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kylobith · 5 months

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LotR Week - Day 5 (15th Dec)

loss | sacrifice | despair

Word count: 4,573

Boromir’s steps echoed in the stairwell of the Tower of Ecthelion as he descended them at a careful pace. Plunged in the obscurity and left out from the cast of moonlight, there was little light filtering through the sparse windows. One missed step, and he would surely shatter his neck and back on the marble. Clinging to the wall with one hand, he aided himself further, calculating each motion. The halo of his torch enhanced the furrow on his forehead and the dark rings under his tearful eyes. A lump had long settled in his throat, stifling his hitched breath and rendering him incapable of producing a single sound. His aching heart pounded within his chest forcefully enough that he expected it to tear itself asunder at any second. His thoughts plunged into despair, surrendering to the relentless tumult of his mind.

Earlier that night, hurried footsteps and hushed voices outside his door had dragged him out of his slumber. People came and went, the heaviness and recurrence of their steps even causing his bed to quiver. Every so often, the familiar clatter of armour would follow suit. He would have dismissed it without a second thought if not for the maidservants’ peculiar words echoing in the hallway and retaining his attention.

‘Any trace of the little one?’ one voice, which he recognised as that of his father’s housekeeper Tíriel, urged to another.

‘None. Ivorwen and Orodreth have searched the kitchens, but the child is nowhere to be found.’

‘Eru, protect him!’

Lighting up the extinguished candle on his bedside table, Boromir had kicked off his legs from the bed and emerged from underneath the covers. He had risen and marched to the door, yawning and wiping the sleep out of his eyes. Something was afoot, and his instinct had predicted that this would be a very long night.

When he heralded his presence by opening his door, the two servants had started and bowed.

‘What is the matter?’ his groggy voice had inquired.

‘My lord, you should be in bed,’ Tíriel had spoken with the fondness in her tone she reserved for children. Yet this had not sufficed to conceal the alarm that gripped her voice and tensed up every muscle in her frail body.

‘I was until I heard you and the others running about. Now tell me, what is the matter?’

Tíriel had regarded Damrod, the chamberlain, with a discerning gaze betraying her uncertainty. Despite his pursed lips and the vehement shaking of his head, the housekeeper had found herself drawn to revealing the situation to the steward’s older son. If he had awoken at this particular time, then he deserved to know, she deemed.

‘My lord, is your brother in your room with you?’

His heart had stopped. The child they could not find was Faramir?

‘No, he is not,’ he had responded, now wide awake and seized by dead. ‘Is he missing?’

‘Well, he is not in bed, and we have yet to find him.’

Leaving no room for hesitation, Boromir scurried back inside his chambers, placing his candleholder on his dresser, snatching his trousers from the back of his chair, and jumping on one foot as he slid a first leg in it. Dumbfounded at the door, the two servants turned their heads to give him some privacy. A frown marred Damrod’s countenance as he cast a disapproving glare in Tíriel’s direction.

‘Fetch me a torch,’ the young lord called out as he slipped on a warmer shirt and a vest. ‘Tell me which places have already been searched.’

‘My lord,’ Damrod pleaded, ‘it is unreasonable for you to come with us. Please remain in bed; we will notify you once your brother is found. You have an important evaluation tomorrow morning; you cannot miss it.’

Without bothering to put socks on, Boromir laced up his boots and snuffed out his candle. He reappeared at the frame, buckling up his sword at his hip.

‘There will be other evaluations. I have only one Faramir.’

As he set out for the hallways, Damrod had departed in the opposite direction, leaving Tíriel to accompany Boromir. Traversing the lofty corridors of the citadel, he had observed the conspicuous absence of most guards. He could only imagine — and hope — that they were on the same quest as he was.

On their way out, Tíriel had handed a torch from the wall to Boromir, whose fingers had instantly clasped it until his knuckles turned as pale as his face. Although aware that none of her words would ease his anguish, the housekeeper revealed everything she knew about the situation.

As soon as she had noticed that Faramir’s door had been left open, the passing governess had peeked inside the bedchambers, only to find the bed unmade yet unoccupied. After looking around for the boy, suspecting that he might have snuck into his playroom, she had found herself at a loss over the child’s whereabouts. She had questioned the guards in the hallway, but none had seen him leave, having taken their posts only a few minutes prior. One of them, however, had indicated having heard agitation and crying inside the room.

Crying… Boromir’s heart ached at the mere mention of it. What had Faramir gone through that had warranted his sudden disappearance?

Spurred by the guard’s statement, the governess had felt compelled to sound the alarm among her fellow household workers. Most abandoned their duties to join the search for the child, but success had thus far eluded them. The palace, except Boromir’s chambers, had been scoured from stem to stern. No trace of Faramir, whether in the kitchens, in the garderobes, the guest rooms, the offices, or the hall. Not a breadcrumb.

Once Boromir and Tíriel had exited the citadel and stood near the White Tree, five guards on horseback had urgently trotted up to them. Bowing their heads to the young lord, the latter had gritted his teeth, having no use for such triviality at this dire hour.

‘Sentinels, what news do you bring?’ he had queried, resting his trembling hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘Nobody has seen Lord Faramir, and neither have we,’ one of them replied sternly.

A knot had tied in the pit of his stomach. But there was still hope. If his younger brother had not been seen in the city, there was a chance that he was much closer than they had thought. Boromir had drawn in a sharp breath and given orders to the sentinels.

‘Guard the path to the citadel and send one to the gates to notify the guards there. If anybody enters or departs the city, I want to be notified promptly before they do. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘It matters not to me who goes. Decide it between yourselves.’

With a last nod towards the guards, Boromir turned to Tíriel and beckoned her back towards the citadel.

‘Has the library been searched? I believe my brother’s newfound obsession for books now that he can read is known to all.’

‘Yes, my lord. The archivist was awoken and is now watching the library. He vowed to alert us if your brother is seen there.’

‘Very well. Now, we must think of our next step.’

Tumultuous waves of thoughts had coursed through his mind as he internally reiterated every place that had been combed, every post occupied by those who helped. It had left them with few options to consider. Pensive, he had instinctively raised his gaze towards the magnificent Tower of Ecthelion, and an idea had burgeoned in his mind.

‘I must search the Tower,’ he had muttered. ‘I doubt that he bothered to go inside, but if I could reach the top and have a better view of the upper level in case Faramir is outside, I will see him immediately.’

Before the housekeeper could object, Boromir had run off to the doors of the Tower. Climbing the stairs in a hurry, peering through the few windows on his path to the top, he had ignored his erratic breathing, burning the little energy left in him. Despite the burning sensation in his calves and thighs, he had pushed forward, skipping steps if necessary.

In hushed prayers, he beseeched any listening ear for Faramir’s well-being, fervently hoping that his beloved brother had not fallen into the clutches of vicious hands. With each step nearer the top of the stairs, his plea grew louder. His quivering voice yearned to witness his sibling blossoming into a formidable man, partake in a ride to Osgiliath with him, or even share a pastry torn in halves between them.

Battling the urge to collapse on his knees, Boromir had pledged to the Valar to cultivate greater patience for Faramir. He had committed to indulging the child, reading him tales and letting him read others in return, and lending an eager ear to his enthusiastic banter about the new knowledge he acquired. He cared not about their differences. All he wanted was his brother back.

Once at the summit of the stairs, he had flung open the door with an abrupt burst of strength. The guards stationed there had jolted at his sight, clutching their spears and the hilts of their swords. Upon recognising the steward’s oldest, they had eased yet attempted to dissuade him from remaining where he stood, urging him to return to the citadel. Stubborn and much too worried to listen to any of it, Boromir had circled the Tower’s peak, leaning over the marble guardrail, his eyes scanning the city and the Pelennor Fields for possible movement. All he had seen were the scarce figures of adults, no child to be seen.

‘FARAMIR!’ he had called out from the top of his lungs, clutching the guardrail until his nails and knuckles felt as though they would shatter. Gripped by an uneasy foreboding, he had screamed his brother’s name again and again until his voice grew hoarse. There was no reaction besides the guards covering their ears.

One of them had approached the young lord and squeezed his shoulder to pull him back as he nearly bent over the void beneath him in sheer despair.

‘Lord Boromir, you must return to the citadel. I will escort you there myself. If we see Lord Faramir, we shall blow the horn.’

The boy had dropped his hand on the side of his body in defeat, nodding in obedience. Holding his torch still, he had allowed the guard to direct him back into the stairwell of the Tower and to escort him to the terrace below.

And there Boromir was, descending the stairs with tears brimming his eyes, threatening to fall at any second. His legs wobbled underneath him, weakened by his erratic climbing and running, threatening to give in. Before they would, the guard caught him by the arm and held him up.

‘There, there, my lord. Fear not, we will find him.’

Boromir wanted to believe him; he truly did. But something did not sit right with him. How did nobody see Faramir leave his room, alone or in the company of another? Were there no guards stationed at his door? How had the disappearance eluded them?

Before he could delve deeper into the thought, they reached the bottom of the stairs and exited the Tower of Ecthelion. At its foot, Tíriel had waited for his return, and the guard mumbled something that he did not make an effort to hear. He felt the housekeeper’s arm encircle his shoulders, but he gently put her arm away.

The search had to continue. He could not give up.

‘Has anybody asked Ioreth at the Houses of Healing whether Faramir has been seen or brought there with any injury?’

‘Damrod has just done so, but none of the healers saw any child in the Houses.’

‘Let us return to the citadel. We must proceed carefully.’

‘You must go back to bed.’

‘As long as Faramir is missing, I am not.’

They passed the White Tree on their way to the citadel and found the governess leaning against the wall outside the door, pressing a handkerchief to her lips to stifle her weeping. Boromir’s heart sank at her sight. This could not be good. Without hesitation, he leapt forward to meet her.

‘Morwen,’ he hailed, still out of breath. ‘Is there any news of my brother?’

‘No, not yet,’ she sobbed, patting her tear-stained cheeks. ‘It is all my fault!’

Boromir placed a hand on her shoulder and rubbed it. If somebody was to be held responsible, it certainly was not her.

‘There, there, brave Morwen,’ he whispered, taking out his clean handkerchief from his pocket and helping her dry her skin. ‘You did well. You were the one to notify us as soon as you saw something amiss.’

‘It is not that, my lord. I should have said something earlier. The poor child… He has not been himself as of late.’

His ears perked up at the governess’ revelation. As his brow furrowed, he clutched her arms, perhaps tighter than he meant to.

‘Not himself?’

‘Oh, no. For the past year, he has been a troubled soul since the passing of Lady Finduilas. His mind is elsewhere, his eyes sorrowful… So young, so young!’

Something snapped into place inside Boromir’s mind. A gasp rolled off his lip as he shot up, releasing Morwen from his grasp.

‘This is it! This must be it!’

Without explanation, Boromir shouldered his way through the citadel's doors. Resolution and hope rekindled in his heart as he hurtled across the Hall of the Kings, startling the gathered soldiers and servants. Clad in his evening robes, Denethor snapped his head, only to behold his older son, not knowing that he had left his bed.

‘Boromir!’

The boy did not cast so much as a glance over his shoulder as he continued his course. A sharp pain tore through his calf as though the muscle threatened to tear in half.

‘I know where he is!’

And he cursed himself for not having thought of it earlier. How could he have been so daft?

The agitation and the crying in Faramir’s room… He had jumped to the worst conclusions before reasoning. What the governess had said was true. Their mother’s death had inflicted a more profound toll on his younger brother than it had already on him. Faramir had been much closer to Finduilas than himself, much to his regret, and the child was too young to process his grief.

Boromir darted across the bridge behind the citadel, his hair blown back by the night breezes. He placed his torch in an empty sconce at the crypt's entrance and solemnly entered, not allowing his anguish to desecrate the place. He bowed to the tombs in their alcoves before advancing, his hands brushing against his thighs.

Silence reigned in the hall. Even the torches’ flames licked at the air noiselessly, dancing upon the stone slabs and the walls. Their flickering accentuated the traits of each recumbent effigy of the kings and stewards that had once served Gondor and were now laid to rest and immortalised in statues, if not in scrolls and the memories of the living.

Carved into the mountain's flank, the crypt was devoid of warmth. Not even halfway through, Boromir regretted not having taken his cloak on his way out of his room. The cold nipped at him and sunk into his bones, stiffening his joints and reddening his hands.

Nevertheless, any discomfort became trivial when he caught a glimpse of a curled-up form upon one of the slabs ahead. He hastened but abstained from running, approaching the tomb with a measured stride — a place he had not visited often enough to his liking.

Boromir crouched beside the grave and offered a warm smile to the shivering figure facing away.

‘There you are, Fari,’ he murmured, his voice bereft of resentment or anger. ‘Everybody is looking for you. You gave me the fright of the century, little brother.’

There was no reaction from the little boy nestled against the breast of his mother’s effigy. Only stuttered breaths reached his ears as a visible hitch marked his brother’s every inhalation. He was so lightly dressed; Boromir could well imagine that he was chilled to the bone if even he could feel the frost despite the layers upon his back.

His fingers unbuttoned his vest and placed it across his bent knee before pulling his warmer shirt over his head and enveloping Faramir’s frail body. Having slid his vest back over his thin nightshirt, he patiently awaited movement from his brother, a word perhaps, but none came forth.

‘You had a nightmare again, mh?’

This time, Faramir nodded and peered over his shoulder at his brother. His blue eyes were bloodshot and swollen from incessant weeping. Boromir would have struck himself with his own sword at the sight for his stupidity. He should have known long before where his brother would run to for comfort. He would have been there for his brother and held him to ease his fear for as long as needed.

The younger boy rubbed his eye with his tiny fist and spoke at last, his voice feeble and broken.

‘I was so scared.’

Boromir’s eyes softened as they crinkled at the corners, his smile widening. He ran his fingers through the dishevelled curls on his brother’s head in a gentle motion.

‘And father’s scolding for the broken glass at dinner certainly did not help it.’

‘No.’

The older brother sighed.

‘Forget about him, little brother. As long as I am around, you have nothing to fear,’ he intoned, earning a soft smile from the child. ‘Let’s get you back to bed, shall we?’

When Faramir acquiesced, Boromir turned his back to him, maintaining his crouched position with his heels firmly grounded for balance. Gone was the weight that had lingered in the air between them. It had been replaced by the shared and unbridled affection that now enveloped them in its unseen mantle.

‘Come here,’ he instructed with a smile. ‘Hop on, little froggy!’

Faramir’s giggle resonated through the Houses of the Dead, insufflating some joy into its hallways. In other circumstances, Boromir would have seen it as a celebration of life in gratitude for those who were long stripped of theirs, who had rendered the miracle of their sole existence possible. For now, he only wanted to bring his brother back to his warm bed and reassure all who were worried to death about the child’s disappearance.

Having slipped his arms into the shirt's sleeves kindly lent to him, the little boy climbed onto his brother’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck. Much to Boromir’s amusement, the sleeves dangled way past his hands, a comical sight which applied balm to his previously aching heart. He hoisted himself up and carried Faramir, holding him under the knees. Before leaving, he bowed his head to the tomb beside him.

‘Good night, Mother. We love you.’

Faramir nodded, burying his face against his shoulder blade as they exited the crypt. Boromir did not bother retrieving the torch from the sconce, leaving it to burn in peace. They headed towards the citadel in silence as exhaustion gained them both. He dragged his feet across the stone, unwilling to let his brother walk. The poor thing needed to regain warmth, and their proximity enabled just that.

Before his eyelids unconsciously drooped, Boromir flinched at the sight of the sleeve poking his nose. A sharp exhalation swirled out of his nose as he glanced over his shoulder with a grin.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you angry with me, Boromir?’

He patted the side of the child’s calf with the utmost tenderness.

‘I could never.’

‘Not even if I broke your wooden sword?’

Boromir regarded him with suspicion, although the smirk plastered on his face served as a silent understanding that there was no trace of irritation in his heart.

‘Why? Did you break the wooden sword?’

‘Maybe?’

A chuckle escaped his throat as he readjusted his brother upon his back whilst crossing the bridge back to the palace.

‘Ah, that is quite alright. Think nothing of it.’

‘But you love that sword!’

‘Perhaps, but I love you much more than I do a toy.’

Faramir smiled and tightened his grip around his brother, crossing his ankles against the older boy’s stomach. As they entered the citadel again, the first guards and servants to behold the reunited brothers sighed and exclaimed in relief, spreading the word to their colleagues to end the search.

When Boromir entered the Hall of the Kings to notify his father, Denethor stomped in their direction, his traits distorted by an unmatched fury. He pointed a finger towards the younger boy, who tensed up and flinched before a single word left his mouth.

‘You little brat! What foolishness has come through your head for you to disappear so?!’

‘Father, that is enough!’

Denethor halted at once, his wide eyes turning to his older son and yielding to the boy’s authority. Boromir put Faramir down and held him tightly against his side.

‘Faramir was found, and that is the end of the story,’ he scolded his father, scowling at him. As Morwen entered the hall and burst into tears of elation at the sight of the child, brought back safe and sound, Boromir held his brother’s hand. ‘Morwen, will you please take my brother to my bedchambers? I shall keep him company tonight. Please fetch his pillow and his stuffed horse from his room. Go with her, Faramir; I will be with you shortly.’

‘Yes, brother.’

Faramir took Morwen’s hand and followed her away until she picked him up out of sheer joy and carried him to the royal quarters. Boromir smiled as he watched them, sensing the lump in his throat fading at last. Yet when his father spoke, his frown was quick to return.

‘You waste far too much energy on this child,’ Denethor spat. ‘He has spoiled your rest with his antics. Tomorrow is an important day for you, with the master of arms’ examination. Now that you have spent half of the night outside by Faramir’s fault, he has ruined your potential. So do not make things worse for yourself, Boromir. Send the boy back to his room and have him locked up there, or you will not be able to even stand in your armour in the morrow.’

‘Then, tired I will be. But do not ask me to forsake my brother when he is in pain, for I will not obey.’

Denethor’s eyes glimmered with a spark of rage. Nevertheless, he did not lash out at Boromir. No, that was a treatment he usually reserved for his younger son. His father paced up and down in a futile attempt to quiet the thunderous words threatening to escape him, not helped by the older son’s defiant scowl and raised chin.

‘You cannot let the child lead you around by the nose, Boromir. He must grow up, and it is about time.’

‘Father, he is six years old, give him time! Mother’s death has scarred him deeply; do not blame him for his pain.’

‘He will be the death of us both, do you not see it? You cannot possibly care for him all his life to the detriment of your potential and virtues. You have much to achieve, my son, so much to accomplish. Do not let a brainless little boy waste any of that.’

‘I am his older brother, and if it is a burden, it is one that I gladly accept,’ Boromir retorted, leaving time for Denethor to respond. When the latter struggled to find his words, the boy bowed. ‘Good night, Father. I shall see you in the morning.’

When Boromir reached his bedchambers, he found Faramir already in bed, his curls a blond halo around his head while he pressed his yellow stuffed horse to his heart. Finding the sight most endearing, the older boy readjusted the cover on top of his brother, carefully tucking him in. He pressed a kiss to his temple before stripping down to his nightshirt and loincloth. When he slipped back under the blankets, Faramir stirred and sighed.

‘I miss Mother.’

Boromir turned his head with raised eyebrows and smiled softly.

‘Me too, Fari.’

Seeing the tears welling up in his little brother’s eyes, Boromir pulled him against his chest and held him close, rubbing his back to comfort the child. It had been long since he had mourned their mother. Not that he had not loved her. For years, he had enjoyed his father’s favouritism, finding comfort in the knowledge that Finduilas spent most of her time raising and coddling Faramir. But now that she was gone, Denethor’s spite towards the younger boy had been unleashed and had reached greater extents than ever before.

Thus, Boromir had done all he could for the past year to never let his brother alone in their father’s company. He had found countless excuses to lure the younger boy away or distract his father by doing something as simple as handing the maidservant his empty plate with the cutlery neatly laid on top of it to earn his praise and give some respite to his brother. But such moments were never to last, and he was more than aware that it was only the beginning.

Under the palm of his hand, he sensed the shaking of Faramir’s shoulder as the child began to weep again. Wishing to deflect the night's pain and emotion, Boromir chuckled and kissed the top of his head.

‘Hey, Fari, do you remember that day when Mother let you style her hair?’

Faramir’s sobs swiftly turned into stifled chuckles.

‘I got her brush stuck in her hair and couldn’t get it out.’

‘Exactly,’ Boromir responded with a hearty laugh, the happy memory filling him with joy. He could see it all again: Finduilas’ luscious black hair matted around the wooden handle and the boar bristles on one side of her head.

‘She wasn’t even angry at me.’

Boromir chuckled and pressed another kiss to his brother’s hair.

‘No, she wasn’t. You were not there to see it because you were with Morwen, but Mother kept the brush in her hair the entire day, pretending that nothing was afoot. Father commented on it, but she retorted that it was all the rage in Dol Amroth.’

‘She did?’ the little boy gasped in amusement.

‘Yes, she did,’ he confirmed, his smile slowly fading. ‘You know, little brother, Mother loved you with all her heart. And I love you all the same. Never forget that.’

And forget Faramir never did.

One evening, the younger brother entered the crypt again, bowing to the alcoves and following the trail leading him to his mother. He bent to place a kiss upon her statue’s brow and rested a hand upon the slab.

‘Good evening, Mother,’ his solemn voice echoed throughout the halls. With a sigh, he stared down at the cloven horn between his unsteady hands. ‘I fear that I am a bearer of unfortunate news.’

He lay down beside the effigy, no longer tiny next to it, but his head and legs reaching beyond those of the bronze figure. His chest heaving with sorrow, Faramir clutched the horn to his heart and wept for his brother.

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caenith · 1 year

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But Ivorwen, his wife, who was also foresighted, answered: "The more need of haste! The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts."

Then Aragorn, being now the Heir of Isildur, was taken with his mother to dwell in the house of Elrond; and Elrond took the place of his father and came to love him as a son of his own. But he was called Estel, that is "Hope"

Even after almost two decades since I read this book for the first time, these two passages still hit the same. JIRT WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME AGAIN?! 🥹

#tolkien #lotr #lotr newsletter #aragorn #It's time to catch up on the tolkien newsletters! Finally!#I might spam this blog a little too much in the next couple of hours #it's Aragorn Feelings o'clock!

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ao3feed-tolkien · 1 year

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Tonight, We Are Warm

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/d6XrfHm

by HollersandHolmes

Two sisters await the return of their mother on a cold winter night. Unexpected company arrives instead (twice, in fact, with varied degrees of welcome).

A Christmas-night gift for my very dear Hollers/Levade 💜

Words: 2784, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 50 of A Right Different Tale After All

Fandoms: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Gilraen (Tolkien), Ivorwen (Tolkien), Glorfindel (Tolkien), Brenioniel

Additional Tags: CHRISTMAS GIFT FIC!!, wintertime tales, friends and sisters, Giggling, Out of the Cold, unwelcome suitors, Glorfindel has a moment of foresight, Brenioniel and Ivorwen are old friends, snark and banter (affectionate), Christmas stories are for implausible happenings used for the sake of good cheer

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/d6XrfHm

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Tolkien #JRR Tolkien #Tolkien works #ao3 #fan fiction

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arofili · 3 years

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the line of elros ◈ chieftains of the dúnedain ◈ headcanon disclaimer

Eithiar was the younger child of Arathorn I, and the sibling of Argonui. They often accompanied their brother on his orc hunts and were well-renowned for their deadly skill with a spear. Their husband was Farion, a cobbler who took the primary responsibility for caring for their only son, Dírhael. While still young, Dírhael sought the hand of his beloved, Ivorwen the daughter of Gilbarad. Though Ivorwen loved him in return, Gilbarad refused to allow her to wed until Dírhael proved his worth. At last, after a year-long hunt, Dírhael brought down a mighty elk and presented it to his beloved, winning the approval of her father. When it came time for Dírhael’s own daughter Gilraen to marry, he found himself understanding Gilbarad’s motivations in a way he had not before. His foresight cautioned him that Gilraen’s marriage to the much older Arathorn II, heir to Chieftain Arador, would end too soon. But Ivorwen his wife also had foresight, and argued that this was exactly why they should allow Gilraen to wed Arathorn, so that new hope might be born in the little time they would have together. Eventually Dírhael was persuaded, and witnessed the joyous union of his daughter and his future Chieftain, though neither he nor Ivorwen warned Gilraen of the heavy doom upon her family.

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thegirlwhohid · 3 years

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Ivorwen moodboard

Legendarium Ladies April: (19/30)

‘The Lord of the Rings’ characters: (51/?)

Characters’ moodboards: (430/?)

#ivorwen #legendarium ladies april #legendariumladiesapril #lotr characters #lotr aesthetic #lotr moodboard #lotredit #lotr #ivorwen aesthetic #ivorwen moodboard #characters #j.r.r. tolkien #aesthetic #moodboard #mine

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laurelsblue · 7 years

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Kicking off LLA with most of the Dunedain women I missed out two years ago. This is Gilraen and her female ancestors with family tree for reference.

Losseth, wife of Mendir (younger son of Arathorn I and Laeriel) and mother of Gannon the father of Dirhael. Her mother was said to have come from the East.

Eirien, wife of Gannon and mother of Dirhael. Enjoyed gardening and generally being outdoors.

Gilraen, daughter of Dirhael and Ivorwen, wife of Arathorn II and mother of Aragorn. (Included here for completeness, but more on her here.)

Ivorwen, daughter of Gilbarad, wife of Dirhael, and mother of Gilraen. Known for her foresight which was considered unusually strong for someone outside the direct chieftain’s line.

Rineth, wife of Gilbarad and mother of Ivorwen. A wise-woman, she knew much lore.

Glirwen, mother of Gilbarad. A singer of songs and teller of stories.

Random fashion notes: Losseth and Glirwen, as contemparies of Gelleth (Argonui’s wife and a ranger) both wear the overcoat she made fashionable. Ivorwen, Rineth and Glirwen are all wearing the same inherited necklace.

#legendarium ladies april #gilraen #ivorwen #vaguely silmarillion related #fun with dollmakers #unreasonably attached to my ocs #arnor is underappreciated #i'll do halbarad's mother in a moment

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gossip-girl-of-middleearth · 3 years

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The Road Less Travelled (Legolas x Reader) (Part 2)

A/N: A continuation of my Fellowship x Pregnant! Reader story, in which you ended up choosing Legolas to help raise your unplanned child. Part 2 can be read without reading part 1 first.

Synopsis: Life with Legolas, your two daughters and your treehouse is perfect, until one night, parental instincts go on ignored, and things go deeply awry.

Warnings: I watched The Conjuring before bed tonight and was unfortunately inspired. Enjoy. Also Legolas is a cute adoptive father send tweet.

Pairings: Legolas x Reader

Word Count: 2610

Rain fell heavily outside, though yourself and your family did not feel said rain. Buried below glorious crowns of leaves, your treehouse was situated securely.

Built into the thick trunk of an Ithilien tree by Legolas’ own bare hands, your treehouse was set with two bedrooms, and resembled an elevated cottage more than anything else. Around the length of the cosy home, a rounded balcony lay.

Leading down from said balcony was an old rope your children used to climb to and from home. One broken ankle later from your youngest twin, however, and a winding set of stairs was built into the trunk below, too — leading up to your balcony.

And indeed, “twins” was right.

Learning on the Fellowship’s journey that you were pregnant with that no-good Brander’s child was shocking enough, let alone discovering at the actual birth that said little baby’s embryo had split into two, providing you with a set of beautiful daughters.

Fortunately, they were nothing alike their biological father in spirit — possessing kind hearts and noble souls instead. Even more fortunately, they garnered your looks. Regarding their appearances, although twins, they each held distinctive differences.

Perhaps the luckiest of all, your old Fellowship colleague, now turned husband, seemed to have the most influence on both Ivorwen and Tobrien — better known simply as “Ivy” and “Toby”.

Rabbit stew, a recipe sent from your Shire friends, was made for dinner that night, as the four of you sat around a wooden table and ate merrily, enjoying the lively atmosphere the warm candles provided.

“There is still hair on the meat!” Ivy insisted, though, the grin on her 9-year-old cheeks gave away her agenda.

“There is not!” Legolas urged back, sharing her grin.

You and Toby laughed brightly, passing a plate of rolls between one another. This argument had been going on since before any of you had even sat down.

Ivy made a show of stabbing a chunk of rabbit and holding it up. “Yes, there is! See? There’s hair on it! You’re a horrible cook after all!”

Legolas made a show of squinting his eyes and leaning across the table to inspect the chunk of rabbit, before settling back into his chair and pressing on.

“That’s most likely your own hair! How many times have I encouraged you to learn my version of braiding?” Legolas pointed out, gesturing to his own locks.

Your eyes crinkled with amusement and love, as you watched the dad and daughter exchange teasing words, even if none of those words were actually “dad”, “father” or even “ada”.

“You’re impossible, Varno,” Ivy shook her head, still smiling nonetheless. “Just admit your talent lies in hunting and not in cooking.”

“I resent that accusation,” Legolas playfully warned, pointing a fork at Ivy.

“Varno” was a name both you and Legolas had decided upon. “Ada” reminded him too much of his own father, and “uncle” simply felt too misplaced.

So, instead, “Varno” was decided upon — meaning “protector” in Legolas’ own language, which is exactly what he had been for you, ever since that fateful night by the campfire you’d learnt of your predicament.

Although many of your friends and colleagues that evening offered you their hand in marriage, you had felt a maternal stirring within you. Something told you to choose the best of the best for your unborn offspring, and who better than a steadfast elf to keep you safe?

You had been watching Legolas one night, a few evenings after learning of the life growing within you, with your hand over your stomach.

Although you still didn’t quite have the full comprehension of knowledge behind this, you truly believed, till this day, that both Ivy and Toby told you to “choose that one—he’s our dad”.

Resolute in your mind, you approached Legolas and accepted his offer of marriage. He was ecstatic and gleeful, and then a little boastful to the other suitors. Cockiness befell him for a short while, until your stomach grew and a paternal kick changed him.

He matured overnight and grew from a young archer into an awaiting father, despite the girls not being his. That never slowed him, though—he was a better father to Ivy and Toby than some real dads were to their own children.

He soon married you after the war, and the rest was history.

After you had to break Legolas and Ivy’s “fight” up with a laugh and a motherly warning, the table was cleared.

“All right, dishes to the kitchen, and then teeth,” Legolas announced, quirking a brow in Ivy’s direction as she walked past.

Legolas mouthed to her that their fight wasn’t over, and Ivy made a show of raising her brows once in challenge.

“She gets that from Gimli, I know it. Don’t ask me how,” Legolas whispered to you, as you too walked by.

“Intrusive visits and loud Yules,” you joked, grinning over your shoulder at your best friend.

Grimacing, Legolas winced his teeth with a hiss. “Do not speak of such holidays, let us just enjoy the autumn while it lasts.”

“You don’t want Yule to come soon?” Toby asked, appearing from behind Legolas, and peeking her head around his torso to gaze up in his direction. “What about toys?”

“Galadriel sends the best, and nothing has topped the bow she gave me in Lothlorien eight years ago,” Legolas replied. “Have you brushed your teeth yet, aranel?” (princess)

Toby made a prolonged noise, as she beamed brightly to show off her teeth.

“No, I don’t fall for pretty girls and pretty teeth, thank you very much,” said Legolas shaking his head. “Breath test.”

He bent down and allowed her to piggyback ride him. Standing swiftly, he looked over his shoulder and at her, where she then breathed loudly with an open mouth into his face.

Legolas scrunched his nose and recoiled. “Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell someone with stinky gums. And I’ve been to Mordor.”

Toby’s eyes grew bright with excitement. “Will you tell us another Fellowship story tonight?”

“Only if you brush your teeth,” Legolas answered, nuzzling his nose with hers.

Ivy walked past again, done with her dishes, and scoffed at Legolas. “Don’t listen to him, Toby. It’s bribery!”

Legolas gently kicked her ankle as she walked by, although, a feather could’ve done more damage—your “gentle giant”, you called him.

“Very well then, tonight I’ll tell you all about the Mouth of Sauron, and why brushing your teeth is important,” Legolas said again, turning around to watch the eldest twin head for the bathroom down the hall.

She waved him off over her shoulder, before disappearing to brush her teeth.

Toby swiftly kissed Legolas’ cheek, before dismounting from the piggyback ride and skipping after her sister.

You watched from the kitchen sink with a warm smile, and wiped a bowl with a dry rag. You observed the ardent love in Legolas’ eyes, as he watched the hall for a minute, where Toby and Ivy could be heard giggling over their dad’s cooking skills.

He finally shook his head and turned to you, wearing a content smile of his own. Catching your warm expression, he walked towards you with a sly question on his tongue.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you replied, returning to the dishes. “But have I ever thanked you for marrying me and helping me to raise those two ladies?”

“Ladies is a stretching term,” said Legolas, coming up behind you with a wrapping of your torso and a burying of his cheek in your hair, as he hugged you from behind, “but no—I don’t think the few thousand times is enough. Could you perhaps tell me once more?”

You melted into his hug, laughed like bright bells, and turned around. Wrapping your own arms around him, you buried your head into his shoulder and embraced him tightly.

“Well, thank you,” you emphasised, teasing him slightly.

Rocking the hug a little, he kissed the top of your head, and responded after a moment. “Actually, it is you all the thanks is owed to—I never assumed a life like this would be possible for me, but here we are.”

“Here we are,” you agreed, squeezing the hug once more.

You both stayed like that for a moment, before he kissed the top of your head again and let go. “You can ready the girls for bed if you’d like, I’ll finish up here.”

You lifted his hand and kissed the back of it, before walking away. Your hands remained held until the distance you walked grew too much, and Legolas had to let go to stay in front of the sink.

He smiled after you, as you disappeared around the wall.

Sighing in tranquillity, as the rain grew outside, Legolas looked out the glass window to his side. All he could make out were tree trunks through the rain and moonlight, and the prince basked in the sense of home for a few seconds.

However, the placid state could only last for so long. Unsure if the girls teasing him all day on their rabbit hunt had just worn him down, or if his eyes were indeed working correctly, a sway of trees exposed a trunk in the distance, where Legolas could have sworn he saw a body scaling.

Narrowing his eyes and knitting his brows, the archer moved closer to the glass window. As his breath fogged up the glass, Legolas moved as close as he dared to the window, observing the distant trunk.

Peering harder and harder, Legolas prayed for the wind to sway the leaves again, so he could view the tree. However, before he had the chance to do so, a quick voice from behind startled him.

“C’mon, Varno!” Toby urged, waving her dad to follow. “Me and Ivy are ready for the bedtime story!”

Legolas jumped on his feet, most unlike an elf indeed, and snapped his eyes over his shoulder to his daughter. Meeting her young gaze, he calmed.

Although, with the odd anomaly on the distant trunk still on his mind, Legolas turned back to the window. The leaves swayed again, and Legolas saw the tree once more. However, this time, no beings scaled the side of it.

He swallowed his nerves and shook his head, as his daughter called him once more.

“Varno?” Her voice was slow and unsure.

Meeting her eyes again, he beamed brightly and ran forwards. Scooping her loudly laughing self into his arms, he spun around and lifted her high—all whilst heading down the hall.

Toby’s laughs and Legolas’ eagle noises alerted you first, as they flew into the bedroom. “Eagle Attack” was a game he’d played with the girls since birth, where he’d lift them high, making them “fly”, and screech obnoxiously.

It usually ended with him gently throwing them down onto a bed or couch, in an effort to tire them out before slumber. Tonight, apparently, was no different.

“Aren’t we a little too old for Eagle Attack, Varno?” Ivy taunted, already sitting cross-legged on her bed, as you brushed her hair beside her.

“I’m over two thousand-years-old, and I still find it fun,” Legolas taunted back. He collapsed onto Toby’s bed with her backwards, leaving the younger twin a laughing mess.

“I do not think that tires them out as much as you believe,” you advised, shaking your head with a smile in your husband and daughter’s direction, who asked for the ride again.

“That’s why I have stories hidden up my sleeve,” Legolas replied. He sat up on his elbows, and smirked at you.

You gave him a playful frown, before finishing Ivy’s hair. Kissing your daughter’s cheek, you began tucking her in.

Legolas readied one candle, and dimmed all the other lanterns, so sleep would find the girls swiftly. Soon, as you tended to Ivy and he to Toby, Legolas’ story began.

It was one you remembered well, and one you also didn’t want to. You appreciated how comical Legolas delivered the story, in a way accessible to children, for there was nothing child-friendly about that war.

It wasn’t long after that, that soft snores from the girls filled the room.

Bringing the woollen blanket up to each daughter’s chin, and kissing their temples, you and Legolas bid them a soft goodnight from the door.

Closing it behind yourselves, you both began the small journey down the hall back to your shared room. He wrapped one arm around your back, and led you safely to the door.

Upon entering the room, you each made your way to your own beds. You had only shared a few kisses on the lips throughout your marriage, usually in times of great emotion, like the birth of your daughters, or the wedding itself.

Yours and Legolas’ marriage was almost entirely platonic, but he loved you more than any other, and you him. Only Ivy and Toby were counted among his other greatest loves, with you sitting safe right beside them.

Although nothing physical or lustful of nature took place between you, your relationship was one of deep devotion, and you had, in your own way, each pledged yourselves entirely to one another.

It was simply the most beautiful friendship, and one neither of you forsook.

Fluffing up your pillow, you rearranged your bed, which was only a metre away from Legolas’ own. He did the same, and hummed to himself slightly over the rain outside.

“This weather is a little intense, isn’t it?” you spoke up, looking at the roof above once in gesture.

He followed your gaze and agreed from behind his concerned frown. “I was almost worried earlier that the roof would collapse, with the leaves now falling and such.”

“For its seventh autumn, it isn’t doing too bad,” you decided, now sliding into bed.

“Agreed,” Legolas smiled, commending himself and his handiwork.

As he slipped into his own sheets, Legolas thought of what he saw earlier scaling the trunk. You were just about to reach over, wish your best friend a goodnight, before turning the candle out, until Legolas’ voice stopped you.

“Actually, meleth nîn—” he called, earning a blinking back of your eyes.

Conflicted over his own words, that same paternal feeling that kicked within him eight years ago drove his instincts. Sucking on his lower lip in thought, Legolas decided to trust whatever his gut was telling him, and lifted his blankets over to the side.

He beckoned you to slide into the covers with him. It was nothing unusual for you both, for many nights you had spent sleeping in the same bed with him. It first started in those early winter days, when your teeth chattered and your bones shivered.

His body warmth provided both solace and security, until you each grew so comfortable around one another that hugging in your sleep seemed as casual as a pat on the shoulder.

You almost went to tease him about being touch-starved or something of the likes, until you saw the look behind his eyes. They were the eyes of a concerned patriarch, and you knew better than to disagree with him.

After all, you knew to trust your own maternal instincts. His were no different.

Without saying a word, you slipped out from your bed and climbed into his, relishing in the warmth of his arms. He kissed the top of your head goodnight, before turning the candle off.

Only a small percentage of the fear within his stomach subsided, but he tried hard to fight it away. Nonetheless, the rain lulled him to sleep, where he then fell into a light slumber alongside you.

That is, until the bloodcurdling screaming of the girls started.

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nbula-rising · 2 years

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March 1st is Aragorn Day

The birth of Aragorn

These events take place between the years 2931-2933 Third Age. At this time Arador, Aragorn's grandfather, was the Chief of the Dunedain. His son was Arathorn. Arathorn wished to marry one of his race named Gilraen but Gilraen's father disapproved. He was foresighted and feared that Arathorn would be short lived. "But Ivorwen, his wife, who was also forsighted, answered: 'The more need of haste! The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people, but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts" (p. 338, The Return of the King).

And so it was that Arathorn and Gilraen were married. Only a year after their marriage Arador was killed by hill-trolls in the Coldfells near Rivendell and Arathorn became Chieftain of the Dunedain. "The next year Gilraen bore him a son, and he was called Aragorn. But Aragorn was only two years old when Arathorn went riding against the Orcs with the sons of Elrond, and he was slain by an orc-arrow that pieced his eye; and so he proved indeed shortlived for on of his race, being but sixty years old when he fell" (p. 338, The Return of the King).

Aragorn was now the Heir of Isiludur and Chieftain of the Dunedain. Gilraen and Aragorn were taken to the house of Elron and cared for there. Elrond came to love Aragorn as a son. "But he was called Estel, that is "Hope", and his true name and lineage were kept secret at the bidding of Elrond; for the Wise then knew that the Enemy was seeking to discover the Heir of Isildur, if any remained upon the earth" (p. 338, The Return of the King). And thus our introduction to one of the greatest of Tolkien's characters.

Death and End of Reign

When in the year 120 of the Fourth Age, King Elessar realised his days were at an end, he went to the House of the Kings in the Silent Street. He said farewell to his son Eldarion and his daughters and gave Eldarion his crown and sceptre. Arwen remained at Aragorn's side until he died. Shortly a year after Aragorn died, Arwen soon died of a broken heart. Eldarion began his reign as the Second King of the Reunited Kingdom after his father's and mother's death.

"Then a great beauty was revealed in him, so that all who after came there looked on him in wonder; for they saw that the grace of his youth, and the valour of his manhood, and the wisdom and majesty of his age were blended together. And long there he lay, an image of the Kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world." — Description of Aragorn's death.

#aragorn #aragorn day #lotr

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hollers-and-holmes · 2 years

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I’ve started posting this old story from before that one time my brain glitched and started demanding inexplicable AU’s.

One element that has not changed: I was knocking off old western movies then and I am doing it now and I ain’t sorry.

#fanfic #lotr #tolkien #other pennames #moderately canon-compliant #Ivorwen is my favorite grouchy old lady #also kids and dogs and shenanigans #and rabies #there’s a chance there will be rabies

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sweetearthandnorthernsky · 2 years

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so @ sarc remember that discussion we had about the dunedain offsetting names throughout the generations? well i found this on tolkien gateway and

it’s more likely for the offset to go gilbarad > ivorwen > gilraen BUT it would emotionally devastate me personally if it [also] went gilbarad > [skip a few] > halbarad

#also i just realized gilraen died when sae was seven #aw :(#fun times in the sad about rangers tag

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sulfin-evend · 3 years

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Halbarad Headcanons

Halbarad is pretty ancient, even for a Dunedain. He is Gilrean's maternal uncle and Ivorwen's brother, making him Aragorn's great-uncle. I'm going by a draft that names Ivorwen daughter of Gilbarad, so going by naming conventions, Halbarad would be a relative, most likely son of Gilbarad.

He is about 150 at the time of the war of the ring and is one of the most senior Rangers.

His hidden castle is the closest to Rivendell than of all Dunedain strongholds ( in the Angle between the two rivers) so it was the first place Elrond sent messages to send aid to Aragorn. Most of the Rangers in the Grey Company are from this region.

Halbarad has always supported Aragorn politically, as one of the older, established Dunedain chiefs.

#halbarad #lotr headcanons #aragorn #Dunedain #northern dunedain #rangers

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tolkien-fandom-history · 6 years

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Interview with Angela P. Nicholas--author of "Aragorn: J.R.R. Tolkien's Undervalued Hero"

We were very excited to have the opportunity to interview author Angela P. Nicholas. Her book "Aragorn: J.R.R. Tolkien's Undervalued Hero" is an extremely detailed, in depth examination of Tolkien's Aragorn--his life, his relationships, his achievements, his skills, and his personality. It is a very worthwhile addition to any Tolkien library. She has some fascinating insights into Aragorn, book vs movie representations of the character, thoughts on the upcoming Amazon series and fan fiction as part of the Tolkien fandom. Hope you enjoy reading it!

1. How did you first become interested in Tolkien?

Answer:

Although The Lord of the Rings was very much in fashion during my student days in the late sixties and early seventies I wasn't interested in it at that stage – probably because I didn't tend to follow fashions! It was not until a few years later, in 1973, that a friend persuaded me to read it. He stressed that it would be a good idea to read The Hobbit first and promised me that I was "in for a treat". I was hooked immediately and when I got together with my future husband soon afterwards I wasted no time in introducing him to Tolkien's works as well! I re-read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings several times during the seventies and bought The Silmarillion as soon as it was published in 1977. Further readings have followed since, especially while working on Aragorn, extending to Unfinished Tales, the twelve volumes of The History of Middle-earth and Tolkien's Letters as well.*

2. Aside from reading the books, have you had any other immersion in the Tolkien fandom? Online, through societies, other venues?

Answer:

My Tolkien-related activities include membership of the Tolkien Society since 2005, leading to attendance at Oxonmoot (most years) plus a number of AGMs, the occasional seminar and the event in Loughborough in 2012. I've contributed several articles to Amon Hen and also gave a talk about Aragorn at Oxonmoot a few years ago. In addition I attend meetings of my local smial (Southfarthing) which is actually a Tolkien Reading Group.

3. There are so many richly written, deeply compelling characters in Tolkien. How did you decide to focus on Aragorn?

Answer:

There wasn't really any decision to make, as right from the start I found Aragorn the most complex and appealing character in the book. Every time I re-read The Lord of the Rings - including delving into the Appendices - I found new depths to his character and significance.

4. What prompted you to write this book? How did the impetus to write about him, in such rich detail, come about?

Answer:

The actual impetus came from Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings films. Although I enjoyed his portrayal of Aragorn in some ways, it was clear that there were significant differences between the film and book versions of the character. For my own satisfaction I decided to re-discover Tolkien's Aragorn by studying all the Middle-earth writings and making detailed notes on anything of interest. I did not, at that stage, see myself actually writing a book.

5. Did you initially plan such an exhaustive and detailed study of this character, when you first decided to write the book?

Answer:

No, I didn't envisage anything so detailed. It just got out of hand: the more notes I made the more ideas I had and the thing just grew exponentially!

6. The title makes use of the word ‘undervalued’—how do you define that in terms of Aragorn and how did you come to associate that word with him?

Answer:

While studying Aragorn it became clear to me that his role in the story is a lot more significant than is immediately apparent. This is partly because the book is “hobbito-centric”, to use Tolkien's own word [see end of Letter 181 in The Letters of J R R Tolkien edited by Humphrey Carpenter], so is largely written from the hobbit viewpoint. For this reason Aragorn's ancestry and earlier life are only described in the Appendices, which not everyone reads. Thus his deeds - and their significance - are often overlooked, causing him and his role to be undervalued. Chapter 1.5 of my book in particular aims to address this problem by concentrating on the story of The Lord of the Rings from Aragorn's point of view. He does many crucial things behind the scenes, for example: the lengthy search for Gollum; standing in for Gandalf as shown by the secret vigil he conducts over Frodo during the months before the latter's departure from the Shire; and - the most significant achievement - confronting Sauron in the Palantír of Orthanc thus implying that he himself has the Ring and so diverting Sauron's attention away from Frodo.

7. If you were to consider writing a similar book about another character from Tolkien’s legendarium who would you choose to focus on?

Answer:

I find Finrod Felagund, Galadriel and Elrond interesting, especially in the light of their impact on Aragorn and his ancestry. Among the hobbits, Merry Brandybuck is rather appealing. However I have to say that I am not planning to do another book on this scale!

8. What were your thoughts on the portrayal of Aragorn in Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings movies?

Answer:

Given “book” Aragorn's lengthy struggle to regain the kingships of Arnor and Gondor and to be deemed worthy of marrying his beloved Arwen, it was extremely disappointing to be presented with the image of “Aragorn the reluctant king” who breaks off his engagement so Arwen can sail west.

In general I felt there was too much emphasis on Aragorn as a fighter, along with almost total neglect of his formidable healing skills, impressive foresight and knowledge of history and lore.

Another great disappointment was the omission of the challenge to Sauron in the Orthanc Stone. Yes, this incident was included in the extended version of The Return of the King, but it appeared in the wrong place and also gave the impression that Aragorn lost the confrontation. (The credit for seeing the enemy's plans in the Stone was actually given to Pippin!)

In addition I found the beheading of the Mouth of Sauron particularly disturbing.

9. Did you find Viggo Mortensen believable and appealing as Aragorn?

Answer:

In spite of my answer to the previous question I liked Viggo Mortensen's performance. He did actually look something like my image of Aragorn and he seemed to capture the sadness, remoteness, physical courage and protectiveness I associate with the character. Basically I thought that Mortensen did very well with the part he was given to play - but the part was not that of Tolkien's Aragorn!

10. Amazon has bought the rights to the appendices of the Lord of the Rings and is planning a 5 part series. Rumor has it that the first season will focus on young Aragorn. What do you hope to see in this adaptation and are there any particular incidents/scenes/events that you think merit particular attention or inclusion?

Answer: The following seem to me to be important:

- Putting Aragorn's early life in the context of “Estel”, the Hope of the Dúnedain, who has been prophesied to be the one who will atone for Isildur's failure to destroy the Ring, and who will restore the kingship of Men.

- Some emphasis on his family members: Ivorwen, Dírhael, Gilraen, the death of Arathorn, subsequent fostering by Elrond, and training by Elladan and Elrohir. Some indication of the close relationship with his foster-father would be good: Elrond loved Aragorn as much as his own children but this was not made apparent in the Peter Jackson films.

- The scene when Elrond tells the 20-year-old Aragorn his true identity.

- First meeting with Arwen

- Friendship with Gandalf from age 25 onward

- Betrothal to Arwen, and Galadriel's involvement: he was 49 by this time, so that may not be considered part of his early life (though 49 would be young for one of the Dúnedain!)

- Perhaps some reference to the events of The Hobbit in 2941-2 when we know that 10/11-year-old Aragorn was living in Rivendell.

11. What do you find most inspiring about Tolkien’s world?

Answer:

The depiction of such a complete and seemingly realistic world, and the fact that one can pick up extra hidden depths in both story and characters on each re-reading. There is always something else to discover or a new interpretation of a familiar passage.

12. Are you involved in any more projects involving Tolkien?

Answer:

Not at the moment. I have one or two ideas for possible short articles.

13. What advice would you give to those first encountering Tolkien’s work and wanting to learn more about Middle-earth and its inhabitants?

Answer:

Speaking from my own experience I would say: Read The Hobbit first then The Lord of the Rings several times, including the Appendices, before delving into other works: The Silmarillion, Unfinished Tales, The History of Middle-earth and Tolkien's Letters, plus critical works, etc. - and of course online sources which were not available when I first became interested in Tolkien.

14. In the preface to your book you mention discovering the online Tolkien fanfiction community—what are your thoughts on Tolkien fanfiction? What time frame was this and did you join the fanfiction community at that time?

Answer:

I started writing fanfiction during 2003 and continued doing it until about 2007 which was when I made the decision to write a serious work about Aragorn. One piece of fanfiction appeared in Amon Hen, and the rest on a couple of websites which I think no longer exist.

My main thought about fanfiction is that it was this which started me off writing. It was very much an experiment as my last attempts at creative writing dated back to my school English lessons in the 1960s! Without trying the fanfiction first I don't think I would ever have got round to writing articles for Amon Hen, let alone my book.

15. Did encountering fanfiction or even writing it have an effect on your thoughts on Aragorn and the salient points of his character that truly defined him?

Answer:

Yes - because the chief aim of the fanfiction (mine and, I suspect, that of other fanfiction writers) was to fill in the gaps in Aragorn's story. I scoured the text for possible motives and feelings of the people I was writing about. My fanfiction was always based on the “book” version of the story and characters (never on the film version). I did sometimes use invented characters but only to add detail and interest to the story. For exampIe this approach was used when writing about Aragorn's Rangers and when describing his interactions with the inhabitants of Bree. Some stories were actually based on invented characters, in order to try and see Aragorn through the eyes of others. This probably helped me when writing the “Relationship” chapters [see next question.]

16. One aspect of your book that to me is truly unique is Part 2, where you study and interpret his interactions and relationships with the other races and individuals he encounters in Middle-earth. What made you decide to pursue this format?

Answer:

It just seemed the most logical approach. I couldn't study Aragorn's relationships properly without also studying the other half of each different relationship. There was so much to be revealed about both parties in these studies, many of which were based around families and generations (such as in Rohan, and Gondor, and in the Rivendell and Lothlórien communities).

17. Aragorn as a character brings together elements and bloodlines from the First Age into the Fourth Age—you outline these genealogies and relationships quite thoroughly in your book. How do you think this knowledge of his genealogy affected him in his transition from youth to Ranger to King? Is there a character from the earlier Ages that you think had a more significant impact on him or that he resembles the most in character?

Answer: Aragorn would presumably have learnt about these people as a child during his history lessons, but would not have connected them specifically with himself until he was made aware of his true identity at the age of 20.

Elendil, Isildur and Anárion stand out as the obvious significant ancestors whom Aragorn would have striven to emulate - plus, in the case of Isildur, also to atone for his failure to destroy the Ring.

Other ancestors who may well have inspired admiration and/or gratitude in Aragorn include:

- Elendur the self-sacrificing eldest son of Isildur. A passage in Unfinished Tales refers to Elrond seeing a huge similarity between Elendur and Aragorn, both physically and in character. [See footnote 26 at the end of The Disaster of the Gladden Fields.]

- Amandil, the father of Elendil, who advised his son to gather his family and possessions in secret and plan an escape from Númenor in the event of a disaster, before himself courageously setting out for the Undying Lands to plead for mercy for the Númenóreans. He was never heard of again, but the Númenórean race was saved due to Elendil's successful escape to Middle-earth after following his father's instructions.

- Tar-Elendil the 4th King of Númenor and his daughter Silmarien. The royal line of Númenor and its heirlooms only survived via this female line.

- Tar-Palantir the penultimate King of Númenor who resisted the influence of Sauron and tried to turn the Númenóreans back to friendship with the Eldar.

Another notable ancestor for a different reason was Arvedui, the last King of the North Kingdom, who tried to claim the throne of Gondor as well but was rejected and ended up losing both kingdoms before fleeing to the frozen north where he died in a shipwreck. Aragorn must have regarded his own mission to reunite the two kingdoms just over 1,000 years later with some apprehension.

Ar-Pharazôn would clearly have served as a dire warning!

I wonder if Aragorn felt any unease about his namesake, Aragorn I, being killed by wolves!

A comment in Appendix AI(i) of The Lord of the Rings states that the Númenóreans came to resent the choice of Elros to be mortal, thus triggering their yearning for immortality and their subsequent downfall. Did Aragorn ever resent his ancestor's choice? Personally I think he would have had the knowledge and wisdom to understand Ilúvatar's purpose in reuniting the immortal line of Elrond with the mortal line of Elros (through the marriage of Arwen and Aragorn) in order to strengthen the royal line prior to the departure of the Elves and the beginning of the Age of Men.

18. What are your thoughts on the original premise that Aragorn was Trotter, a hobbit?

Answer:

Eeek! The grinning and the wooden shoes! I don't think that the book could possibly have had the same impact, depth and sense of history if the main characters had all been hobbits. I seem to remember that the name “Trotter” still survived for a while after he became a man. “Strider” sounds much better. I'm so glad Tolkien didn't pursue the original idea.

19. Do you have any advice for budding Tolkien acolytes and scholars who are first delving into the legendarium?

Answer:

Read and re-read, record thoughts, ideas, passages worth quoting. Read what JRRT wrote and what others have written. This worked for me, over a very long period - more by accident than design.

*this answer is the same as Angela's answer in the Luna Press interview with her as it has not changed! Take a look at that article for more information on Angela and her book. https://www.lunapresspublishing.com/single-post/2017/09/04/Aragorn---A-Companion-Book

Interviewed by @maedhrosrussandol

July 14th 2018

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