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sotwk · 6 days

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Social Customs and Faux Pas in Eryn Galen

Dearest Gentle Reader:

You may have heard rumors about the “dangerous” and "less wise" Silvan people of the Woodland Realm, which conjure images of these native dwellers of Greenwood the Great as uncouth, untamed, or practically bestial creatures. As the oldest and largest tribe of Eldar to continue thriving in Middle-earth even into the Third Age, they certainly started out primitive and crude compared to their High-elven kin, as was their deliberately chosen path. However, many allegations by certain scholars regarding the wildness of the Greenwood Silvans have been exaggerated, and fail to acknowledge the cultural amalgamation that occurred within the first millennium of the Second Age.

Although the Sindar who arrived and settled in Greenwood were enthroned as the ruling lords, in the reunion and mixing of the two cultures, Silvan customs and language were the ones to prevail. Many of the rigid social constructs that governed the Sindar during their old life in Doriath were set aside, departing from what is typically still deemed acceptable and refined by the western cities of High Elves and High Men.

Differences in social norms that carried through to the Third Age can perhaps be best illustrated by comparing the etiquette observed by the Numenorean descendants in the surviving Kingdom of Gondor, to that of the free-spirited Silvan Elves under Elvenking Thranduil’s rule.

Below are some examples, written as answers to specific questions asked by one dear friend and a particularly curious Gentle Reader:

Would Silvans laugh at the idea of needing a chaperone to look after an unmarried couple?

Silvans would most certainly laugh and shake their heads at the notion of a chaperone in any instance. What a most bothersome and inconvenient custom! What sort of calamity is a chaperone expected to prevent by their presence? In Eryn Galen, people of all genders, races, classes, and ages could openly or privately socialize with each other without fear of gossip or scandal.

Are Silvans just going around holding gloveless hands with each other without a care in the world?

Only soldiers and hunters are known to wear gloves, and as Silvans are fond of physical touch as a show of affection, platonic or otherwise, then it would seem the amount of prolonged hand-holding and skin touching that occurs daily in Eryn Galen would make Gondorians swoon, indeed. At this point, I will refrain from describing the other popular forms of perfectly acceptable public displays of affection, should it prove too salacious for your nerves.

Is there a socially acceptable way for them to make their intentions known (or to rebuff someone's intentions) during a dance? Or are their dances and parties so informal that they don't really compare to the regency idea of a ball at all?

Silvans absolutely love to dance, and they do so at every single community gathering and celebration. For most of the Second Age, dancing in Eryn Galen was done in groups (lines or circles) rather than with partners. Social dances and balls were not popularized until the Third Age; the marriage of Elvenking Thranduil and Queen Maereth romanticized paired dancing and introduced the concept of balls as a courtship ritual.

While dancing with someone at a ball is not automatically viewed as romantic, balls are considered more formal events, most often hosted by the Royal Family themselves. They are seen as prime opportunities for unmarried people to socialize with the likely (but not obligatory) intent of romantic courtship and marriage.

There are no hard rules or timelines to dictate how courtship is done among Silvans. However, it is greatly frowned upon for Elves (or anyone) to toy or trifle with the feelings of another, so romantic desires and intentions must be declared as soon as they are fully recognized in oneself. A ball could be a wonderful romantic setting to do this, but what is considered important is that one must look at the other person in the eye and speak their heart openly and plainly. If the affections being offered are unwelcome or unreciprocated, then it is the duty of the recipient to gently but clearly rebuff those affections. Silvans are generally unbashful about this, and any shyness they may feel is overshadowed by their sense of honor.

It must be noted that Elves never rush headlong into marriage, and thus a courtship often outlasts the lifespan of a mortal Man--even the long-lived Dunedain. Therefore, one can only conclude it is illogical to judge the customs of these two races against each other.

What would be considered scandalous behavior (by Silvans)?

Outside of marriage, Silvans would not frown or judge one another on the quantity or quality of relationships they engage in throughout their long lives. The loose or lacking restrictions against displays of affection or proper public behavior would also indicate that flirtations, dalliances, and other practices that might be deemed promiscuous in Gondor would not raise eyebrows in Eryn Galen. It should also be noted, however, that compared to the race of Men, Silvans are more likely to be bored of or disinterested in sexual liaisons and far less moved by carnal impulses. This alone drastically decreases the occurrences of "scandalous behavior" as commonly defined by puritan society.

Silvans value honor, loyalty, and service to the community above all. Strong marriages and large, happy families are considered the pride and strength of their society, and so they take the commitments to these institutions very seriously.

Once a Silvan elf chooses to marry, they are bound to much stricter codes of conduct. In Silvan culture, the vow of marriage is considered an unbreakable oath, hallowed by the Valar and binding both the fëa and hröa of two Elves together. The commitment to monogamy goes hand-in-hand with an eternal oath to love and care for all children born to or adopted by the married couple.

The highest scandal in Eryn Galen, therefore, is the betrayal of these familial oaths, either through infidelity to one's spouse or the abandonment or estrangement from one's children. Divorce and family feuds remain virtually non-existent in Eryn Galen.

How long would someone's reputation be ruined?

“Ruin” or shunning people is not really something that happens in Eryn Galen.

An immortal life is too long a time to carry a grudge, or so the wise say. But more than that, the Silvans tend to be a more forgiving and compassionate people, led by a gracious King and Queen who have deep personal experiences with the value of “second chances”. Any wrongdoing, from a minor faux pas to a blatant crime, can be pardoned as long as forgiveness is sought and the proper restitution (as dictated by law of the realm), is delivered. Once a transgression has been pardoned, it is expected for all to “forgive and forget”. Harboring ill feelings or prolonging disputes is considered vulgar and detrimental to the community.

Banishment, on the other hand, is a rare and extreme punishment issued only by the King himself. It is done to prevent an unrepentant criminal from causing further harm to the rest of the community.

Thank you to my Gentle friend @scyllas-revenge who sent in this Ask! <3 This was fun!

For more SotWK AU headcanons: SotWK HC Masterlist

Elves HC Tag List: Tags be added in comments temporarily while Tumblr tags are malfunctioning.

#sotwk answers #sotwk headcanon #lotr #tolkien #thranduil #the hobbit #eryn galen #greenwood the great #mirkwood #mirkwood elves #silvan elves

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cynassa · 7 months

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countermelody

Gimli has witnessed, before this, the grief of a father or a mother who has outlived their child. Even as his craft lay elsewhere, like all young and strong Dwarves half his life was in the military. As he grew in stature and wisdom, he had begun to lead patrols, or even the occasional skirmish against orcs and spiders and other dark creatures innumerable and unnamed. With this came the duty of going to parents and telling them that their child had perished bravely and gained much glory, whether it was true or not. Perhaps it brought them some peace, although Gimli doubted it.

Some of that grief he could see in Elrond's face, from time to time, as the day wore on, and the gentle lordliness occasionally slipped away to reveal the father. More than one parent, in Gimli's knowledge, quietly gave themselves to the forge after completing their child's last rites, but elves, of course, had no such recourse.

So Gimli dances, when Legolas and Pippin drag him off, and drinks as much as he can to the King and his new Queen's happy marriage, he scatters gold according to his own customs, and flowers according to elven, and cheers when the bride and groom dance on a shield until it is beaten flat, as the custom of Gondor calls for.

And when the wedding ends, he walks long with Legolas, hither and thither, to balconies and roofs, but when they reach the final juncture he unhesitatingly goes to his own room. He does not ask.

Despite what elves seem to believe, occasionally to Gimli's amusement, Dwarves too can love living things. Sometimes they even love Dwarves back. Gimli has had to gently counsel a young dwarf, not even two full decades old, to let go of a wild parrot that she had found half-dead and nursed back to health. It was almost as much a task to coax the parrot away from her, she who had fed it grain by grain when its beak was barely capable of movement. Yet, once it was out of the cold and dampness of the Mountain, it immediately burst into song, voice going from a stale croak born of disuse to the richness born of joy, calling forth many of its own kind to come sing with it. In forty years, the parrot has ever and anon come back to the edge of the forest, but it grew too dangerous to allow their children, so it could only sing from afar. Even were it willing to come back, Gimli told the dwarf, it would waste away again so far from the greenness of its home and the song of its own kind.

In the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, Legolas is as a tall young tree, and as silent as one, a shock to the eye amongst the lovely veins of ore that go line by line unending into the far deepness. His green and grey travel cloak conceals him entirely, and yet the rippling gold of his hair marks him out to the eye at once.

In Fangorn, where finally they walked only two alone, Gimli sees much to wonder at, not only in the trees and fauna around him but in his companion. Legolas seems young indeed, laughing and singing, even more than usual.

And so, even as they make a fire and lay their bedrolls, Gimli does not ask.

After they had walked a long road, they rest, weary yet happy. Unknowingly, Gimli comes to tell Legolas the story of a Firebeard bride. Her Ironfoot husband took her to the far South, and she left all she had to follow him, but after the marriage they came to much misfortune. Many of his kin died and those who lived a while before succumbing told of a terrible beast who ripped them apart with claws alone.

Gimli pauses and Legolas says, with surety, "It was the bride."

"Yes," Gimli says, "and it ends very sadly, with her laying hands on her own babe. Unable to accept it when in her right mind, she ultimately took her own life."

"I pity her, although you may not," Legolas says.

"You are mistaken, she is indeed pitied by all," Gimli replies. "But we also take it as a lesson, that a diamond must be set in its own place and coal in its own."

Legolas laughs quietly. "And yet, even I, ignorant elf that I am, know that one cannot have diamonds without first having coal."

His eyes glint challengingly at Gimli, who finds himself rising to it on instinct, who says, "And yet one would not expect diamond to burn like coal, or a parrot to live long in a cave, or a father to outlive his son."

Then he flinches. I did not ask, he tells himself, surely I did not.

Legolas laughs again, ringing out like bells or the sound of a waterfall from far off, beckoning. "A parrot may nest in a tree outside a cave, and with time coal may do a diamond's task. I have outlived the deadly quest we were on, and what there is beyond this is not in my ken, but my father will not have cause to grieve me for many years yet."

"Some things cannot be asked for," Gimli says, his heart beating like it would escape his chest and fly to his love, if Legolas holds out his hand for it.

"You need not ask," Legolas replies and leans down to hold his furred cheek and chin in two long-fingered hands and kiss him like gentle rain after scorching summer.

#gigolas #ficlet #gimleaf #legolas x gimli #Cyn talks #cyn fics #lord of the rings #lotr #suicide mention cw

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mushroomates · 10 months

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fellowship lisence plants

Frodo: B4GG1N5, bag3nd, theshre, very wholesome and personal license plates. has a custom license frame with elven scripture saying something vaguely offensive about the driving of other cars on the road.

Sam: worried he will offend someone and they will find him because of his vanity plate. alternatively, POT8035.

Merry: brndybck, brndybk, ppinsuks. has a baby on board sticker because he hopes people won’t hit him if they think he has a kid.

Pippin: keeps trying to get some version of ‘weed’ approved. they keep getting more creative, he keeps getting denied. some gems include: DEEW, b33M, ku$h, any iteration of 420. can not understand why this might get him pulled over.

Boromir: G0ND0R, obviously. odnswim (one does not simply walk into Mordor) has the tree of gondor sticker on his back bumper.

Aragorn: rvendll, r4ng3r, nmysword. loves to drive arwin around- she has her license, he just likes taking her places. <3

Legolas: anmybow, mrkw00d, has an army wife lisence plate in hopes it will get him pulled over less. several tree hugger hippie stickers and giant scratches adorned his car. looks like someone keyed it with an axe.

Gimli: galadriel. just, the whole thing. celebron is pissed. also WHOAXED, digdeep, moria. has taken out the muffler like an asshole and likes to rev the engine outside of legolas’s house.

Gandalf: Keeps tipping the cops off to Pippins license plates. 3AGL3S, shdwfax, mthrndr.

Gollum: preshus, pr3c10us, bdaygift. drives a golf cart on the highway. will tailgate. bites the cops that pull him over.

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ettelenethelien · 4 months

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Hobbit music genres:

Cautionary Tale About How Listening to Wizards Will Get You Eaten by A Dragon (But With a Happy Ending Because We Aren't Barbarians)

That Time the Major Ended Up Looking Ridiculous

My Uncle Grew The Biggest Cabbage Ever

Making Fun of Lotho Pimple

Something That Might Have Been a First Age Legend But Went Through Several Fairytales and Is Now Unrecognisable

Something That Might Have Been a Newer Legend and Is (Only) Somewhat More Recognisable

My Grandma Lost Her Prized Saucer

I Am Not a Poet But the Lass I Love Is Pretty

I Like Spring and Flowers

Fireworks!

We Are Tooks and Gandalf Is Actually Fun

Tooks Are Weird

Bucklanders Are Also Weird And Breelanders Are Weirder

Cautionary Tale Why Boats Are Dangerous

Islands Are Dangerous Too (We Heard One Drowned But We Thankfully Don't Know Any Details So We Made Up a Story About Giant Turtles)

There Might Have Been an Elf in the Wood and We're Not Sure How We Feel About That

Gondor music genres:

My Love Got Killed While He Was in The Army

Let's Lament Lost Numenor

Rousing Patriotic Song

We Still Love The Tale of Beren and Luthien

There Once Was a Mortal Man Who Killed A Dragon and We're Very Proud of This (The Rest of the Story Is Horrible and We Don't Want To Remember It)

Origin Story for the Mysterious Singer By the Sea (Accuracy Level: 2/10 But At Least We Correctly Guessed It's an Elf)

Ithilien Is Occupied By Mordor and This Is Sad

We Will Show Sauron Not To Mess With Us

Drinking Song With Way Too Nice a Melody (A Wandering Minstrel Made It Up and He Might Have Been an Elf)

The King Will Return. One Day.

#more to come #//#my post #tolkien #hobbits #the shire #gondor #the Silmarillion #peoples of Arda #Arda customs #lotr #lord of the rings

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anghraine · 9 months

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I'm definitely a Stewardist Gondor stan, something that is not news to most of my followers, and I have my gripes with Aragorn's rise to power there, which is also not news. But there are some things I like about how book Aragorn conducts himself wrt Gondor, so credit where it's due:

He risks everything to take the Paths of the Dead and pass through Lebennin, liberating slaves of the Corsairs and the coastal peoples of Gondor. He convinces the southern Gondorians to accept him and a large number follow him to the Pelennor. Thus, Aragorn's role in the victory at the Pelennor is dependent on his leadership of a largely Gondorian army.

He doesn't immediately present himself as ~the chosen king~ or whatever, but actively works to avoid destructive civil strife in Gondor by presenting himself only as captain of the Dúnedain of the North.

The first thing Aragorn does in the city is heal Denethor's heir, the foremost potential obstacle to his accession to the kingship, and he approaches Faramir with respect and compassion.

After healing Faramir, Éowyn, and Merry, he proceeds to heal the suffering soldiers of Gondor, again gaining Gondorian acceptance and acclaim through his actions instead of relying solely on a birthright claim—but this time, as renewer as well as warlord.

Even after gathering his armies and riding out to Mordor, Aragorn initially doesn't refer to himself as a king, only switching when it's suggested by a Gondorian prince.

His coronation follows the Gondorian custom in which the Steward asks the Gondorians present if they will accept Aragorn as king, and only proceeds once he's been accepted by them. There's no sign of a political maneuver here in terms of only selecting people who will agree or whatnot—Aragorn has had to genuinely earn the respect and love of Gondor's people.

#he's so much more eärnil than arvedui adjkfakjdf #anghraine babbles #legendarium blogging #long post #aragorn #legendarium fanwank #ondonórë blogging

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beatsandskies · 2 months

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Tales Starter Project: An Overview

The stuff I’ve got on here about my custom “preconesque” Lord of the Rings decks is pretty messy, so I thought a summary probably made a lot of sense. It should also hopefully work as a “conclusion” to this series in case I don’t do another. I still haven’t finished building up every deck, though most are only a handful of cards away, and my original endgame was discussing how everything played…

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streets-in-paradise · 1 month

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Secret Presents

Relationships: (platonic) Faramir x Sister!Reader, (platonic) Boromir x Sister!Reader.

Genre: family fic, sibling bonds, fluff, birthday fic.

Warnings: Denthor's terrible parenting, use of she/her pronoums. I am not sure if birthdays are culturally accurate for gondorians, but since in lotr we saw at least one hobbit birthday let's pretend they also could have birthday customs for the sake of this.

Summary: Boromir and Faramir surprise their sister on the morning of her birthday filling her with affection while furtively bringing her different sorts of gifts their father wouldn't approve.

Note: (Late) birthday gift for my bestie @beautifultypewriter, also inspired in her gondor girl concept. I hope the fluff will be good enough to compensate the delay <3

She didn't expected anyone to remember, there were allways more important things going on in such convoluted times.

Completely absent from her father's thoughts, only her brothers could possibly think about it. During the occassions in which Denethor do cared to celebrate her, he was always actually celebrating himself. Birthday parties that were generic social events for the nobiity, occassions for him to show off his might in decline and pretend for the public that he could resemble a father.

If he could possibly be thinking on doing something, she would rather hide far away from it for as long as possible. The only good reason the Steward of Gondor could have to remember that he had a daughter were the men arround him making the recall. He would only use it as an excuse to push yet even more insufferable nobles in her direction.

Feeling the call of the servant announcing her waking time that morning made her groan of frustration, wanting it to be over before it ever began. She emerged from the covers only caring to make sure to be in a visible state before opening the door, trying hard to remember not to share her mood with the servantfolk through terrible manners.

What she found instead were her two brothers hidding their presence on the usual call, ready to join forces as soon as they will find her. Their happy faces said it all, and she almost regretted her grumpyness.

" What are you doing here? "

To a gestural sign of Faramir, Boromir went ahead to lift her up from the ground. Almost like a father would do for his child, only with tons of chuckling in between.

" HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR SISTER!!"

In a matter of instants she was smiling again while being carried back inside her bedroom.

" Are you insane? What is this? "

Faramir calmed his own laughter to explain.

" Your birthday surprise! I bet you thought we would forget. "

She was perfectly aware of how strongly they loved her, but war kept them always bussy and she was perfectly ready to forgive them if that was the case.

" Orcs are constantly pushing the limits of our borders, of course you could forget! "

" But we would never. " Boromir cheerfully insisted, releasing her on her bed. " Have we ever failed you? "

She giggled and nodded negatively.

" ... Then why did you seem so upset looking at us from you doorframe ? " Faramir inquired. " It think somone really needs to get their spirits lifted. "

With a mischievous look he approached for a strong hug ending only when he sneaked one hand to her already known ticklish point. Her loud laughing comforted them all, so Boromir encouraged Faramir to keep going untill she started fighting back and the situation could escalate into an actual tickle fight unleashed right in front of the servants.

She was red from laughing and playfully smacked them in return, when her eldest brother gave premission for the maidservant to enter. She was carrying a curiously long chest with the help of one lad and presented it to the lady by command before retiring.

" See, if we would have waited untill you would come down for breakfast, we wouldn't be able to bring your presents. " Faramir continued. " These are of the kind our father will not wish to see. "

A sparkle of excitement lighted her eyes.

" Certainly not fitting for a lady, by his expressed opinion. " Boromir added. " He would be very dissapointed of me if he would find out I'm letting Faramir present you with this."

" Not as much as when he will see what you got her. " He commented in response. " ... And yours can't be hidden easily, as one can do with mine. "

Curiosity was growing with each of their teasing recalls and she rushed to open the mysterious casket used to hide such secret present from the world untill reaching her.

It revealed a bow, perfectly new and with its matching quiver following the style of the one that was her brother's favorite.

" Nurturing your passions is important to me, and being honest i'm slightly jealous you have gained more practice with Boromir's weapon of choice. "

He was joking and she could perfectly tell. Her brothers never had to compete for her love the way their father intended them to.

Here eyes were roaming the weapon with increasing surprise, then inmediately directed to look at her brother with the happiest adoration.

" It's perfect!! Just, ... perfect!! Beloved brother, I would love to practice with you. " She thanked, hugging him from up front and practically jumping from the joy. " I can't wait to try it!! "

" We will tell father is an harp." Faramir joked, sharing her excitement. " I doubt he would ever ask you to play music for him, so he will never discover it."

You chuckled together seeing that Boromir was allowing you the mean spirited commentary.

" My gift will also work as a distractive strategy: he will never get a moment to wonder about anything else. "

She questioned Faramir with her glance, but he provided no clues.

" Boromir ... what have you exactly done?? "

Their eldest brother began to chuckle, assuming the mysterious guilt for some possibly memorable mischief.

" Come down with us and you will find out. "

She smiled and quickly followed the instruction, begging them to leave her proper space to at least dress decently before being publicly perceived for the first time in the day. Neither of her brothers wanted to miss what was about to come, so they awaited outside only to find themselves going after her later because excitement made her run her way down.

Hardly catching his breath, Boromir indicated her to go outside. Her cluelessness made her even more desperate for finding the surprise, but she inmediately stumbled with it once the final instruction was correctly followed.

A magnificent horse, one that she never recalled to have seen before.

" It was almost impossible to import, but your dear brother planned things with time and sent clever merchants on the quest for it. " Boromir recalled, pridefully. " They wouldn't have sold this easily for a mighty lord of the city, but couldn't refuse when told it would dissapoint a young lady. "

She looked at him in disbelief, unsure of the guess she was about to make.

" No,no, no ... There is no way. You couldn't ... "

" Send men to Rohan despite the uncertain danger it implies just to get you a horse? " Faramir followed, finishing her sentence in a wondering tone. " Don't worry, your present also worked as harmless excuse to obtain trustable testimonies about the state of our old allies. Something we have been wanting to find out for a long time, but father kept refusing to investigate. "

The clarification amused her more than the explanation itself.

" You are unbelievable!! How are we going to hide this? "

Boromir wasn't troubled by her very logical reasoning.

" We won't, and I will assume all guilt. Wait to see how fast he will find a reason to excuse me. "

He made her laugh through that lighthearted mock of his unwanted privilege, aspect he manipulated in contructive ways when it could bring a side benefict to his siblings.

Looking at her smiling brothers awaiting her final verdict made her feel the luckiest girl in Middle Earth.

" I have the best brothers in the world. "

#lotr #lord of the rings #faramir x reader #boromir x reader #gondor girl

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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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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 24 days

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Hi! I've been following you for a while and I love your account! I wanted to ask, where does your love for Rohan come from? Did you simply watch the movies/read the books and decided it was your favorite place to be or was there a deeper reason/is it a place you gradually fell in love with? I'd love to read more about your headcanons, they're all so interesting!

Aw, thank you! That’s such a lovely thing to say. I know a lot of your own characters and interests are set in the Gondor context, and I love my Oath of Eorl buddies!

I basically always loved Rohan from the first time I was exposed to LOTR as a reader. I grew up around horses, so that was hugely significant to the younger me. Rohan also had the most substantial female character in the story (Galadriel was cool but kind of scared me!), so I was very attached both to Éowyn and her land.

As I got older, I got (a little!) more nuanced in my feelings. Some of the things I like best about Rohan now are:

–Their culture seems to develop and value free thinkers. We repeatedly see Rohirrim break or bend rules and customs in order to promote what they think is a just and fair outcome – Éomer, Háma, Éowyn, Elfhelm (and presumably all 100+ guys in Elfhelm’s company), Dúnhere and others all do this at various points – and everyone who isn’t being actively manipulated by Saruman seems to accept that as a normal/good thing.

–When a book or movie positions one group of people as good but somehow inferior or subservient to another group, I often find myself attracted more to the alleged inferiors. So when Tolkien set up his hierarchy of humans and put the Gondorians/heirs of Númenor at the top and Rohan a rung below them, I just naturally gravitate to the Rohirrim, who (in my eyes) accomplish just as much and display equal honor and valor while also having the limitations of being so-called “middle men.” I like an underdog!

–Some of the big Rohan characters evolve quite a bit during the story, which doesn’t happen for everyone. Faramir was apparently born a fully actualized person, for example, and (Book) Aragorn has a pretty solid grasp on himself and how the world works. But the Rohirrim are always learning. Éowyn’s arc is huge and impactful. Éomer is constantly taking in new info and adjusting the way he looks at the world (like when Gandalf explains the concept of patriarchy to him in ROTK!). And I appreciate that about them.

–The movies absolutely played right into my preferences. The Rohan score, the scenery, the overall aesthetic (warm colors and carved wood vs. Minas Tirith’s stone and monochromes), the armor, the Karl Urban, the 6,000 people screaming “Death”. All 100% my vibe.

Thank you for asking!

#asks #answered asks #lord of the rings #tolkien #rohan #forth eorlingas!#♥️🐎🗡️👑

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babe-bombadil · 6 months

Text

Monumental Mischief

Summary: Boromir receives a mysterious bottle from Merry and Pippin. Havoc ensues. (Happens post-battle of Isengard on the journey back to Helm's Deep.)

Written for the 2023 @fall-for-tolkien event! Inspired by You Have Mail by @i-did-not-mean-to

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,184

Read on AO3 or below

“Um... Gandalf?”

The wizard looked up to see Pippin and Merry looking at him with what they surely thought were innocent smiles but he knew were devious grins. He narrowed his eyes at them and raised an eyebrow. Merry elbowed Pippin and he spoke again.

“We were wondering if there was any way to get some more of that Entwash that Treebeard gave us?”

“Purely for research purposes of course,” Merry interrupted.

“And we wouldn’t be drinking it ourselves, just, um, studying it some more. You know, to learn more about the mystical ways of the Ents,” Pippin finished.

Gandalf paused. He found himself in a difficult predicament. If he said no, the hobbits would never let it go. Constantly bugging him and asking for it every time he got a chance to sit down. It would be no use to explain to the pair that he did not have access to the draught. They were convinced he was all-powerful. However, Gandalf knew it would be an absolute disaster to give the young hobbits Ent-draught. They were already both taller than any hobbits Gandalf had known, and even if they did keep their word and not consume it themselves, they would surely be using it to wreak havoc on the company.

He kept silent for a moment, pondering his next move, when he was struck with a devious idea. Why not give the hobbits a taste of their own medicine? Surely no harm could be done, and they would all have a good laugh. He could use a splash of entertainment.

“Very well,” Gandalf replied. “I shall see if I can procure some for you. And I must say, I am delighted that you have decided to take a scholarly path. Run along now.”

That night, Boromir was laying out his bedroll when he found a small brown sack that had been slipped into his bag. Curious, he opened it to find a small glass bottle and a letter. He unfolded the note and attempted to decipher the scribbled handwriting.

Dear Boromir, Here is a little thank you present from your favorite members of the fellowship. It will help keep you strong so you can keep teaching us sword fighting. We know you’ll enjoy it!

Signed, Your favorite hobbit (and Pippin) Pippers and Merry Berry Merry and Pippin!

Boromir’s face split into a grin as he chuckled. He really did care for the hobbits and was honored they would give him a gift. In Gondor, the giving of a gift implied great respect and admiration. Apprentices often gave gifts to their masters to thank them for passing on their skills. Folding the note carefully and tucking it into his pocket, he turned to the vial. It was a rather peculiar shape, large at the bottom and curved to a small opening at the top, and filled with an amber liquid. He heard stifled giggles in the bushes nearest him and fought a smile. Perhaps it was hobbit custom to hide nearby while a friend opened your gift.

He pulled the cork out and downed the entire thing in one gulp. To his surprise, it tasted just like regular Gondorian mead. An odd thing to have, to be sure, and too small an amount for his liking, but he was grateful nonetheless. Too worn out from the day to question how his friends procured the drink, he laid down to sleep with a happy smile on his face. It was nice to be appreciated.

The next morning Boromir opened his eyes and stretched with a yawn. A smile set itself on his face as he sat up. His good mood was such that he even began to hum while packing up his bedroll. He had a feeling it was going to be a great day.

Swinging his pack over his shoulder, Boromir strolled over to where Aragorn, Pippin, and Merry were sitting eating breakfast.

“Good morning, friends,” he called out as he approached.

“Hey Boromir! You’re sure looking tall today,” Merry yelled back. He glanced at Pippin, who nodded his head emphatically.

“Even for a man, you seem very large,” the young hobbit added. “We’re so lucky to have such a tall and strong person in our company!”

“Isn’t he looking tall today, Aragorn?” Merry turned his head to look at his friend. Aragorn gave a tired sigh. He did not get enough sleep to deal with whatever antics the two hobbits dreamed up.

“Just finish your breakfast already. We need to get on the road.”

“Aragorn?”

The ranger sat up from where he had been starting a fire. “Yes, Boromir?”

The man took a deep breath. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“Is it true what the hobbits have been saying all day? Am I actually looking a lot taller?” Boromir asked hesitantly.

Aragorn furrowed his brow. “If you’re looking for compliments, you’ll have to try someone else.”

“No, that's not it. It’s just…” Boromir hesitated. Aragorn set down his sword and turned his full attention to his companion.

“Yes?” he prodded.

“Well, the hobbits gave me a drink of some sort the other night and I assumed it was mead, but now I’m worried they somehow got their hands on some sort of growing potion,” Boromir rushed. Aragorn tried to keep his expression serious as he nodded.

“Growing potion.”

Boromir dragged his hand across his face. “I know it sounds fanciful, but they have been making comments about my height all day and it has made me worried! Even my boots don’t fit quite right anymore! Am I truly unnaturally tall today?”

Aragorn took a deep breath and pursed his lips to fight down a smile. It appeared that his friend was legitimately distressed, and it would not do to mock him now. He laid his hands on Boromir’s shoulders. “I promise that you look exactly the same height as yesterday. A completely normal height for a man. I do not know what Merry and Pippin were referring to, but can one ever know what those two are on about?”

Boromir, who had been holding his breath, heaved a sigh of relief. “I suppose I’ve overreacted. The hobbits were probably just trying to compliment me. Thank you, my friend.”

Gandalf smiled to himself. Giving the hobbits a fake potion was a genius plan, if he did say so himself. They couldn’t complain to him that it didn’t work, because to do so would admit they had given it to someone. And if they truly wanted to study it… well, Gandalf knew that definitely wasn’t true. He had successfully pranked the pranksters. Besides, the smallest part of him had enjoyed watching Boromir’s distress grow throughout the day. Such a valiant man being afraid of his height was extremely entertaining.

Suddenly anxious, the wizard reached into his saddle bag and ensured the palantír was still inside. He was afraid that with the prank having failed, young Pippin’s thoughts would again turn towards the stone. Oh, Gandalf wished the hobbit had never picked it up. Perhaps he would sleep with it tonight, just to be safe.

Thanks to @psyche-the-ya-protagonist for being my awesome beta reader!

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Let me know your thoughts or personal headcanons!

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