel, for her part, looks stricken. But she offers him a shy sort of half-smile when their eyes meet.

With everyone’s eyes turned toward him, Eomer can do nothing but nod.

“I’m not sure I’ll make the best teacher,” he says, but stands anyway. Lothiriel’s smile softens, goes from half-sure to all-sure in moments.

“I don’t mind.”

Ignoring Boromir’s grin, Eomer holds out his hand.

Her hand is so small in comparison to his, enfolded when his fingers close. They walk to the middle of the floor, joined by a small number of other dancers lured by the slower song. When they reach an empty span of floor, they merely pause for a moment: Lothiriel looking up at him, Eomer looking down at her.

“How does it start?” Lothiriel asks, hopes her hand doesn’t start to tremble,

“We, ah - “ Eomer clears his throat, takes an almost apologetic step closer. “Stand. Like this. It’s....close.”

“I don’t mind,” Lothiriel says again, this time so softly that it’s almost a whisper. This time she’s sure she sees a warmth in his eyes breaking through the guarded gaze. He doesn’t say anything, only nods, but his arm wraps around her waist.

“It’s not very fast,” he says, and she can’t have imagined the fact that his voice seems lower than usual, lower and softer. “It’ll be easy, compared to that last one.”

Their eyes meet, and Lothiriel smiles. The only thing she says is “I trust you. Just lead me.”

So he does. Somehow, he does. Even with the distraction of how warm and soft she is, how close they are, the awareness that her cousins and his are watching. The world just seems to shrink, narrows down to the girl in his arms and the music and the old, familiar steps.

For once in his life, he feels the dance ends much too soon, and when Lothiriel doesn’t pull away and the music starts again, they just keep dancing. Soon enough, he dips his head to rest his cheek against her hair, breathing in the soft, sweet scent of her and marvels at the way her breath releases on a sigh, the fact that she somehow shifts still closer.

“What changed?” She whispers, so low that he almost doesn’t catch it. His brow furrows, and he tries to turn his head to look down at her.

“What do you mean?”

“In the car,” she says, drawing away just slightly and looking up at him, biting her lower lip for just a moment. “It was like you didn’t want me near you.”

His smile is slow and warm, and she can feel her heart flutter at it, knows she’s doomed now if she wasn’t already.

“No,” he says, his voice a deep rumble that she can feel, close as they are. “It was because I did.”

She thinks again of the press of their legs, the way his jaw had clenched, his hand in a fist on his knee, and the sudden clarity makes her smile shyly, sweetly. It makes her duck her head again, hiding her face against his chest even as the hand at his shoulder curls (for just one fleeting moment) into the fabric of his shirt.

“So did I,” she says. And she can’t see the smile that those words call up, but the rest of their table can.

"So much for avoiding distractions,” Faramir says, though there is no exasperation in his tone. “How did you know that would work?”

Boromir shrugs, resting an arm on the back of Theodred’s chair.

“They’ve been making calf eyes at each other since they met,” Boromir replies. “But the kids never thought the other one would possibly return the feelings, so they never did a thing about them. I thought it was better to push them straight into it than let them torture themselves. Twenty dollars says they’re inseparable by the end of the week.”

The other two are just too smart to take his bet.

The music comes to an end, the girl on the ice stops her dazzling spin, and comes to a final stop with her arms uplifted. Lothiriel is dazzling beneath the lights, dressed all in blue and white. But it’s her smile, Eomer thinks, bursting with pride even before the scores are read, that’s the truly dazzling thing. The applause crescendos up around him, and he’s sure it’s the loudest applause he’s heard this whole time.

Still, nothing rivals the intensity of his own applause as he watches the gold medal take its place around her neck, as her eyes glisten with tears and the country’s anthem soars around them. Nothing except the thunder of his heartbeat when he holds her in his arms afterward, her laughter in his ears, the weight of the little ring box in his pocket.

#eothiriel #eomer x lothiriel #eothiriel modern au #disclaimer: i know two things about hockey and nothing else #also i love me some lovesetruck idiots #and meddling family/friends

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