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edges-of-night · 9 months

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Omg I'm like in love with ur blog rn 💕💕 I was wondering if you could do one where the reader comes from a culture that honors warriors and such (kinda like the dwarves)? And so the reader is basically very skilled with weaponry, fighting...etc

Thank you sm 💕

Thank you for your patience with this request – it was a lot of fun to write! Enjoy!

･ﾟ✧ Aragorn.

Having traveled a lot, Aragorn is familiar with your culture, though he has never been as close to someone from it as you. Seeing your famed warrior skills in person surprises him quite a bit – in a good way. He is enamored with the way you carry yourself and your weapons and, most importantly, how you lack a taste for cruelty and instead embrace mercy. He never gets tired of telling you that; it’s a value you both share.

･ﾟ✧ Arwen.

Arwen has great respect for you, since she is familiar with your warrior culture through her noble schooling. That said, she is also quite determined to introduce you to the finer side of life – something that you were never comfortable with or had any experience in. After all, the folk back home frown upon elaborate gowns and indulgent balls – but Arwen doesn’t care about your clumsiness. She always has a big smile on her face when you practice dancing! ♡

･ﾟ✧ Boromir.

Up until meeting you, Boromir has thought your people belonged to the realm of legends and children’s stories. Imagine his surprise when his rescue from the Orc attack came in the form of such a legendary warrior, dashing, loud and proud! To top it all off, you do not see the big deal of the affair and act very casual around the starstruck soldier. One smile is enough to make Boromir realise he has fallen for what he would’ve deemed a fairytale just one day ago!

･ﾟ✧ Elrond.

Elrond deeply appreciates how dutiful and tidy you are. You two are much alike in that regard. The kind Elf values your time together. That is the reason he sometimes wishes you were his little secret – he is quite tired of the ‘scandal’ your presence in Rivendell is to some particularly insular individuals. Whenever someone would dare to even insinuate bigotry toward you, Elrond would be the first to defend you – rather ardently, too, having served in war himself: “Let us see how you speak of them after having your life saved in a bloody battle!”

･ﾟ✧ Éomer.

Éomer may always say that he admires a fellow warrior – but the truth is, he first needs to come to terms with the fact that you are much more skilled and experienced than him. That is difficult for him precisely because he could very well imagine you as his romantic partner, but he knows that a relationship with such envy would be hard. The solution to his distress is hand-to-hand combat, which you never particularly cared for since it is not regarded as important in your culture. But dear Éomer is more than eager to practice with you!

･ﾟ✧ Éowyn.

It is absolutely needless to say that Rohan’s Shieldmaiden would be head over heels for you – but anyway! Not only does Éowyn love how adamant and strong you are, she adores training and sparring together with you. Her enthusiasm for your warrior culture can be overwhelming at times. You sometimes need to remind her that you are more than that. For a change, Éowyn would then teach you the songs of Rohan or tries to cook with you!

･ﾟ✧ Faramir.

Faramir adores you a lot. He would offer to be your squire and tend to your weapons, your armour, as well as your wounds after a fight. He would always make sure you never lost that spark in your eyes – he loves it too much! And while he is a very skilled archer and captain himself, he would never miss an opportunity to announce you to his enemies or bullies. He would also defend you ardently against anyone who criticises your perceived ‘lack of culture’ and give them an entire lecture of your people’s history and customs.

･ﾟ✧ Frodo.

Frodo would’ve never known you were real. He has read about your people in his books and even imagined himself as such a warrior when he was a child. To meet you in person delights him to no end – he has a bit of a celebrity crush on you! However, with his attention so sharp, Frodo wouldn’t fail to notice your distress in social interactions. But luckily, being both a gentleman and social butterfly, he can help you with that – maybe in turn for a show with your knives?

･ﾟ✧ Galadriel.

Galadriel has understood that you were the perfect bodyguard for her very early on. Other Elves may frown upon that – a warrior brute, without any regard for royal protocol or knowledge of Elven culture? So close to the Lady of Light, all day and night? But Galadriel doesn’t care a bit. She delights in the stories you tell her and even shows an interest in your swords, though a sorceress as powerful as her would never need one herself. She never treats you disrespectfully and values your opinion.

･ﾟ✧ Gandalf.

Gandalf cares very little for your culture’s glorification of warfare and honour. He’s seen the negative fallout of such extremes and is thus wary around you at first. Once he understood that you had a sense of humour though, he’d tease you quietly or give a flippant comment about one of your culture’s idiosyncrasies. It’d all be in good faith – Gandalf knows of the importance of self-defense, for example. Still, he much prefers just drinking a cup of tea with you ♡

･ﾟ✧ Gimli.

You could bond almost instantly with Gimli. You two speak the same language. There is, of course, an element of rivalry – especially when it comes to axes. That said, Gimli would absolutely fall head over heels for you after seeing just how skillfully and lightly you could handle hatchets and axes alike. Maybe you’d even “show him how it’s done” and then nonchalantly lean against the weapon, giving him a smirk – he’d melt on the spot!

･ﾟ✧ Haldir.

Haldir would, as always, pretend very hard that he doesn’t care at all for your weapon skills, stealth and sense of duty, and instead even show great disgust for your perceived lack of etiquette and politeness. But the truth is that you are the most intriguing and alluring creature he has ever met! He has always aspired to your level of conscientiousness and combat skills. He’d never say that, of course… but he might just challenge you to a duel and see how it goes – fully aware he would never stand a chance against you!

･ﾟ✧ Legolas.

Legolas definitely has a thing for warrior types like you. He delights in your strength, skills and sense of duty. After all, he himself is an enthusiastic archer and wants to learn as much as he can from you. That said, he also teaches you some much needed levity – not every social interaction is a battle! Observing you amuses him a whole lot, but his smirk is never cruel. He is also the perfect partner to help you unwind after a stressful day of etiquette and polite smiles – he just gets you!

･ﾟ✧ Merry.

Merry is a big fan of warriors. He yearns for your respect and affection – so much so that he’d greatly exaggerate his own combat skills to you, thinking he’d need to be just as martial as you to deserve your love. That is of course not the case, though you appreciate the effort he goes through. You would bond over combat training and philosophy alike. Merry is quick and eager to learn as much about your culture as possible.

･ﾟ✧ Pippin.

Pippin doesn’t know about the prejudice the old Hobbits have towards your people and thus treats you very differently than the others. He’d ask questions about war and honour that many would deem inappropriate. Even you yourself have to admit he is sometimes a bit overly eager. That said, Pippin would just as merrily introduce you to Hobbit customs, food and history. He’d also make a big point of the Tooks being “perhaps the most warrior-like Hobbits there ever were, honestly”, with an important look on his face, before breaking into laughter upon seeing you smile.

･ﾟ✧ Sam.

Sam leaves all the fighting stuff to you. He may dutifully separate the warrior and Hobbit cultures, but he really loves the dynamic you two share. He never shuts up about how proud your people must be of you, back home, seeing just how amazing of a fighter you are – sometimes that just means shooting an arrow to get a particularly red apple from a tree. To you, it’s a simple game, but Sam always kisses your cheek with great gratitude afterwards ♡

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 4 months

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I see you very much as an expert on all things Rohirrim, so I bring to you this question, hoping I can pick your brain for info to use in my own fics (full disclosure). 😅

It seems to be a popular fanon that the Rohirrim/Riders of Rohan have tattoos, and that body art is a part of their culture. Do you have any thoughts or personal HCs about this that you're willing to share?

Thank you in advance! I appreciate you and your blog so much (if you didn't already know that).

Oh my goodness!!! I am so very honored to be thought of as a person who is knowledgeable about my beloved Rohirrim, and I hope very much that I can live up to that reputation. Thank you!!!

I’m not aware of any real textual evidence for body art among the Rohirrim, and the historical record in the medieval Anglo Saxon and Norse societies that Tolkien used as a reference for them seems to be disputed. But I absolutely understand and agree with the conventional wisdom that tattoos are a thing in Rohan. It just fits well with a warrior culture that has a wilder, dare-I-say more pagan aesthetic as compared to the smooth solemnity of Gondor or the formal elegance of the elves. And since they’re a culture that doesn’t document things in written words, pictorial representations such as tattoos and body art would be one way to fill that gap (along with their songs and oral traditions).

In my mind, tattoos in Rohan are common but basic—they’ve really only got the technology for the “stick and poke” method so the designs are kept simple because anything too elaborate is difficult to pull off well. They’re mostly in black line (using soot) but some have color using powder made from grinding up certain dried roots and plants.

Each village/community has its own distinctive tattoo motif that is worn by all of that community’s members. So you can tell just by looking at someone whether they’re from Upbourn (a fish because it’s a river town) or Dunharrow (mountain peaks since they’re in the White Mountains) or Everholt (a boar in honor of the wild boar that live in this part of the Firien Wood), etc. And soldiers also tend to share tattoo designs specific to their éored—getting your éored’s mark is a formal rite of passage for the younger members when they first get assigned to their company. These shared tattoo designs are important both for group cohesion and as a means of identifying fallen Rohirrim even if the deceased isn’t known to whoever finds the body.

Beyond these ritualized and practical functions, I do also like to think that there are some purely decorative tattoos among them as a means of personal expression and/or to help cover small scars that so many Rohirrim have from battle, riding accidents or other mishaps. Obviously horse-based designs would be very popular, as well as other flora and fauna of Rohan. But they’re a very sentimental people and so I think little emotional signifiers would also be very common (again, especially because they generally don’t have a means to pay tribute to beloved people/things in written form, this sort of symbol would serve the purpose of making some kind of record of those tributes).

In terms of specific people in my head canon: Éomer has a little simbelmynë blossom for each of the major figures in his life that he’s lost (forearm). Háma had a sun to remind him of his wife, who brought warmth and light to his life (shoulder). Théodred had stars in the shape of a particular constellation that is visible every year on his mother’s birthday (chest). Éowyn has a representation of her father’s sword (left wrist) and gets a quill (right wrist) to represent Faramir after they get married. (Faramir got a little running horse in her honor on his first trip to Rohan. He was glad he did it, but he never wants to sit through that again.)

Merry brought tattooing back to the Shire when he showed up with a tobacco pipe on his bicep (both for its association with Buckland and in tribute to Théoden, whose last words to Merry were about smoking together someday when peace was restored). Unsurprisingly, tattoos did not catch on with the other hobbits, but Merry remains very proud of it.

Anywayyyy…I hope that was in any way helpful! Thanks so much for asking!! I remain a huge fan and am so grateful to you for helping convince me to put some of my thoughts and stories out there vs keeping them all in the confines of my own Google drive!

#lord of the rings #lotr #tolkien #asks #answered asks #rohan #rohirrim #éomer #éowyn #háma #théodred #merry #faramir #lotr headcanon #tattoos

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hottpinkpenguin · 1 year

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Reunited - Haldir X Fem!Reader

Oneshot, word count: 828 Warnings: steam

Your eyes fluttered open to the soft morning light warming your face through the window. Outside, the woods of Lothlorien were waking with the sunrise. You stretched, ready to shake off another night of restless sleep in an empty bed without him.

It had been months since Haldir had left at Lady Galadriel’s command, riding at the head of five hundred elven warriors to the defense of Rohan. Each passing day took you further from his memory and dimmed the possibility of reunion. A tender bruise was forming on your heart as, moment by moment, the reality of Haldir’s death pressed in on you.

Eager to rid yourself of the weighty grief that waited for you in the empty bed, you threw off the covers. The cool air chilled you, raising goose pimples on your arms and legs. You reached for the fur-lined robe that Haldir had gifted you on your wedding night - the nights in Lorien are cooler than those of Rivendell, he’d told you - and wrapped it around you. You let your mind briefly imagine it was his arms snaking around your waist, not the sash of the robe, but quickly extinguished the image when that aching bruise in your chest blossomed with pain.

You took a breath in, steeling yourself for another day. You didn’t let yourself hope for his return any longer; now, you hoped more for another day without news of his death.

“Come back to bed, my love. There’s a chill without you.”

You froze, every muscle in your body rigid and brittle as if you’d been turned to glass. The breath in your lungs evaporated, leaving your chest feeling treacherously close to caving in on itself. Not real, not real, not real.

When you felt a hand - warm, broad, and strong - grip your waist, your emotions broke out of their dam with a roar. Tears sprang to your eyes in an instant, your body racked with sobs as you buried your face in your hands. Real, real, real.

“Ssh, ssh my love.” Haldir sat up behind you as you pulled the hair off one side of your neck before encircling you with his arms. You whimpered when you felt the warmth of his chest and torso against your back, the soft breeze of his breath on your neck.

“Haldir.” Your voice cracked on his name as you gripped his arms, tightening his embrace around you as if he were the only thing keeping you from shattering.

“I must admit, this is not the joyful homecoming that kept me lying awake at night for the last seven months.” His tone was light and playful, and he pressed a few kisses to the soft skin where your neck met your shoulder.

Something shifted in that moment, and the second wave of repressed emotions leapt through the barriers you’d carefully constructed around them since the moment you’d said goodbye to him. Despite the tears swimming in your eyes, you laughed as you twisted to face him.

“Haldir,” you said again, cradling his handsome face in your arms. He looked just as you remembered him, although you didn’t miss the pale stripe of a new scar stretching from his cheek down across his jawline and onto his throat. Instinctively, you ran a thumb along the scar. Haldir closed his eyes, nuzzling into your hand and breathing in deeply.

“Is it really you?” It was the only question you were able to ask. The only one that mattered.

He opened his eyes, his gaze meeting yours where it burned with an intensity you hadn’t realized you’d forgotten. You melted beneath it, your skin tingling and your heart pirouetting in your chest. He didn’t need to say anything for you to hear his answer: yes, it is really me.

“It’s really me,” he replied simply, his hands traveling up your back and pulling you tightly against him as if trying to melt away the skin and muscle and bones that separated your two souls. Your hands danced over his face, his jaw, his lips, his hair. Reacquainting themselves with the angles, hollows, and grooves of the man whose image was imprinted on the inside of your heart.

The moment was close to yielding to the needs of two bodies alight with heat and love, but for another few breaths, you let yourself soften into the warmth of the reunion. His forehead connected with yours and you took a synchronized inhale. Around you, the sun bathed the forest in early morning light and the birds sang. The sunlight felt stronger and the birdsong sweeter, but you knew that was just because your heart was once again open to beautiful things now that it was healed.

“About damn time,” you whispered after a few moments. Haldir chuckled wickedly, the sound sending flames dancing up your spine and a molten coil of desire churning in your core as he guided you down onto the bed for a proper welcome home…

#haldir #haldir lotr #haldir imagine #haldir x y/n #haldir x reader #haldir fluff #lotr fanfic #lotr imagine #lotr fluff

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kylobith · 5 months

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LotR Week - Day 3 (13th Dec)

fear | courage | adventure

Word count: 2,303

Hooves and clattering armour joined into a symphony, accompanied by the fluttering of banners high above the soldiers’ heads. Warriors on horseback, others on foot, all formed what many would see as a rather impressive crowd but what Éomer perceived as a critical lack of men. After suffering so many losses at the hands of the enemy on the Pelennor Fields, their numbers had dwindled to a worrying extent.

They had been at a disadvantage from the start, as much as it pained him to admit it. Yet, he had allowed himself to believe that their victory would not taste so bittersweet. Nearly a quarter of their forces were slain, among which his own uncle, and he had nearly counted his sister among them. Now, only half of the company rode to yet another bloody confrontation. The strain of it all burdened his shoulders, upon which the responsibility of kingship was now bestowed.

Ever since the horn had heralded the battle’s end and he and his men had searched the masses of bodies to search for survivors, Éomer had grown rather quiet. Hardly had he spoken to anybody. At first, he had excused it on the exhaustion he suffered from combat, his dishevelled hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and neck, his muscles sore and his limbs bruised. But as soon as he had recognised Éowyn among the fallen, something within him shifted. Despite the relief of her survival, few were the words that left his mouth.

Kingship. What he had so long kept at bay, unwilling to assume this role, had caught up with him at breakneck speed. What was he to do now? He did not feel qualified for this task in the slightest. Leading troops was no challenge to him any longer, but ruling a kingdom was a much different ordeal.

If only Théodred had lived. If only his cousin, his sister and himself had been fortunate enough to return to Rohan together. They could have rebuilt the land with one another’s help, mourned and buried Théoden as a family, and watched the simbelmynë grow and adorn the fallen king’s burial mound.

Éomer was now left on his own. Éowyn was alive, but it seemed that her growing affection for the younger son of Gondor’s Steward would soon tear her away from his side. And he would gladly let her go, for it was just as well. If she could survive the war a fulfilled woman, then he would pay the price of her loss to a loving husband without hesitation. She deserved all the joy of it.

The Rohir’s eyes were drawn to two small silhouettes ahead of him. It would have been easy to miss them, for they were much shorter than the rest of their army, but a gap between two soldiers enabled him to notice them. He caught himself staring at the older one of the pair, clad in Rohan’s armour.

Merry advanced with the rest of his peers with a decided step, although the toll of war greatly affected his demeanour and his posture. At times, when the path grew rockier, Pippin would wrap an arm around him and help him over sharper stones. No word was exchanged between the inseparable Hobbits.

At the sight of the struggling squire, Éomer’s heart tightened. He sharply turned to his second-in-command, riding by his side.

‘Déor, lead our men in my stead for a moment,’ he ordered sternly.

As his commander nodded and steered his horse to take his place, Éomer broke his rank and called for the foot soldiers in front of him to make way for Firefoot. They parted without question, and the king of Rohan rode forward until he was within the two Hobbits’ earshot.

‘Merry!’

Merry weakly looked up, holding his helm in place so it would not slip right off his skull and crush his follower’s toes.

‘Your Majesty,’ he greeted him with a faint smile and a bow of the head.

‘Oh, none of that, please,’ Éomer said through gritted teeth, before nodding towards his legs. ‘Your body has hardly recovered from battle. Please, let me carry you on my horse.’

The Hobbit’s eyebrows curved upwards in sheer surprise. It was unlike Éomer to show him even a hint of kindness, and even the king was aware of it.

‘It is very kind of you, but no, thank you,’ Merry responded with a gentle smile.

‘Merry,’ Pippin interjected with obvious concern in his voice, ‘perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. You said you felt tired.’

‘I’ll be alright, Pip, don’t worry. I’m regaining strength by the minute, I promise.’

Éomer eyed his squire with suspicion, yet did not insist.

‘Could I speak with you alone?’

The two halflings shot up their heads at him, taken aback by the question. Within a heartbeat, Pippin wrapped both of his arms around Merry’s.

‘Whatever you need to say, I can hear too,’ he spoke fervently. ‘I am not leaving his side, even for a minute.’

The king, rather bemused and admirative by Pippin’s protectiveness, showed a slight smile and bowed his head.

‘Very well. I believe that you should hear it too.’

Heat rose to his cheeks. He did not know how he would come to utter and phrase the words filling his heart, but he knew that pronouncing them was the right thing to do. For once, he forced himself to weigh them. A first ordeal as king.

‘Merry, when you visited the smithy on our march to Gondor, I said things to Éowyn that have been gnawing at me for the past two days,’ he started, staring ahead of him, not finding the courage within him to face the Hobbit. ‘I ridiculed your efficiency in battle, questioned your courage and your usefulness in this war. I was certain that you would run away in fear comes the first obstacle.’

He pretended to have his attention distracted by something on his right side, only to conceal the tears welling up in his eyes.

‘I could never have been more wrong,’ he gurgled, before shaking his head and looking back at Merry. ‘So, if we are to die today, I want to apologise for the harshness of my words before it is too late. I am sorry.’

Merry’s smile widened and his eyes bubbled with a certain fondness. It was not the sort of gaze that Éomer was accustomed to coming from the Hobbits, but in such trying times, it was a most welcomed one.

‘My apology extends to Pippin,’ he continued. ‘I was curt and harsh towards you, too, and it was uncalled for. I have been a poor judge of character.’

‘Do not fret over it, Éomer,’ Merry replied, his tone comforting. ‘I would’ve doubted me, too. But I appreciate and accept your apology.’

Pippin nodded enthusiastically and Éomer emitted a sharp sigh of relief. He would not have wanted to enter combat and risk dying with a burdened heart. Neither would he have wanted Merry and Pippin to leave this world without receiving some form of credit for their loyal service and assistance despite their inexperience.

‘There is something else,’ Éomer sighed, trying to keep his emotions under control. ‘Thank you for protecting Éowyn. In Rohan and in battle.’

‘She could protect herself just fine,’ Merry retorted bluntly, his brow now creased in a frown. ‘I only stabbed a leg.’

‘You are selling yourself short, my friend.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Pippin intervened with a cheeky grin, ‘we Hobbits have a tendency to do that. Because we’re small, you see.’

‘Pip, not now.’

Merry groaned and elbowed Pippin in the ribs, before looking up at Éomer again, staring straight into his astounded eyes.

‘If you return to Minas Tirith today and to Rohan, I beg you to change the way that you perceive Éowyn. If you think that you underestimate us, what you do to her is much worse.’

Speechless, Éomer furrowed his brow and tilted his head. In normal circumstances, this statement would have angered him and damaged his pride, but in the pain that he was in, this was merely a scrape.

‘Do enlighten me, my friend,’ he said with absolute calmness. ‘I do have much to learn, it seems.’

Merry squinted his eyes but took it as a genuine invitation to speak. Pippin placed a hand on his shoulder, widening his eyes and shaking his head, urging him to keep his mouth shut. But his cousin stood up to the new king of Rohan, daring to speak his mind in the face of death.

‘Éowyn was gripped by fear like we all were,’ he blurted out, ‘yet she never yielded. Not even for a second. When I flinched, she held me steady and kept me grounded. Had it not been for the Black Breath, I’m quite certain that she would’ve kept fighting even with her broken arm. And you know what? I’m pretty sure that she would’ve crushed the enemy with the power of her will alone.’

The Hobbit’s words struck Éomer in an eye-opening way. A smile played on his lips for one of the first times since Pelennor Fields, and he bowed his head with gratitude. Pippin instinctively braced for impact, expecting the Rohir’s reaction to be a mere facade, but when he realised that his satisfaction was sincere.

Merry had struck a chord within him. He could not deny any of it. If his sister had made it to the battlefield while escaping his notice, then she was much tougher than he had given her credit for.

‘You are right,’ he simply admitted. ‘I have a cruel tendency to underestimate her, it seems. Perhaps we were truly cut from the same cloth. For so long I believed her softer than I.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ Pippin shrugged. ‘That’s what makes people kind. Besides, I think you have it in you too.’

The king raised an eyebrow.

‘Do I?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Merry agreed. ‘That’s what will make you a righteous king once you return to Edoras.’

Éomer’s smile faded. Bringing his attention back to the road ahead, he caught a glimpse of Aragorn in the lead. If only he could possess half the skills that he already showed as Isildur’s heir, Rohan would be in good hands. But now that they rode to certain death, he wondered what would come of his realm once he was gone. Who would succeed him? Should he have named somebody to be safe? How could he have neglected such a thing?

Not yet crowned, he was already a poor excuse for a king.

‘I do not believe that I shall see Edoras again, I am afraid,’ he muttered. ‘It would be a miracle to make it out of here alive.’

‘Don’t say this, Éomer,’ Pippin attempted to console him. ‘There is no reason for you not to return. You are a brilliant fighter.’

‘That is not always enough, young Hobbit. With our limited numbers, I fear that we are marching right to our deaths.’

‘You know, I only trust three men in the ways of combat. Aragorn, Faramir, and you.’

‘Pip,’ Merry said with a roll of his eyes, ‘what about Gimli? Legolas? Gandalf?’

‘Ah, but you see, Merry, I said Men!’

Éomer laughed and loosened his grip around the reins, sensing that some of his tension was alleviated by Pippin’s antics. At last, there was the balm to soothe his aching heart, even for a short moment before standing before the Black Gate.

‘Well, I do appreciate the compliment, Pippin. Thank you.’

‘How does it feel to be the new king, by the way?’ the Hobbit responded, eager in his curiosity. ‘You are leading the Rohirrim as their ruler for the first time, surely that must be quite impressive.’

He shrugged and nibbled on the inside of his cheek.

‘I never meant to become king.’

Merry frowned and studied the king with an intrigued eye.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I was once heir, when I was a child. Then, my parents both lost their lives, and Théoden King adopted Éowyn and myself as his own children. But Théodred came first. I received a military education for the most part, because I was not expected to receive a higher position than this of Third Marshal. But then, my cousin passed, and now my uncle…’

He shook his head pensively, feeling the iciness of the horse-shaped nosepiece of his helmet rubbing against his skin.

‘I am not fit to rule. In all honesty, I criticised Merry for his fear, but I have come to realise that I am absolutely frightened.’

Merry patted Éomer’s calf, gently pressed against Firefoot’s side.

‘You will do just well, I promise. I have no doubt that Rohan has gained a valuable ruler in these dark times.’

Pippin nodded in agreement, and Éomer’s expression softened at the faith they seemed to put in him. He felt unworthy of it all, but for a moment, however brief, he needed to hear it and to believe it. Perhaps then he would end up embracing his capacities at last.

‘Besides,’ Merry continued, ‘you will not stand alone. The Rohirrim are rallied under your banner, and you can be sure that Pippin and me will be right by your side.’

‘Exactly,’ Pippin acquiesced.

‘I would say that we’ve got your back, but we are much too short for it. I suppose we could be excellent ankle guards for your horse.’

The three of them laughed, disturbing the solemn yet gloomy peace of the company around them. Aragorn peered over his shoulder at them and offered them an unnoticed yet warm smile. After such ordeals and on the verge of facing more horrors, they all deserved distraction from it all.

‘Well,’ Éomer uttered, his smile still perceivable in his voice, ‘thank you, Holdwine.’

#lotrweek #Merry Brandybuck #Pippin Took #Peregrin Took #Éomer #Eomer #Éomer Éadig #mentions of Éowyn #lotr #lord of the rings #lotr fic #lotr fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #mention of Théodred

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anghraine · 1 year

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Back to clearing out drafts of things I'm not going to finish: this scrap is from the third of August, 2013:

"I think it would be for the best, my lord," Faramir said, clearly picking his words with care, "if I remain in Rohan when the rest of our people return home."

Aragorn considered him. Nothing about the other man's demeanour spoke of the besotted lover; indeed he looked very much as Aragorn imagined he had when he spoke of Gandalf to Ecthelion. His air was entirely that of a councillor about to offer disagreeable advice.

Suppressing a sigh, Aragorn said, "I am not sure I understand you."

It was not the first time. Faramir was often clear and precise, but not always, and seemed to expect Aragorn in particular to wring meaning out of even cryptic statements.

Apart from this quirk, Aragorn understood him quite well. In fact, he'd formed a reasonable estimation of Faramir's character before he set foot in Minas Tirith, thanks to Imrahil.

As they'd made their way through the stinking battlefield, the city rising pristine before them, Aragorn had asked the Prince if he knew where the most seriously wounded might be found.

"They will be in the Houses of Healing," said Imrahil slowly. "My sister-son—"

Aragorn remembered Boromir speaking of a younger brother, his affection and concern unmistakable. And that was the brother to whom the summons to Rivendell had been sent first. He would now be Denethor's heir, playing an even greater part in Gondor's affairs than in Boromir's descriptions. There must be a reason for all this—it did not seem likely that he was another Boromir. Perhaps he favoured Denethor more than his brother had, or perhaps Finduilas and Imrahil. Aragorn could only hope for the latter.

Belatedly, he realized that Imrahil had not simply paused mid-sentence but stopped altogether, his smooth voice breaking.

"The Lord Faramir, I believe?" Aragorn immediately saw the pain in Imrahil's stiff nod. "He is in the Houses? Has he been injured?"

"Faramir led the defence of Osgiliath and the Rammas Echor against the Witch-king of Angmar," said Imrahil.

Angmar. "What happened?"

The Prince hesitated. "He has great strength of mind, and chanced to inherit abilities from both Denethor's house and mine. Boromir was the mightier warrior, and the most admired man in Gondor, but Faramir had—has—a way with everyone he met." He shook his head, a ghost of a smile at his mouth. "To see him is to love him, and not only for his kin. Men and beasts alike will follow him anywhere." The lines of Imrahil's expression, briefly softened, drew tight and anxious once more. "Forgive me. I digress."

"With reason, I think," said Aragorn, hardly one to condemn a grieving uncle, even if he had not been the Prince of Dol Amroth, and even if he had praised his sister-son without purpose.

Imrahil nodded, exhaling on a sigh. "His men followed him that day into the Shadow. For a time, he was able to hold his soldiers and their mounts steady, and he judged it necessary to remain with them to the end. But he was weary before he ever rode out, and it had been over a day, with little rest, when we last spoke."

"It would have been a great enough task for a man well-rested," said Aragorn, frowning. A dim picture was beginning to coalesce in his mind, but something was wrong with it. Many things were wrong with it. As they headed towards the city, he said, "It would have been great enough for an Elf-lord, against such an enemy. Why did he not rest beforehand?"

He was familiar with that kind of exertion, though that particular form was not one he favoured. He looked ahead at Minas Tirith, thinking of how many must be ill or dying. Soon he would be called upon to cast as wide a net as he could, pitting his will against the Black Breath. But it was a battle he could and would win.

"Faramir had slept a little," said Imrahil. "But five Nazgûl had pursued him and three or four others from Osgiliath; I did not see it myself, but I was told that he rode back when his companions were unhorsed, and one of the foul beasts actually stooped down on him. It was Mithrandir who saved him then."

Aragorn almost halted, more startled at this than anything else.

"This sister-son of yours confronted five Nazgûl?"

He could easily imagine Boromir doing it. Even the Denethor of Thorongil's day—but still. One was quite bad enough.

Imrahil looked at him. "Would you have done any different, lord?"

"No," said Aragorn. "Yet he was lucky to survive that alone, never mind the battle itself."

"He always has been. His men believe his life is charmed, by the Valar or—" He shrugged. "If so, his good fortune ran out in the end. He fell in the retreat across the Pelennor, when he was pierced by a Southron arrow. I carried him myself to the Houses of Healing. There he has lain in a fever ever since. I cannot think it only the wound."

"If he was contending with Ringwraiths the day before," Aragorn said, "then a stray arrow would be the least of his troubles. Yet it would leave him far more vulnerable to the Black Breath of the Nazgûl, all the more with his will spent." He looked sharply at Imrahil. "That would be enough. But there is more, I think?"

Imrahil sighed. But then he told him the whole story, as far as he knew it: told him of the always troubled relationship between Denethor and his gentle, willful younger son, turned colder with Boromir's absence and death, of Faramir's return from Osgiliath and Denethor's displeasure that Faramir had permitted strangers to pass freely through Ithilien.

Aragorn almost caught his breath. "Strangers? Of what kind?"

"Halflings, I hear," said Imrahil. "They had some foul weapon of Isildur's—forgive me—which Faramir sent away with them. Denethor agreed it should not be used, but he was furious that Faramir had allowed it to pass into the Dark Land. They quarrelled over that, and then again over the defense of the Rammas Echor. Faramir did not go of his own will but at the command of the Steward.

"I see," said Aragorn. So this man had faced the Ring as well.

#anghraine babbles #anghraine's fic #legendarium blogging #i always figured that aragorn knew about faramir's latest conflict with denethor from imrahil #so this was partly an attempt to write that #i was also going to wind back around into faramir staying in rohan for political as well as personal reasons #fic talk #imrahil #faramir #aragorn #de las bóvedas #long post

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enchantingkryptoniteheart-blog · 8 months

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~The Best Of Intentions~

Chapter 13

This chapter is still a little bit too rough for my personal taste, but I am at a loss as to what else I can do with it. THis entire fic is a roough draft, and i plan to flesh it out once I've finished. I am planning on making this a trilogy of sorts. The ideas and direction i want to take are just too much for one book length fic.

Any constructive critisism is most welcome.

*Another important author note! I realize the approach I'm taking with Arda historical events/family ties is not exact according to canon. I have done alot of reading and research and I am weaving my OC and her people in. The timeline on certain events may speed up due to certain *changes* that occur. The dwarven history is so rich and fascinating and i have really enjoyed adding my own little twists.

Hope you enjoy! Happy trails.

****************

Chapter 12

The next week passed in a dreamlike blur. Mistlynn found herself swept up in a whirlwind of erratic emotions, the first being excitement and wonder in her newly established relationship with the formidable King Under the Mountain.

She was scared to label it as love and felt it unfair to brand it as such when she couldn't even understand what that kind of love was. This was obviously different from the love she felt for her father, Argos, and even Valinn. Not the same as the love she held for Luna.

This feeling she felt for him came from deep within her. It was fire, all-consuming. Heated. The desire and need to see and be with him was growing stronger with each passing day, she couldn't deny that even if she tried. It was the kind of emotion that made her heart ache, yearning for his presence when she could not see him throughout the day.

This struggle of not knowing led perfectly into the second emotion of an all-encompassing fear. She was not as naïve to think that she was going to live life as she always had. Besides the obvious changes in her living situation, sturdy rock walls and roof, unmovable and sturdy over her head; she was expected to be something that she never had to prove to be before.

A lady. And not just any lady, but a lady about to become a Queen to a living legend of a King, in the mightiest Dwarven Kingdom in all Arda.

If that wasn't a sobering realization, she didn't know what else could be. She had not been prepared for a role of leadership in her kingdom. She had been allowed to pursue her desire to be an in formidable warrior. She would have eventually married another warrior within her kingdom, but no one that held a position of power. She felt woefully unprepared to this life that was suddenly thrust upon her. But she couldn't bring herself to turn back now, she was in too deep with Thorin. Whatever it was she felt for him, she knew she could not walk away from him. She just knew she would fade, like a fire slowly losing the air that encouraged it to burn. She had to push ahead, and just hope that she wouldn't lose herself in the process.

Which is why she found herself in her current situation. She was wearing another breathtaking gown of Durin's blue perfectly form fitted to her body, her hair a cascade of platinum curls running down her back in tamed waves, and her face enhanced with rouge, eyelash tint, and lip oil. She was holding onto Thorin's arm tightly as she shifted nervously from one foot to another.

"This is just an announcement, M'eudail. There is no need to be nervous." Thorin leaned down to whisper in her ear, sensing her nervousness. His low timbre would have had its normal calming affect if it had been any other occasion.

"The King of Mirkwood and Dale are currently awaiting with all of Erebor to hear of our engagement Thorin, not an update on the weather or your recent trade agreement with Rohan." Mistlynn's smile was forced through clenched teeth as she stared resolutely at the door that would lead them out to the Hall of Kings.

Thorin looked down at her, his expression not hiding his concern. His other hand came to rest on top of hers. He was about to speak as Dis, Fili, Kili, Dwalin and Balin walked up behind them.

"Ready?" Balin smiled.

"As ready as I can be." Mistlynn groused, shifting again. Her tone made guilt jab Thorin in the gut. He was about to ask if she would like to be excused from accompanying him when a loud clatter of metal hitting the ground captured everyone's attention.

Thorin caught the slight twitch of her lips as she let a curse slip out under her breath. He raised an eyebrow. "What was that?" His tone had slight amusement coloring it.

She cleared her throat before crouching down and removing one of her daggers from underneath her skirts. Fili and Kili standing behind them concealed their laughs poorly, their shoulders shaking as they fought the urge to laugh out loud.

"Mistlynn! What on Mahal's green earth! Where did you get that?!" Dis gasped as she took the dagger from Mistlynn's hand before shooting her sons an accusing glare.

"It's difficult to properly attach a sheath on one's leg when wearing a fully cinched corset I'll have you know." Mistlynn huffed, trying to not make eye contact with any of her companions. Thorin started shaking his head as he started to chuckle.

“What are ye thinkin ya need a dagger for lass?" Dwalin couldn't disguise the humor in his voice, talking over the pained gasps of Fili and Kili who were losing the fight to not laugh.

"It never hurts to be prepared, Master Dwalin. Dinners and events have plenty of opportunity for enemies to take advantage of one's guard being down." She gestured emphatically, in turn making Thorin bite his bottom lip to fight the smile threatening to take over his face.

“Sounds like my kind of dinner." Dwalin groused as he shot Thorin an amused look.

"I don't know what kind of events you've experienced, my dear, but I assure you such measures are not needed." Balin chuckled, shaking his head his head at his brother's remark.

Dis gave her sons a stern look. Kili was wiping his eyes as tears of mirth rolled down his cheeks as Fili rubbed his face as he fought to get his snickering under control. She held out her hand to Mistlynn. "I know you Mist!" she growled. "Hand them over. Now."

Mistlynn's eyes widened before narrowing as she put her hands on her hips. "I should be allowed at least one weapon on my person!"

"Oh, I know for a fact you have more than one! Now hand them over." Dis stepped closer, her tone and expression giving no room for argument.

The two dams glared at each other challengingly, before Mistlynn rolled her eyes and growled in defeat. "Fine!" She lifted her skirts, making Balin and Dwalin turn away swiftly in surprise, Dwalin sputtering in shock as Balin just chortled as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "She is Thorin's One, are you truly surprised?" he asked aloud.

At his comment, Fili and Kili lost the fight and burst out in breathless laughter while Thorin's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline as he watched, dagger after dagger emerge from underneath her skirts. Mist shoved each one, along with their sheaths into Dis's waiting arms.

By the time Mistlynn was done, Dis was holding six daggers and sheathes in her arms, her look full of sarcasm and resignation. "What? No war mount? I'm almost disappointed." Dis drawled, as she turned and handed the weapons to a shocked guard.

Mistlynn straightened out her skirts with sharp, jerky movements. "That would be in my wedding gown." She replied dryly.

Thorin snorted loudly and covered his mouth with his hand, as his nephews continued to die from laughter behind him. They were now leaning against each other, as Dwalin surprisingly gave in and joined in on the laughter.

Balin ran his hands down his beard as he fought to tame his chuckles. "Alright, now that's done. We don't want to keep our guests waiting." He shot a reprimanding look over his shoulder at the princes and his brother, but the sternness was lost as he watched them fight to control their mirth.

Thorin was still standing next to the disgruntled warrior princess, his hands crossed over his chest as he looked up towards the ceiling, trying to get his expression under control. "Six? Were six truly necessary?"

Mistlynn huffed. "If I am to be expected to wear these death traps on a daily basis, I need to ascertain the best way to carry my weapons on my person and how to move in them without tripping myself."

“It appears you can retire now Dwalin." Kili snickered, prompting a harmless glare from the fierce warrior. "Mist can protect us poor, defenseless nobles."

"Utter nonsense, Mist. As future queen, it is unseemly to carry such weaponry within your own kingdom. One dagger perhaps. Not the whole armory!" Dis scolded, as her keen eyes scanned her friends figure suspiciously.

Mistlynn raised her chin defiantly as she wrapped her arm through Thorin's arm. Dis stepped in front of her and snapped her fingers and held her hand out demandingly. "Hand it over."

"Dis! She gave you everything!" Thorin protested, eager to move on with their evening.

“No, she didn't. Last one Mist, I mean it!" Dis stood resolute, authority seeping from her.

Mistlynn rolled her eyes while letting out a frustrated growl. Thorin watched in shock along with everyone else as his fiancé sucked in a deep breath and reached down in between her breasts. After a moment of adjusting herself, she pulled out a long, thin lethal looking dagger with a very lithe sheath over its deadly blade.

Dwalin threw his head back and laughed uproariously, slamming his hand on Thorin's back who was still staring, his jaw agape in shock. The princes joined in on the laughter anew, their laughs becoming pained gasps as they clutched their aching stomachs. "She puts you to shame brother!" Kili gasped between bouts of laughter.

Thorin was now sharing an incredulous look with his sister. "M'eudail, I'm starting to get the impression you think I am incapable of protecting you in my own kingdom."

"You and every male in this kingdom gets to walk around with their weapons at their side. Why am I not allowed the same privilege? Instead, I am made to wear these cumbersome gowns and these infernal shoes that make it nearly impossible to walk, let alone run!" Mistlynn's voice hid none of her frustration.

"It is the duty of Dwarrow's to protect their women. All dams are precious and are to be protected at all costs. Dam's may be trained in self-defense with a weapon but to have you fully armed would be seen as an insult to Thorin's ability to care and protect you." Balin explained patiently, not at all surprised that Mistlynn was struggling with this matter.

The fire in Mistlynn's eyes diminished slightly. "That was not my intention. I just feel defenseless and that I'm good for nothing but a trophy." Her tone was bitter, and she didn't recognize her error until it was too late to take back. The snickering from Fili and Kili stopped abruptly. Dwalin and Balin looked away uncomfortably. Thorin breathed in deeply and glanced at Dis with an apology evident in his eyes. Dis held her hand up, signaling that she would handle the situation.

Dis pulled herself to her full height, as she looked down at Mistlynn with feigned patience. "We are so much more than a 'trophy' as you so eloquently put it." She stated emotionlessly. "We support our men, and our kingdom by fighting with our wits, with our carefully chosen words. We are not rash, we think before we act, before we speak." She scolded coolly, making Mistlynn's face flush in shame. "You may be an accomplished fighter, and more capable defending yourself physically than any dam here in Erebor. But remember that you are not in your kingdom, and that you are indeed a stranger here. A stranger that needs to learn our customs and our social decorum; and accept the fact that things are done differently here, and that they are in place for good reason. You are to become Erebor's Queen, and more importantly, a wife to my brother and you must humble yourself and accept that you are no longer free to act without reaping the consequences of such childish actions."

"Dis." Thorin broke the awkward silence, "She didn't mean it as insult to you."

Dis sighed. "I know, but better she hears it from me than somebody else with a sharper tongue who only wants to see her fail." She grabbed Mistlynn's chin, who had been looking at her feet to hide her flaming face and forced her to look up. "Never bow your head. You take the criticism, and you learn from it. In front of our people, we must never show weakness, this I know you can do well. We will finish this discussion later."

Mistlynn swallowed thickly and nodded, keeping her eyes adverted from meeting anyone's gaze. She could feel Fili and Kili's sympathetic looks from behind her as they fell into place by Dis, behind her and Thorin.

"Let's proceed Balin." Thorin nodded towards the door as he took Mistlynn's hand and placed it through the crook of his arm. He squeezed her hand comfortingly as he led her after Balin. She couldn't bring herself to squeeze back, as the doors opened, and a deafening roar of cheering and clapping flooded her ears. She forced a smile onto her face as she stepped out on her One's arm.

*********************

She navigated the evening in a distant haze. She had always had the tendency to drift, to detach herself from situations and people in moments of duress. She knew she was safe, and she knew that she was surrounded by friends and those who cared for her. She just couldn't help the feeling of mortification that had swallowed her after Dis's thorough tongue lashing. She knew she deserved it, without question. She had behaved abhorrently due to this desperation she found herself fighting in her moments alone.

She couldn't associate a reason to it, other than the simple fact that she found herself being pulled into a new orbit, away from what she knew. She knew it was for the better, that she chose this path for herself. She didn't want to live a lie any longer, and the world was so vast and full of wonder. Full of promises for a good life. She was now living a good life, with Thorin, with her new friends and this beautiful city that had arisen from the ashes like a victorious phoenix. It was poetic, really. She had arisen from near death, after losing all that had mattered to her in a world that no longer held anything for her; and had been given a new life, full of the promises of love and beauty.

So why was she fighting it? Why was she so scared of it?

She smiled and nodded to all their well-wishers, her hand holding onto Thorin's muscular forearm tightly. Her cheeks were aching, feeling as if her smile was permanently etched onto her face. She had the perfect answers for each question, showing off her quick wit and gift for effortless, well natured banter.

King Bard accompanied by his beautiful daughters had been a pleasure to meet. His well wishes had been heartfelt, and she found herself thankful they were such close neighbors and allies.

She had spotted King Thranduil across the room as he made his way towards them accompanied by Tauriel and another tall male elf with the same platinum hair as the king. They were impossible to miss, how they seemingly floated across the floor effortlessly.

Besides Tauriel, they were the only pure elves she had ever met. It was startling to see they had the same color hair as hers. Her family were the only ones in the White Kingdom to have the platinum blonde hair, and it had been viewed it as a sign of their royal lineage. She knew that pure elves were immortal, and that there was a strong possibility Thranduil had personally known or knew of her ancestors.

Panic seized her. Was he a distant relative of the slain king? Was he going to seek revenge for the assassination of Thingol and the resulting downfall of Menegroth? She knew her ancestors in Belegost bore none of Nogrod's dispute over the Nauglamir, and since the priceless necklace was forever lost to the sea amidst the ruins of Beleriand, their innocence was not easy to prove. They were just as blood guilty in the eyes of all elves, this she knew. It had been ingrained in her from her teachings on her grandfather's lap. Thorin still didn't know the details of her ancestors and their story. The possibility that her association as Thorin's betrothed could ruin all alliances with Mirkwood if Thranduil knew or suspected her lineage. She couldn't let that happen.

Dain, who had been standing next to her and Thorin with Sindri on his arm, noticed Mistlynn's face was paler than usual and looked to see who was approaching. "Och now lass, pay the pretty tree shagger no mind, eh? He's harmless, too afraid to muck up his pretty hair." He whispered over to her conspiringly.

Sindri smacked his arm in admonition. "They can probably hear, ya great lummox." She seethed, as she shared a long-suffering look with Thorin.

"Just trying to assist the poor lass, she looks like she's seen a ghost." Dain grumbled.

Mistlynn couldn't even bring herself to smile at his attempt of humor as she watched them approach. The events of the day were beginning to weigh on her heavily, and this rather abrupt reminder of her family and kingdom unsettled her greatly. Thorin found her hand and squeezed it, drawing her eyes from the Elf King to him. "Are you alright?" he whispered, thankful that she was once again meeting his gaze. She had been avoiding looking at anyone directly since her exchange with Dis. She nodded stiffly, her jaw tense. What worried him most was how haunted her eyes now appeared.

Thorin turned, smiling politely as Thranduil and Legolas reached them with tame smiles on their faces. Tauriel shot a brief look of concern at Mistlynn from where she stood behind her king before bowing gently before Thorin.

"I'm glad to see you were able to join us." He nodded amicably towards the elves. "May I introduce my betrothed, Mistlynn."

Thranduil nodded graciously. "We were honored to receive an invitation to join you in celebrating this happy occasion. I was eager to meet the woman who managed to steal the heart of the King Under the Mountain. It is a pleasure to meet you, my Lady Mistlynn." His bright grey eyes landed on Mistlynn, and she found herself squeezing Thorin's hand tightly. It was hard to read him, and his very presence was imposing. She was told stories of the dynamic presence of elves, but she felt those stories were sorely lacking significant details. It was as if he was seeing right through her, peering into her past of her ancestors and their transgressions. She couldn't help but tremble.

Remembering herself, she curtsied and bowed her head gracefully. She could not allow herself to be cowed. "It is an honor to meet you, King Thranduil."

"I must say, rumors do not do your exquisite beauty justice. Very seldom have I had the pleasure of meeting a dwarrowdam, let alone one of your stunning features. What kingdom is it that you hail from?" He was looking at her, obviously intrigued yet not surprised that her hair color was a near match to his and his son's. It felt like her heart was hammering in the back of her throat. He knew something, there was no question of that.

"A small settlement farther North." Was her edgy reply.

"Interesting. I've heard stories that you ride a Dire-Wolf, my lady. It has been many centuries since I have seen or heard of a Dire Wolf rider, not since the Wars of Beleriand. I believe it was Azaghal of Belegost who rode a white Dire-Wolf when he defeated Glaurung, the Father of dragons."

Her smile was pained as she felt her mask cracking at the mention the famous dwarf warrior king who gave his life to defeat Glaurung. It was his blood that ran through her very veins. She had to change the topic and quickly. "I raised Luna from a pup, and since horses were so hard to come by it was just a natural solution to train her as a mount. Hardly a story of legend."

Thranduil cocked a lofty brow. "Most interesting." His smile was coy, "And you traveled all this way on your own? No kin?"

"No, just me. Last of my kin sadly." She pulled her hand out of Thorin's and stepped off to the side. "I hope you don't mind; I must excuse myself. I am absolutely parched and must seek refreshment."

Thorin looked at her, trying to contain his surprise. "I can have someone fetch you some…"

"I thank you, My King, but I truly don't mind. I could use a brisk walk anyways; this standing is making my feet ache." She hoped fervently that desperation wasn't bleeding through her words, as her eyes implored Thorin to understand her need to leave.

“I could use a drink too, Let me walk with you my dear." Sindri smiled winningly as she stepped behind Thorin to the other side of Mistlynn, linking her arm through hers. Thorin nodded begrudgingly. "Of course. I'll find you later."

Mistlynn tried to not exhale in relief. "It was a pleasure, King Thranduil." She nodded quickly before turning and practically dragging Sindri alongside in her haste.

"The pleasure was mine." Thranduil called after her as they watched her walk off and quickly disappear into the crowd.

The muscle in Thorin's jaw ticked as he stared off in the direction his fiancé disappeared. "I take it you are aware of Mistlynn's true origins. I'm surprised you know so much of dwarven history," His words were tense, still not quite grasping why she had lied to Thranduil. Of all the guests to lie to, honestly.

The Elf King chuckled, much to Thorin's surprise. It was a rare thing for Thranduil to chuckle, let alone while talking with a dwarf. "Belegost and Nogrod were allies to my distant kin in Menegroth. They fought side by side in the Wars of Beleriand and formed the Union of Maedhros. Due to my ties with Beleriand I became curious and made my own inquiries about this mysterious 'White Kingdom' and their origins. I gather she is nervous about me knowing about her rather unique lineage. It isn't hard to deduce that we share common … attributes. Certain characteristics that are not found in your kin, but rather mine."

Thorin swallowed thickly. "You would be correct in that assumption." He crossed his arms over his chest, turning his full attention to Thranduil, eyes flashing with an unspoken challenge.

"Legolas, Tauriel. Would you mind giving us a moment?" They both bowed promptly and left. Thorin turned to his left to see that Dain had managed to quietly wander off without him noticing, probably in search of company that didn't make him so uncomfortable.

"I understand her initial response of withholding such information to a stranger. I will not hold it against her. And after learning about her supposed … lineage and seeing her in person, It lays to rest some of my initial concerns regarding your request to consider a union between your youngest nephew and of my…Emissary."

Thorin raised his eyebrow as a smirk teased the side of his mouth. "That is good to hear. My nephew will be most pleased, as will Tauriel I'm sure."

Thranduil nodded. "We now live in the most interesting of times. And I do share your sentiment that we are stronger together than we are apart, especially with the darkness that is starting to rear its ugly head so close to our borders. My forests are becoming more overrun with this evil each passing day," He paused, and his face became somber. "And I do believe that some of that darkness is heading your way as well. In my search for information, I came across some disturbing stories regarding this White Kingdom. I am not accusing your intended of anything nefarious. But they are not mere nomads. They are a mixed race, all of them, And they possess the unrivaled skillset of both our races, and if my suspicions are correct her line is not to be trifled with."

Thorin cleared his throat, not liking the route this conversation was going. "What are your concerns exactly about her kingdom? She left of her own accord, due to a family tragedy."

Thranduil stepped closer to him. "I could not get a direct answer of their standing number. They are guarding their numbers fiercely. I have heard how skilled your intended is in the art of fighting, and I fear their numbers could easily outnumber ours if they choose to do so. Especially if they are as skilled as her."

"What makes you think they would want to leave their lands to invade ours? What are you not telling me?" Thorin tried to keep his temper level.

"The King of this White Kingdom is said to have one of the last seven rings of your race. And with the evil I know is awakening in our lands, they will not be immune to the influence of that ring if that evil chooses to sway them. You know the power that ring holds." Thranduil watched an old seeded fear flash through the dwarf king's eyes. "Just be aware. Her ancestors that escaped Belegost may have not had any part of Nogrod's treachery, but they lost their kingdom due to the turmoil that followed. They have lost their elven elders due to their fading; we can only speculate what they have been taught regarding our history. There are strong bloodlines of both our races that run strong in her kingdom. We cannot ignore that."

Thorin nodded in understanding, his mind racing with this information. "Thank you for sharing what you have learned. I haven't been able to uncover much, and Mistlynn is very reluctant to share such information."

"Knowing how long her Kingdom has stayed hidden from us, I am not surprised, I am sure she will reveal all to you as time passes. Finding your One is the greatest blessing the Valar has bestowed upon all of us, you both were meant to find one another in this life."

Thorin's smile was faint. The Elf King's words were still racing through his mind. Mistlynn's odd behavior wasn't helping his unease either.

"You said you had your suspicions of her lineage …" he let the statement hang in the air, not quite able to bring himself to ask the question.

Thranduil gave him a knowing look. "That is for your Lady to bestow upon you. After all, it is merely a suspicion of mine."

#erebor #hobbit thorin oakenshield #hobbit thorin oakenshield x oc fanfiction #thorin and company #thorin durin #thorin fanfiction #thorin oakenshield #hobbit fanfic #fili durin #dwalin #dis durin #fili and kili #king thorin #thrandiul #alternate ending #alternate history #the hobbit #sons of durin

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aeonianarchives · 2 years

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The Fourth Hunter

Summery: the reader is Aragorn's sibling, the only thing the two have in common is there ranger abilities and their love for elves

Ft. jealous Gimli and Boromir, Gandalf enjoying the scolding tea, clueless Aragorn, doesn't follow main canon at some points

Pairing: Legolas x Reader

A/n: OMFG the GIF is so Cute

Gandalf sat on a log by the fire tending it, Aragorn sat with his back to it on look out, Boromir and Gimli were talking highly of there unnamed but guessable crushes, the hobbits were asleep and You had happened to fall asleep leaning against a tree next to Legolas, your head had landed on his shoulder, and he was to scared to move as he was afraid to wake you.

Gandalf was chuckling to himself but hid it behind his pipe admittedly not very good hiding, but hiding it non the less.

"they doesn't trust people easily Legolas, to have there trust you to protect them and let down there guard means they must trust you as much as they trusts Aragorn or Elrond" Gandalf noted to the elf, pink dusted over the tips of the elf's ears rather quickly.

"Oh Gimli they is amazing" Boromir said

"I didn't think you would go for that type of person laddie" Gimli replied, you opened your eye

"I hate to break it to you Boromir, but that ship has sailed, wrecked and sunk to the bottom of the ocean" You said the man turned to you

"How do you know who I like, your half asleep and can't put together actual thought in your head" Boromir said

"You like me, don't you, I don't like you, i very much dislike you, your flirting is obvious and it's either you flirting or insulting me there is no in between with you" You shot back at Boromir

"Even if they are tired, doesn't mean they won't form an accurate hypothesis, which most of the time is true" Aragorn said

soon the company has split, you were chasing after the hobbits with Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, both Boromir and Gandalf had passed on, Frodo and Sam were now on there way to Mordor.

"They are about 2 days ahead of us" Your brother said, he had stopped you from chasing after the hobbits with Legolas

"Dwaves are natural born sprinters, very dangerous over long distances" Gimli said

"Hurry up Gimli" Legolas said as Gimli fell down the hill, you sighed.

"If anyone slows us down it's you and the hobbits gimli" You huffed bringing up the council of Elrond.

you soon learned Gandalf was alive and The hobbits were ok, and had talked to the king of rohan.

"Y/n, were are you going" Aragorn questioned, you turned back to him.

"You are going to helms deep, I may as well go and help Sam and Frodo, they are going to need as much help as they can get, don't let Legolas follow me" You said

"You are going after the hobbits" Aragorn said

"I can find them near the dead marshes or maybe osgiliath if Gondor's rangers have found them" You said, checking the saddle was secured.

"We will need your help" Aragorn said

"I am sure you can come through and don't need it" You said, Legolas came down the stairs towards you.

"Why are you leaving now, won't you come to Helms deep, are you leaving the fellowship" Legolas said

"The fellowship is broken Legolas, it's split up, Helms deep can help itself, I have more pressing matters to Handel" Aragon left you both

"Im iest na treneri- cin a dolen nin mellon" Legolas said in Elvish, you raised an eyebrow to him motioning for him to contuie

"Gi Melin Meleth nin" Legolas said

"Cin mel nin" You questioned him

"athon Meleth nin dhir sevin gûr nin" Legolas said

"Gi Melin ana Meleth nin" You returned to him

"I will see you in Gondor, for now fair well" you said mounting the horse, Legolas took it's reins

"Will you not stay" Legolas said

"I cannot" You said looking into his eyes, you leaned down and pecked him on the lips, he gave you back the reins and you rode off, Legolas walked back into the Long house.

"You didn't get them to stay" Aragorn said

"I could not persuade them" Legolas said.

"Sam and Frodo get the Help and we lose the best ranger and warrior we had" Aragorn said

"they went to sam and frodo" Legolas said

"It was there choice, i may of persuaded them to go, but they asked me what to do" Gandalf said. the other three hunters did not see you again until aragorn's coronation, Aragorn looked you up and down.

"You Look like shit" Aragorn said

"Why Thank you, also Elrond and Arwen have arrived" You said back to him.

"What happened to you" Aragorn said

"Suaron manged to take physical form just before the ring was destroyed, try fighting him" you said

"You fought suaron" Aragorn said you nodded to him.

"I need to find Elrond and persuade him to heal me" You said to Aragorn waving to him as you walked away, you walked in on Mithrandir and Elrond talking.

"mae govannen" you greeted them the two turned to you.

"You've looked better" Mithrandir said

"I know" You held up the broken sword

"Suaron really needs to stop taking swords with him, when he dies" You said looking at the broken blade

"I think he also broke my rib" You said Elrond sighed and lead you to the healing ward were Faramir and Eowyn were already.

"Hello again" You said to the two

"What happened to you" Eowyn asked

"The Ranger who followed the hobbits, what did happen to you" Faramir asked

"Oh i don't know, killed a few Nazgul and Suaron, no big deal" You replyed.

The Coronation soon came you stood behind your brother Legolas was the first to pay respects to your brother, before you tackled him into a hug, the elven prince caught you while laughing.

"About time, love birds" Aragorn said teasing you, you chuckled and shook your head before kissing Legolas.

"Gi Melin Meleth nin" Legolas smiled and rested his forehead against yours and repeated what you said.

"Gi Melin ana" Legolas told you, you smiled as you wrapped your Legs around Legolas' waist.

Elvish Translations:

Im iest na treneri- cin a dolen nin mellon - i wish to tell you a secret my friend

Gi Melin Meleth nin - I Love you My Love

Cin mel nin - you love me?

athon Meleth nin dhir sevin gûr nin - Yes My Love You have captured my Heart

Gi Melin ana Meleth nin - I love you to my Love

mae govannen - Well Met

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infracti-angelus · 1 year

Text

Pale Fire, Chpt 5

PALE FIRE, a Lord of the Rings fanfiction

Pairing: Éomer and Lothíriel

Summary: Lothíriel wasn’t unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-one years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime. But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was entirely different. And it infuriated her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot. No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame. She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight’s dinner.

Rating: M

Click here for Chapter 1

Click here for Chapter 2

Click here for Chapter 3

Click here for Chapter 4

Chapter 5: The Incident

His manner and bearing belied a cool aloofness. Indeed, the only fault that could be found in his interactions with the other partygoers was his stiffness, most likely due to inexperience as a warrior thrust into the role of king. But his eyes betrayed him. Lothíriel didn't know how to describe it, but his gaze held such awareness, a true presence in this very moment, that it almost alarmed her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot.

No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame. She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight's supper.

If this was what a brief look of indifference caused, she couldn't imagine what it would be like to be the center of his attention. The likelihood of that, however was in her favor, since he was making it a point to not rest his eyes on anything for longer than a few seconds while his captain was otherwise occupied, probably due to the amount of eligible women being blatantly paraded past by hopeful fathers.

Lothíriel felt perpetually flushed, not helped by the arrival of more partygoers. She announced to the rest of the family that she would find Ada, which left a very put-out Amrothos holding Alphros whilst Rosilith secured a dance ("or two!" she winked) from Elphir. Venturing this way and that and consciously keeping her gaze averted from the table housing the King of Rohan, she was able to cover a large amount of ground without any sign of her father. The surrounding lords seemed no longer content with her excuses and she could sense the electricity of their frustrations with each additional dance refusal. She had officially given up looking for her father and was going to seek out wherever Amrothos and Alphros had set up camp when her path was blocked.

"My lady," a masculine voice drawled.

"Lord Brayan," Lothíriel dipped her head in acknowledgement, schooling her features to one of cool indifference.

"You're looking…well."

Lothíriel inwardly squirmed. The epitome of gentlemanliness, Lord Brayan gave no indication to being the contrary. His gaze remained respectfully on her face the entire time, which was more than she could say for some of the other lords she had encountered. They had lasciviously dragged their eyes on her form, and one had even waggled his eyebrows suggestively (he'd been thrice her age, and she had to contain her laughter). Despite this, the statement from Lord Brayan left her ill at ease.

"Thank you, my lord. Excuse me." Lothíriel took a step to the side, attempting to extract herself before this chance meeting could evolve into something more.

He stepped to be in front of her again, blocking her path. Lothíriel felt a bubble of panic before narrowing her eyes. She had done much more difficult things than rebuff unwanted advances from a nobleman.

"I must confess, I find your appearance to be a bit of a surprise," he said, taking a step towards her to close some of the empty distance.

"Oh?" she countered, trying to sound entirely uninterested in his opinions (which wasn't hard).

"I thought you were sequestered away on your seaside palace," he said.

Lothíriel's brow quirked without her intending it to. She knew he meant what she was wearing, but spoken aloud he was referring to her presence in Gondor. Classic misdirection.

"Hmm," she said. The less she answered, the less fuel she gave him.

"It's nice to see your family let you out of that sandcastle." Lothíriel bristled at his reference to her ancestral home as a sandcastle.

He continued, "If you were mine, I would keep you tucked away, safe and sound. It's still very dangerous for such a journey. Then again, I'd be sorely disappointed if they did that."

Lothíriel stepped to her left this time.

"I could also understand if you were to get too bored being locked up, and need a release for your pent up energy." He stepped again to impede her escape. "Perhaps you've passed the time with other…activities." Lothíriel looked up sharply, and by the glint in his eyes, he knew he had touched a nerve. He grinned. "Horseback riding, perhaps?"

Damn him, Lothíriel thought. She could comprehend the deeper implication of his words.

He was extremely close to her now. She knew he could see down the front of her dress; his eyes dilated. "I'd like to see more of you."

Damn him again.

"Dance with me," he demanded and grasped her hand to place a kiss on her pulse point. Coils of revulsion curled inside her stomach. Lothíriel wished she could shed her skin like a snake. The memory of his lips on the inside of her wrist reminded her of a jellyfish sting.

"No," she extracted her hand from his. "Thank you," she added as an afterthought.

"When I wanted to escape, I had a special, isolated place I would go to," his voice lowered. "But I'd be willing to share it with you." He did not give up, despite her rebuff. She glanced around to see if she could find her family.

She noticed her father across the room –there he was! — and glanced at the man he was talking to.

Lord Brayan grabbed her wrist and pulled her into him, sliding his finger suggestively down the back of her dress. "If you're good, I'll let you come."

Lothíriel locked eyes with the King of Rohan. Fire seeped through her veins. Elbereth, the way he was looking at her. She felt a flush envelop her, and tore her eyes away from his as Lord Brayan's words registered in her mind.

If Lothíriel hadn't known the commotion it would cause, she would have thrown a fist (Erchirion had taught her how to fight when she was eight because Amrothos had, in her words, "kept trying to drown" her). Nonetheless, she knew the disgraceful behavior of her potential actions would only bring shame on her family, and perhaps affect their livelihood.

Lothíriel, instead, yanked her arm out of his grasp and took a step back. Her face burned in anger and she all but hissed "No, thank you" before she rudely (not enough to sate her rage, but enough to make a point) pushed past him and found the first exit she could.

She sought refuge in the pleasant but ill-tended gardens of Minas. Once lovely like the city, they too had fallen into disarray with the growing shadow. Even with the end of ethuil, spring, the gardens were lackluster. They could no longer compare to the gardens in Dol Amroth, but perhaps now that there was a new King, the gardens would be tended to once more. Even with the threat of war upon the lands, the gardens still held hints of aromatic scents from medicinal herbs cultivated by the Houses of Healing. Lothíriel leaned on the nearest stone balustrade and squeezed her eyes shut. She could still feel the imprint of his grip around her wrist as he pulled her against himself. She stifled the urge to retch.

Lothíriel breathed shakily. She was on the brink of one of her attacks. No, not now, she thought. She swore under her breath. She would not relive her encounter with the Corsairs. She refused to do so; she refused to let Lord Brayan trigger that memory. Recalling that pain seemed to be a reliable distraction, she sunk her fingernails into the flesh of her hand, causing angry crescent shaped welts to appear. Focusing on the sting in her palm, she could feel attack dissipate. Merciful Nienna, thank you.

It was dusk but the air still held the warmth promised by fast-approaching laer. Lothíriel found herself a well concealed alcove inhabited by a stone bench. Perhaps she could obtain a moment of reprieve before rejoining the party. She dusted off the moss the best she could, hindered in her task by the fading light. She would have to, unfortunately, see and interact with Lord Brayan eventually. Hopefully he didn't follow her out, or she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. Before she could turn to lower herself onto her seat, she heard a masculine voice behind her.

"My Lady, I-"

Lothíriel spun around and at first all she could see were broad shoulders. Before she could identify the speaker, she saw two shadows and a flash of steel to her right.

"My lord!" she cried in warning as the figure wielding a sword approached and shouted something. She instinctively put her arm out to protect the man—Lord Brayan?—in front of her and move him out of reach.

If she had thought the King's eyes made her burn, she was so wrong. The unnatural sensation of cold metal sundering her flesh was followed instantly by agonizing pain. Her whole arm felt aflame and the trauma of her body accepting such a wound blinded her to the subsequent scuffle. A glint of a dagger and the whole affair was over, with the uninvited man hailing victorious.

Lothíriel felt her heart palpitate at an alarming speed and she began gasping for air. Immediately the man knelt to the ground in front of her –how did she get down here? -and guided her arm to his lap.

"The laceration is mild. You are in no danger of losing any permanent feeling," he stated, his tone clinical and dispassionate marking him as an experienced war veteran. She could feel the pressure of some sort of fabric he pressed down to staunch the bleeding.

Lothíriel could not thank him, could not quip that loss of feeling would be a blessing, or even check to see if he had sustained any harm. Indeed, she could not even breathe and her vision started to blur.

"My Lady?" the man's voice had colour to it now. He was clearly alarmed.

Lothíriel tried to even her breathing or she knew she would pass out from hyperventilation, as she'd seen it happen to more than one noblewoman. She only managed to choke out a mangled noise. With her left hand she reached behind her and attempted to unbutton her gown.

"My Lady!"

"Lothy!" Amrothos' concerned voice joined the shocked one. Lothíriel looked up to see Amrothos jumping over a corpse and skidding on blood to kneel by her side, joining the man who had blond hair. "Lothy, what happened? Are you alright? What's wrong!?"

If Lothíriel had been in her right mind, she would have chided Amrothos for pestering her with questions without waiting for answers, but the relief of the arrival of her brother surpassed everything, and she managed to choke out "corset."

She could see comprehension flash across his eyes, and Amrothos, with a set task given to him, immediately took over unbuttoning her gown. After opening the back, he reached the lacings and began to loosen them. But he was going too slowly and her lungs burned as if someone had jabbed an iron poker, blazing red from heat, into them. Everything was aching and the edge of her vision started to blur. She could feel herself slumping from the lack of oxygen; Amrothos started to panic. Immediately she felt his hands shoved aside, and a quick glance revealed a solid arm reaching around her. It held a small dagger, still dripping with the assassin's blood, and took her brother's place. A swift motion and the lacings of her corset were sliced apart and she could finally draw a full breath. She slumped forward all the way forward, into the blond man's chest. She felt exhausted and closed her eyes; her head felt too heavy to lift. Though her arm still burned, the pleasure of filling her lungs with the night's fresh air caused her to inwardly rejoice.

"Lothíriel, what happened?" Amrothos questioned again. She felt the man she was leaning on inhale and felt the reverberations in his chest as he answered for her.

"I followed her out here to speak with her. She was able to warn me in time before either of us were killed." He cursed in a foreign language-was that Rohirric?—and continued, "I wasn't quick enough and she sustained injury." His voice was deep and reminded her of waves on the shore during high tide: powerful and unstoppable, but peaceful and soothing. There was a certain lilt to it that betrayed an accent she wasn't familiar with.

Lothíriel could feel hot, white light pulsating from her arm with each heartbeat. She steeled herself for the effort it took to speak and croaked out weakly, "Amrothos, please get Ada."

"I will be right back," Amrothos replied, eager to do something useful. He stood up and darted away, evading the pool of blood on the floor.

Lothíriel took another deep breath and exhaled shakily. The man's arms, which still held her, tensed slightly. After a few more moments of breathing comfortably in silence, Lothíriel finally shifted. Wincing a little, she untucked her head from beneath his chin and glanced up.

She shivered. And his arms tensed around her again.

It was the King of Rohan.

"Do you have the strength to stand?" he asked, the tone of familiarity he had used with her brother was replaced with a strained one.

Gooseflesh prickled across her skin at his breath on her neck. Lothíriel nodded. He carefully shifted her from his lap and stood. Gently, he picked her up at the waist and set her on her feet. Lothíriel swayed a bit and he caught her before she could tip over.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, looking up at his face. His jawline was incredibly sharp even beneath his trimmed beard, and she tempered the urge to reach up her hand to cup it. She observed that his jaw was clenched. She watched the corded muscles in his neck twitching, and noticed that he wouldn't look her directly in the eye.

"Lothíriel?!" she heard her father's panicked voice call to her. The King of Rohan stepped away from her immediately and his stinging gaze honed in on Imrahil. Lothíriel turned around and saw her father, Amrothos, a few of their most trusted Swan Guards, and a Rohirrim hurrying toward them.

"Ada," Lothíriel cried out immediately, rushing into her father's embrace and holding onto him tightly with one arm while cradling the other. Lothíriel could hear whispered Rohirric behind her. Imrahil gripped her tightly by the shoulders to move her away from himself so he could take inventory of her injuries.

"You've been harmed," Imrahil's voice was low and tight. He took off his splendid mantle and draped it over her shoulders, as her dress was sliced and was starting to slip further down her body. Without the King's heat, she realized how chilled she was. The majority of her back was bare, and the mantle provided cover she didn't realize she needed. She watched as the Rohirrim left his King and slipped away.

The King of Rohan cautiously approached them and cleared his throat. Imrahil looked at him. "Prince Imrahil," he spoke lowly and quickly, "I do not think it prudent to stand out here in the open any longer where prying eyes may discover us."

His eyes darted toward Lothíriel and back to her father, raising an eyebrow. Imrahil's eyebrows furrowed and he looked at his daughter. His eyes widened at what he saw and he nodded in agreement. Lothíriel felt confused.

Imrahil looked at the King, knowingly. "You are wise, my friend, and I perceive you have a plan. Mayn't I be aware of it?"

"This must be dealt with discreetly. It would do no good for our peoples to know what has happened here, on this night. Peace is still too fragile, and news of assassins infiltrating during the coronation day would cause chaos."

"And Lord Aragorn?"

The warrior-king looked thoughtful. "I am loathe to divulge this information to him immediately and taint this day with ill tidings. I would have us deal with it privately until tomorrow at least. The less people who know will be to our advantage."

Lothíriel turned at footsteps coming towards them, and the Swan Knights instinctually went into a defensive pose. The footsteps belonged to the Rohirrim returning from his errand. The Swan Knights only relaxed when Imrahil motioned them to with a wave of his hand.

He spoke rapidly to his king in Rohirric. The King of Rohan turned to Imrahil and explained. "I asked Éothain to procure the services of Éowyn. Your daughter needs her arm tended to, and I think it best that we do not go to the healer here, or else it will be reported. We needed someone trustworthy, and Éowyn has been studying the art of healing. Éothain has informed her of being needed, and she is waiting in her room with the appropriate supplies. That is, with your permission."

"That is agreeable," Imrahil said, turning from Lothíriel and speaking in hushed tones with the Swan Knights. The King of Rohan's expectant gaze shifted to Lothíriel. It took her a few seconds to realize he was waiting for her approval as well. She nodded mutely, a warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with her wounded arm on which she was still putting pressure. At her consent, the King spoke to the man named Éothain in their language, and though she could not understand them, it sounded like they were arguing.

Suddenly she felt a hand at her elbow, and she was being ushered away by the Swan guards. Lothíriel stumbled often, and was steadied by one of her father's most trusted guards. Lothíriel didn't register for several moments that the knights were following Éothain through the servant corridors to the guest rooms. The further they walked, the more agitated Lothíriel could feel herself become. Finally, they arrived in a wing that Lothíriel recognized as being reserved for important dignitaries, and Éothain rapped on a solid wood door in a staccato rhythm before the lock clicked open. A beautiful woman with long golden hair answered the door a crack, her face drawn tight and worried. Upon seeing Éothain, she cried out and embraced him. She spoke quickly with him in their native language, and motioned for Swan Knights to stand guard at the door. She smiled tentatively at Lothíriel until she noticed the garment wrapped around her arm, and then the woman's face paled.

She spoke sharply with Éothain who answered in what Lothíriel perceived as a snippy tone. Lothíriel watched as Éothain shrugged the woman off and left while she was in the middle of a sentence. The woman looked extremely frustrated before taking a deep breath, schooling her features to one of calm and turned to Lothíriel and invited her in.

"My name is Éowyn," she said softly as she locked the door, gesturing at a padded bench at the foot of her bed for Lothíriel to sit on. Lothíriel's blood pumped thunderously through her veins and she could feel her body vibrate with energy as she moved to the bench and sat down. Despite her upbringing, Lothíriel could not still sit. She watched Éowyn glide with impossible grace over to a table positioned underneath a window. There were a variety of herbs mixed into poultices, a sharp needle and thread, and cotton fabric strips. A set of closed doors led to an adjoining room, which was for a spouse as was custom in Gondor. Perhaps Éothain's? Based off of their interaction, Lothíriel wasn't sure. Her general knowledge of the Rohirrim and their naming customs could very well point to Éowyn being Éothain's sister, which would make more sense. The room was large for just an apprentice healer, even if she was foreign, but perhaps it was due to Éothain's rank. A fireplace on the opposite side of the room boiled a pot of water and crackled comfortingly, though it did nothing to soothe Lothíriel's reeling mind.

"I'm Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," she provided, as she tried to think of anything that would keep her still, "and I'm so dreadfully sorry to disturb you during the festivities." Lothíriel gripped the fabric of her dress with one hand and forced herself to sit still as Éowyn approached her. The Rohirric beauty was dressed in the traditional dark blue robes of the Houses of Healing. The fabric was almost black in order to disguise blood stains, and had the White Tree of Gondor embroidered in shimmery thread on the left side over the collarbone. The robe was tied with a swath of fabric, silver in color and purely decorative, which indicated she was an apprentice. The higher up in training, the plainer and more practical the belt was. The Warden of the Houses of Healing had a leather belt which held many pouches and slots for tools. Her hair was down but plaited back. Its pale gold colour reminded her of a ghost crab Lothíriel routinely saw scuttling across the sand after dusk near one of her favorite places to sail.

Éowyn knelt down next to Lothíriel and reverently unwrapped the fabric from around her arm and folded it. She replaced it with a damp cloth. "Is he alright?" she inquired quietly, while pouring a sterilizing concoction over the wound to prevent inflammation.

Lothíriel ceased the bouncing of her leg and winced at the sting, startled out of her reverie. "Pardon?"

"Is the King alright?" she clarified, dabbing at the wound to clean it.

"Oh! How did you know he was involved?" Lothíriel puzzled aloud. Éowyn gestured towards the fabric at her feet that had been used to slow her bleeding. The discarded item was a costly tunic of brocaded green.

"The King of Rohan was wearing this. It used to be King Théoden's, and it has blood on the outside of it. Yours has not seeped through it yet."

"Oh!" Lothíriel flushed. She hadn't even realized that the King had given her his own tunic. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed him in nothing but his under-tunic and breeches. She looked at the woman who was tending to her. Lothíriel thought that she looked frightfully pale. "Your King is completely unharmed, as far as I am aware," she reassured, recalling that the people of Rohan had already lost one King. Lothíriel watched colour return to her face and a look of immediate relief.

Éowyn breathed a prayer of thanks in her own language. Smiling at Lothíriel, she handed her a less than half full small glass phial to drink from. "This is the last of the poppy tears I could find. It should help to dull the pain while I stitch the wound closed. After this, all I have is willow bark," Éowyn explained.

Lothíriel downed the bottle in hopes that it would help. She immediately felt her heartbeat slow down, though she didn't feel sleepy like the last time she had been in this situation about a year ago.

"How is it that you were wounded?" Éowyn asked casually as she prepared the needle.

Lothíriel recalled vaguely that the King of Rohan had said Éowyn was trustworthy, but didn't know to what extent. She settled that it wouldn't hurt to tell the healer, but Lothíriel froze at seeing the threaded needle coming toward her. Éowyn, believing Lothíriel's hesitation to be from lack of trust, paused in her task. "Éothain told me it was ill-tidings for all, that you were attacked."

"He told you what happened?"

"Not the complete tale. I've known Éothain since we were very young. He grew up with my brother and I, and the three of us are still very close. My brother and he, especially. It is rare to see them parted. He said just that you were involved in a scuffle with an enemy, and the consequences of it are far reaching for us all."

"I was in the gardens," Lothíriel explained as she exhaled through her mouth, "when I heard a voice calling to me. It was your King, though I did not know it at the time. I saw a flash of steel in the corner of my eye. I tried to move him out of the way, but I wasn't fast enough. " Her speech slowed as the needle Éowyn held initially pierced her flesh. Lothíriel's eyes took on a glassy quality, and she appeared to be reliving some horrific memory from a time long passed.

"Breathe in through your nose and exhale through your mouth," Éowyn coached. Éowyn had witnessed many soldiers experience this after the Battle of the Morannon and had herself struggled with the episodes of the warriors' waking dream after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Lothíriel dug her nails into her upper thigh to ground herself and inhaled slowly through her nose and could feel herself return to reality as she exhaled.

Éowyn watched intently. She looked extremely contemplative as she knotted the final stitch and used a small dagger to remove the excess thread.

"I-" Lothíriel started to speak.

"Nay; there's no need to explain. It never happened." Éowyn interrupted her, making herself appear intently busy on wrapping Lothíriel's arm with cloth strips. Lothíriel looked extremely grateful, her vigor finally returning. "Well at least the assailant has been dispatched," Éowyn continued, hoping to distract her patient from feeling any residual uncomfortableness.

Lothíriel nodded. "Yes, it is good. Do you know if they captured his companion?"

Éowyn's sharp eyes snapped to Lothíriel's. "Éothain spoke only of one."

"Yes, one assassin. I'm talking about the accomplice he was with," Lothíriel said. She felt renewed energy flow through her body, like a thrumming running through her veins.

"They do not know there was a second enemy," Éowyn stated harshly.

"Well someone has got to tell them!" Lothíriel exclaimed, jumping to her feet as the urgency washed over her. She felt as if she were racing the rising tide; there were but a few, fleeting moments in which she could secure her fate. "There's a chance we could still prevent them from leaving the city."

"They are debriefing now in the war room as we speak," Éowyn spoke hurriedly. Lothíriel started towards the doors but was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. "Ye cannot go while you're like this."

Lothíriel wrenched her shoulder out from her grip and assumed her mask of indifference. "I am perfectly capable of speech, therefore I am going."

"Nay, I do not mean to prevent ye from going," Éowyn said softly, turning her palm up to suggest she meant no harm. "But ye may want to be at least properly covered up."

Lothíriel looked down at herself and blanched. Here she had been abashed at the King of Rohan in naught but his under-tunic and breeches, while she had looked twice as disheveled. The hem of her dress was a shade darker from the rest, stained from the blood pool. A rip on the side by her right knee must have happened when she hit the ground. But truly, the most mortifying thing was the top of her dress. Its mutilation to save her life had left her with little decency. The slips of fabric that served as her sleeves sagged near to her elbows, and Lothíriel realized that had she not been keeping her injured arm so close to her body, the entire dress would have slid down to expose her bosom. In fact, the entire torso at the back of her gown was ripped open, and displayed her bare back from the very nape of her neck to her tailbone.

"Sweet Elbereth," she breathed. Éowyn said something to Lothíriel she didn't catch and ventured into the adjoining room while Lothíriel took a mental inventory of everything wrong in her appearance. Her hair, which Maren had painstakingly taken the time to curl, was haphazard and wild. Lothíriel tried to run her fingers through it like a comb, but was interrupted by Éowyn returning.

"No clothing of mine will fit you," Éowyn apologized, handing Lothíriel a small stack of folded clothes. Lothíriel regretfully knew how true that statement was; Éowyn was slender everywhere that Lothíriel was not. Lothíriel's bust and hips would never fit into any of Éowyn's dresses. "I took this from my brother's room; Éomer won't mind. There's a pair of trousers and one of his old shirts, too. I found an old belt of his that should keep everything from falling off you."

Lothíriel thanked Éowyn and began to hurriedly strip off the remnants of her dress. Taking care not to unnecessarily jostle her arm, she slipped the soft shirt over her head and tucked it into the trousers. Éowyn had to assist her with tightening the belt. Lothíriel thought she looked like she'd been swallowed, but Éowyn looked at her approvingly, strangely satisfied with the end result. Lothíriel thought that was odd, but was distracted by Éowyn tossing worn leather boots toward her.

"We look to be the same size," she smiled. "You will look less ridiculous wearing these than your sodden slippers." Lothíriel looked down at her slippers and grimaced. "Now make haste."

Lothíriel threw a few words of gratitude over her shoulder as she darted into the corridor. She decided she would have to sacrifice a little time in the name of discretion. After all, imagine the fuss that would occur if some Gondorian were to recognize her, the Princess of Dol Amroth, while she wore trousers, not to mention her bandaged arm. Thus, Lothíriel followed the servants' corridors and passageways. Thankfully the party was still in full swing, unaware of the happenings, and the corridors were largely empty. Lothíriel was able to make it to the war room in record time.

Lothíriel took a fortifying breath and charged towards the doors, where two Swan Knights stood guard. One, the older of the two, looked panicked as she strode towards them. His bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise and his face paled. The younger's eyes widened, his jaw dropped open, and he flushed crimson. Both stood frozen as Lothíriel approached, and she could hear raised voices within the room. She grasped the door handle and wretched it open without delay, ignoring the belated reprimand of the elder guard croaking a distressed "Princess!"

She entered the war room.

Additional Context-

Nienna -a Queen of the Valar, the sister of Mandos and Irmo (known as the Fëanturi), acquainted with grief and sorrow but also pity and courage. She is ranked as one of the eight Aratar, the most powerful of the Valar. Her element is grief and she is ever mourning for the wounds of the world by evil. Those who listen to her learn wisdom and endurance in grief.

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frodo-with-glasses · 2 years

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I don't know if I asked for this already? (I can't recall if I actually sent the ask, or chickened out and deleted it.)

But Aragorn and Eomer: 2, 3, 8, 10, 12, and 13.

Aragorn and Eomer are one of my favourites, especially as they feature in one of my favourite scenes in the entire book. :)

You did not chicken out! I received your original ask a while ago, and it was just waiting its turn to be answered. But since you sent in MORE numbers in this ask, I think I’ll answer this one in its place! :-D

2. “My favorite scene of them”

I mean...does the entire battle of Helm's Deep count?? LOL

I may or may not have a romanticized opinion of this battle thanks to the emphasis placed on it in the movies, but something about Aragorn—an outsider—and Eomer—one of the last remaining heroes of his people—working together to defend the last stronghold of Rohan and totally kicking butt at it is just so awesome to me. You just know that they walked away from that battle with an enormous respect for each other that continued through the rest of their lives. Helm's Deep was the pressure can that galvanized Aragorn and Eomer's friendship and I love it.

3. “A random headcanon I have of them”

So I think they have this secret handshake wait no—

In all seriousness: In the long years of peace after the War of the Ring, I think it's only natural that the King of the Horse-People should send, as a token of friendship and symbol of their alliance...well, horses, to the King of Gondor, for the purpose of stocking up the royal stables in Minas Tirith.

Aragorn, being practical and humble and generally no-frills, would only ask for horses descended from Hasufel, since he'd formed a bit of a bond with that beast and it had served him well in the short time they'd been together. Meanwhile, Eomer—never being one for half measures—would insist upon sending Aragorn the best of his stock, an incredible breed that's closely related to Shadowfax.

This then turns into a passive-aggressive polite fight where envoys from Rohan show up in Minas Tirith with a parade of gorgeous equines and a letter from King Eomer that says "oops, welp, I sent those horses all that way, you might as well keep them now" and Aragorn privately scheming for every possible excuse to send as many of them back as possible, which then prompts Eomer to send—after a couple years—even more horses.

The courtiers in both kingdoms find this ritual extremely baffling, but Aragorn and Eomer quite enjoy it.

8. “Who I think is the ‘crazier’ one”

My dude. Look me in the eyes and tell me Eomer—“Launched A Legendarily Fierce Onset Upon the Enemy to Avenge His Sister”, “Death, Ride, Ride to Ruin and the World's Ending”, “Now for Wrath, Now for Ruin and a Red Nightfall”, Eomer—isn't the craziest out of the two. Throughout this read-though, I've been noticing more than ever that Eomer has been nothing but a roiling ball of passion and fury and "I will get this done or die trying" and if that's not crazy then I don't know what is.

......But then again Aragorn is the one who took the Paths of the Dead and hijacked the corsair ships, so. *hiss through my teeth* Ugh, I think you've got me there. If anything, Eomer is Spontaneous Crazy, and Aragorn is Premeditated Crazy.

10. “A song that reminds me of them”

Ooh! I'm gonna have to go with "Warriors" by Imagine Dragons, and/or "Same Blood" by Aloe Blacc.

(*elbows @holbytlanna* Pssst Anna look I found one that fit—)

12. “A word to describe them”

Indomitable, adj: Impossible to subdue or defeat.

13. “What I think would’ve happened if they had never met”

Er...Middle Earth explodes??

Sure, I'm being dramatic, but both Aragorn and Eomer were extremely crucial in the battles of Helm's Deep and Pelennor Fields, and if even one of those battles had failed, that's an entire kingdom of Men gone to pot. If Aragorn and Eomer hadn't met, then many, MANY more lives would have been lost; if not all the free peoples in Middle Earth in their entirety.

(But now I’m really curious which is your favorite scene in the book! Care to share with the class?? 😉)

FRIENDSHIP ASK GAME!

#ask game #aragorn #eomer #eomer of rohan #lord of the rings #lotr #my writing

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frosticenow · 1 year

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This is a mood board I made for @officialtolkiensecretsanta event 2022. I also wrote a small fic to go with it! I hope you all enjoy it! This was my first time writing and publishing LoTR characters and my first time writing Éowyn and Éomer.

There were not many places with enough trees to form a forest near Edoras. The plains of Rohan’s land were more suited to growing grass and wheat. Every so often though, a small grouping of trees could be found. Éowyn found had found a private little copes of trees. It was her own special place and she had told no one of it. Privacy in the Golden Hall was scarce especially for her. Wormtongue had her followed by maids and other spies and Éomer had his own people follow her to ensure that Wormtongue never did anything. She constantly had at least two people watching her.

It was exhausting and she just wanted to be left alone. Practice her sword play sometimes, or ride by herself or even just sing with friends.

This afternoon was a rare treat in that she managed to get away from all of her various minders. Everyone seemed to forget that she was still Eorlingas, even if she was a woman and a woman of the court no less. But she rode just as well as any of her brother’s best warriors. In some cases, much better.

Éowyn had managed to sneak out with her horse, Windfola, and some food for a small picnic. She was pretty sure she had a few hours before someone would come looking for her. Only her brother would be able to find her, and he was supposed to be back from patrols tomorrow. Walking around the trees she tried to find a comfortable spot to sit.

One of trees seemed to have a suitable spot and she loosed Windfola’s reigns and sat down to feel the sun of her skin. . . .

A while later, Éowyn could not tell how much later, the sound of a horse could be heard riding up on her spot. She knew she was slightly hidden from the field, and she was not unarmed. She waited holding her breath before she hear.

“Éowyn! Where are you?”

She almost laughed. It was Éomer, returned home early!

“Brother! How did you find me?” she foisted herself up from her tree and ran to hug a quite worn down Éomer. He still had on his armour from patrol, only missing his helm. Dirt was smudged on his face; it looked as though he had ridden straight here without cleaning up from patrol.

“Well I rode hard last night and this morning hoping to get to you a day early, sister dear. Only to find that when I get home, you are not there to greet me,” he lifted and brow and Éowyn blushed at the slight censure in his voice.

“I just wanted some time to myself. I am always watched.”

Éomer knew well her dislike of being followed everywhere and they had discussed it many times. Most of the time she even agreed that someone needed to be with her to make sure Wormtongue never tried anything.

“I know, my dear sister.” He smiled a little then and released her from his embrace, “so tell me what have you been up to, other than missing me?”

She laughed, “What I normally get up to when you are away. Someone must mind the healers and run the Golden Hall. Though I suppose I should go back. The feast welcoming you home was organized for tomorrow night and . . . .”

He cut her off as she started to fret. Éomer knew she worked hard, “That is of no concern. We shall have the welcoming feast tomorrow. Most of my riders are wanting to be with their families more than a formal feast in the hall. As I want as well.”

It was a small piece offering. He would stay with her, and she could enjoy the little bit of time she got to herself, even if it was not so private now.

Éowyn grabbed his hand and started to lead him to the tree she had been resting under. They sat together, as she started to hand him wrapped bits of food. Some dried fruit and nuts, a small roll or two and some dried meat. In truth she had probably brought too much food for herself.

“Well what a welcoming feast this is!” Éomer declared as they both started on the food together.

#tss2022 #lord of the rings #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings fanfiction #eomer #eowyn

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theskyexists · 1 year

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I watched Two Towers

One thing I noted that really does not make sense and I did not notice before but is very Tolkien-ish: Eowyn is alone.

That is to say, there are a thousand riders of Rohan, men who are soldiers.

Where are their sisters?

Eowyn should be first among her class, like Eomer. But there are no other shieldmaidens of Rohan. There aren't even handmaidens of Rohan: women of the soldier class, sisters of the riders of Rohan. Women who should, like Eowyn, be able to handle a blade in crisis.

She even alludes to this, saying that women of her people recognise that not being able to use a sword does not prevent one from ending up on one. Aragorn alludes to this by recognising her as a 'shieldmaiden of Rohan'.

So where are these women?

We are shown soldiers and peasants and the king's family, and that is it. The warriors of Rohan do not have sisters. Or are their sisters peasants? Just like them when not called to war? I find that a bit hard to believe but...maybe? Viking-ish. Farmer-soldiers.

It wouldn't be a problem if they hadn't quite clearly implied that the Rohirrim are all men - for they explicitly do not press the women in the caves into service for the defense of Helm's Deep (they do the male children, which is rather foolish). Which is...unfortunate, because Rohan is clearly half-based on steppe peoples AND vikings. If they had not made a point of it, we could have come to an easy conclusion: the shieldmaidens ride also. They are simply hard to distinguish from their brothers (which is historically realistic and wonderful nod to the actual riders of Rohan having mostly been female extras).

But even if that were not the case (and Eowyn's narrative in the third film does require it not to be the case), we could have solved the problem: shieldmaidens do not ride, but form their people's last defense. This would have emphasised Eowyn's desire for valour as beyond reason. This clearly is not true - for the women in the caves are not given weapons (how stupid) and Eowyn does not get the chance to organise a last stand by the narrative. Which implies that the women peasants are either not of the warrior class and the riders of Rohan have no sisters, or, the women peasants are sisters to the riders of Rohan but are not made shieldmaidens. Which - what were Eowyn and Aragorn talking about then?

The problem thus remains: there IS such a thing as a shieldmaiden of Rohan, but Eowyn is alone.

#my stuff #lotr #vidi

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haunted-desert · 2 years

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Hey, as someone whose second favourite character is Eowyn, I just want to know what you like about her, and whether you prefer the film or book versions?

Hi, thank you for your ask! My interest in the Tolkien universe came from watching the films as I grew up. Only recently the desire to read the books and dig more into the stories has emerged. I'm currently reading The Hobbit, so I'm afraid I don't have enough competence to compare both yet. My answer therefore is based on my interpretation of how Eowyn's character is represented in the films and on the bit I know about how she is on the books. Either way, as a woman, I think I always felt represented by her. In a world where I grew up watching films and reading books in which women were gender stereotyped, misrepresented and often put in a position to serve the male lead, Eowyn is a badass Rohan warrior, a knight in armor who gets to fight with a sword! She's strong, she fights and she has an actual vital, strong role in the plot (I mean, she kills the Lord of the Nazgul!). She's not a romantic interest or a background character waiting to be saved like many films\books more often than not condition women to be. She's a shieldmaiden, a daughter of kings. Not accepting to be left behind while men go to war, she sneaks away disguised as Dernhelm and fights in the Battle of the Plennor Fields because she wants to fight for Rohan, defend her kingdom and the ones she loves at all costs. She takes a back seat to no man and won't listen to anything or anyone who tries to tell her it's not her place. She's fearless, bold and strong. And that's already enough to explain why she's my favorite character. But on top of that, there's also her complexity: she also gets to be bitter, angry and sad. Yes, she's strong, but she is also vulnerable. Dangerous but also compassionate and caring for the ones she loves. She's a fighter but she also turns into a healer who later gets married and forms a family. Not because she has to but because she decides to. And despite all she goes through during and after the War of the Ring, she gets to heal and find hope. She's a simble of bravery, strenght and resilience but also of the ability to let oneself be vulnerable and heal. That's what makes me admire and see myself in her. In Eowyn we see our darkness and light, we see the frustrations we experience daily as women when we're expected to follow gender rules and sexist stereotypes. She's rebellious, strong willed and wise, just as she is soulful, compassionate and loving. And in a world in which women are often poorly depicted in films, books or culture in general, it's empowering to have those values represented by a female character.

#lord of the rings #eowyn #asks

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autumnbrambleagain · 2 years

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todd howard, my sweet todd howard

emil pagliarulo, my dearest emil

do you guys have tumblrs, can i tag you with this?

can i get you to notice me?

can i get you to knife fight me in the street? i want to knife fight you in the streets

skyrim flirted so close to an interesting setting, interesting ideas, and instead you decided game of thrones was neat and rohan was cool in lotr, and you just, youu just went with that instead

the damage you’ve done is irreperable

instead of taking morrowind’s success and saying, “wow, people like how weird it is” you went “let’s make cyrodiil look like the place we work” you went “i know we said skyrim is weird as FUCK, but let’s make it generic and put in a hamhanded racial metaphor that wont’ turn on us in 5 years when white supremacy becomes normalized and they try to take over governments”

look at how morrowind talked about skyrim

The breath and the voice are the vital essence of a Nord. When they defeat great enemies they take their tongues as trophies. These are woven into ropes and can hold speech like an enchantment.

Wow, that’s weird, that’s so weird and awesome, instead we got: nothing

The power of a Nord can be articulated into a shout, like the kiai of an Akaviri swordsman. The strongest of their warriors are called "Tongues." When the Nords attack a city, they take no siege engines or cavalry; the Tongues form in a wedge in front of the gatehouse, and draw in breath. When the leader lets it out in a kiai, the doors are blown in, and the axemen rush into the city. Shouts can be used to sharpen blades or to strike enemies.

Instead, now 5 people can use shouts, and you can because you’re a super special snowflake because you bought the game :3 gone is morrowind’s ambiguity of what you actually are or why, gone is oblivion not even making you the main character, you’re the SUPER SPECIAL BOY and ONLY YOU get this SUPER SPECIAL POWER :3 no one else knows how to do this at all, just you :3

The most powerful Nords cannot speak without causing destruction. They must go gagged, and communicate through a sign language and through scribing runes.

That was like the one interesting thing you put from this into Skyrim, good job

The further north you go into Skyrim, the more powerful and elemental the people become, and the less they require dwellings and shelters. Wind is fundamental to Skyrim and the Nords; those that live in the far wastes always carry a wind with them.

the further north you go into Skyrim, the more it looks like the set of a bad viking video game or game of thrones reference

you cowards couldn’t even make akatosh the final boss of the game. you visit sovngard and instead of anyone FREAKING OUT THAT YES SHOR IS LORKHAN IS AKATOSH instead you get an empty throne and a throwaway line at best.

you’re so BORING.

knife fight me

#todd howard #knife fight me #knife fight me in the streets #autumn says things #morrowind #skyrim #oblivion

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tumblerislovetumblerislife · 6 years

Photo

i call them warrior eowyn and princess eowyn

#tolkien #lotr #art #eowyn #my art #tltl art #mepoc #lord of the rings #rohirrim #warrior eowyn is what shouldve been if rohan was less sexist #she shouldve been sent off to learn fighting with the elves and fall in love with tauriel and arwen #why do they look nothing alike?? lmao reasons #like princess eowyn is beautiful...... tru..... but thats not her true form yknow?#eg that trope of the tomboy having to dress nicely #yeah sure she looks nice but its not HER

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minaturefics · 2 years

Text

Forevermore

Request: Hello! I was hoping that you might consider writing a request for me. It's a Faramir x reader. The reader is the best friend of Eowyn and thinks that Faramir loves Eowyn. Then Faramir tells reader that he actually loves her. Maybe you could also have Eowyn and Legolas end up together? Thank you!

A/N: This ended up way longer than intended but it was such a pleasure to write. I assumed a fem!Reader based on the wording of the request - let me know if I'm mistaken. Hope you like it!

Faramir x Reader

Fem reader

No content warnings

4k words

---

The city evening air was cool and balmy, but fresh and clean after so many weeks under the Shadow. The Houses of Healing were still filled with warriors, some recuperating from more serious physical injuries, others attempting to recover their wounded minds. Ioreth had assigned you to the apothecary after noticing your aptitude for processing herbs and preparing tinctures, and so you spent your days in a cosy room recessed into a wall, dispensing healing concoctions under the tutelage of Beinalph, the other Matron.

You pounded the pungent mixture in the mortar before you, sniffing the spicy ginger and sweet lavender as it rose from the paste. You dropped in a dollop of runny honey and watched as it created amber swirls in the brown puree as you mixed it in.

“I think it is done, dear,” Beinalph said and came up beside you, sniffing the mush. “This is near perfect. You are a swift learner.”

A smile tugged at your lips. “I am just happy to have found a place here in Minas Tirith.”

“Indeed, you are a long way from home, but at least you are not alone here.” She beamed at you, soft and understanding, and the wrinkles in her face deepened with the smile. “Lady Eowyn has been learning the healing arts from Ioreth as well.”

You looked down at your brown stained hands, coloured from the countless herbs and plants that passed through your fingers, and your voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes, she is very skilled at healing.”

You thought of your closest friend, of her long flowing hair like a river of gold, her delightful laughter that brightened a room, her strength, her kindness. Thoughts of her would usually fill your heart with pride and love, but of late, bitter emotions clouded your thoughts.

She was a lady, a princess of Rohan.

You were but of the lower noble houses, your friendship with Eowyn and Eomer formed by pure chance. Your family’s horses were much favoured by the royalty of Rohan and it was at your family’s stables, as a young teen, that you met Eowyn. You took to each other almost immediately, and short of any sisters of her own, you were all but adopted into the family.

When you discovered she had ridden off to battle, you swung yourself onto your horse and rode hard for Gondor. How could she have gone without you, her chosen sister? You were too late to the battlefield, but you were there to watch over her as she recovered in the Houses of Healing. It was there that you first came across Faramir.

Gentle, quiet Faramir. Faramir with his low, soothing voice and easy smile. Faramir with his grey eyes that flitted between soft and stern.

You pushed thoughts of the man away and turned your attention back to the paste in front of you.

“Shall I put them into jars for the healers? And then perhaps we could get started on the sleeping elixr?” You asked and looked up at Beinalph. The older woman had a strange look on her face, sympathetic almost, as though she had just read your thoughts.

“I think you’ve done enough for today. Why don’t you go on and get some fresh air? It is a lovely evening out.”

“Thank you, Madam Beinalph.” You wiped your hands on the rag on the counter and removed your stained apron. “I’ll have a wash and then perhaps I will take a trip to the markets.”

She bid you goodbye and you hurried back towards the guest room you were given in the Citadel. It overlooked a modest, flowered courtyard that led towards the Steward’s House. You laved your face and hands at the small basin in the corner of your room, and braided your hair into something more suitable for walking in the city. You wandered over to the window and leaned against the cold stone, gazing down at the courtyard and letting the evening breeze wash over you.

Faramir appeared at the edge of the grass. His light brown hair gleamed in the golden evening light, his broad shoulders straight as he walked across the manicured lawn. He paused to admire the flowers in their beds. He felt distant to you, down in the courtyard, standing in sun beams, so stately and regal.

Perhaps he would always be at a distance.

You had seen the way he was with Eowyn, happy and soft, jesting with one another as though they had been friends since childhood. Completely at ease, unlike the way he seemed when he was in your company. At times he seemed relaxed, like when he discussed poetry with you, or asked about your work at the Houses of Healing, but other times he was all fleeting glances and uncertain pauses. It had worsened in the past week; Faramir all but disappeared from the library where you usually found him, and when he caught your eye from across a street or courtyard, he would smile, but not stop to talk as he used to do.

The reason for strange behaviour had come to light two evenings previous. You had spotted him and Eowyn walking arm in arm in the courtyard below you, heading towards the Steward’s House. Your mind cleared at the revelation, but your heart rent itself in two. It made sense that the wonderful Faramir would find his match in her. Lady Eowyn, Princess Eowyn.

You sighed and watched as Faramir crouched by one of the flowers, reaching out to the delicate petals and bringing his nose close to the bloom. For a moment, you allowed yourself to indulge, wondering what it would be like if he came with you to the market.

You could picture his gentle grey eyes, the torch lights flickering in them, the warmth of him at your side, his arm grazing yours. Perhaps he would stop by one of the stalls and offer to buy you something, a token of friendship, or maybe something more. You thought of his hands, large and stained with ink, intertwining with yours. His beard against your cheek, his breath against your skin.

Someone knocked on the door and you blinked out of your daydream.

“Come in,” you said, and Eowyn strode into the room, looking radiant and beautiful, like the moon at its full glory. She was dressed for dinner in a flowing white dress and her hair up in an elegant braid. Your heart rose as your stomach dropped. Pride and envy fought in your chest. You glanced back at the courtyard, but Faramir had gone.

“Am I intruding on anything?” She sat at the end of your bed, her brows furrowing.

“No, nothing.” You turned back to look at her and forced a smile onto your face. “It has simply been a long day.”

“I do hope you have some energy left. Faramir has invited us to dine with him this evening.”

“At this very moment?”

“Or a few minutes yet. There is time for you to change.”

“Just us three?” Dread gnawed at your stomach at the prospect of bearing witness to the intimacy between them. Your love for Faramir was like a shard in your heart, and each time you saw them together it twisted itself deeper into you.

“We have also invited Legolas.”

“Legolas? I did not realise Faramir was familiar with him.”

An amused smile spread across Eowyn’s face. “I am more acquainted with the elf than he, having met Legolas in Rohan. Legolas and I have talked at length about the battlefield and of our homelands. I am curious to see Mirkwood, and he has promised to take me there one day.” Pink dusted her cheeks and her lips pursed as though she was keeping something in.

She sighed and continued. “But I have strayed from my original point. It seems Legolas is left bereft this evening. His hobbit companions are busy conspiring with one another and Gandalf, and both Lord Aragorn and Master Gimli are attending to coronation matters. Something to do with mithril, I believe.”

“I see,” You murmured, glancing down at your plain dress. It was a simple dress, worn more for practicality of work than for beauty, and though you knew there were more regal dresses at the back of your wardrobe, they felt modest next to Eowyn’s. “Please send my apologies to Faramir, I am not feeling up to it this evening.”

“Are you unwell? Shall I stay and care for you? I’m sure Faramir will not take offence if we both do not attend.” You shook your head and she frowned. “What is the matter, my friend? You have been ill at ease this past week. I thought perhaps it was some passing melancholy but it appears it is not so.”

“I will not trouble you with what is in my heart, Eowyn. It is for me to deal with alone.”

How could you tell her? It would only sour any happy feelings the couple had, and expose yourself to pity, or at worse, contempt.

“My friend.” She reached for your hands and you let her take them. Her eyes were sad and pleading. “My sister. Allow me to ease your burden.”

You felt tears prick at your eyes and you turned away from her. ��Eowyn, I beg you, leave it be. I will be alright.” The words sounded weak to your ears but you straightened your spine and returned to the window. “Do not fear for my loneliness tonight. I am going to the markets soon. Go, you will be late to dinner if you stay any longer.”

“If you ever wish to speak, you will find my ear ready. Please think upon it,” she muttered, and closed the door behind her.

Faramir flinched as Eowyn burst into the dining room. She swept into the room, her face troubled and her shoulders slumped. Legolas tilted his head at her, assessing almost, sensing things that Faramir could not.

“She is not coming,” Legolas said.

“Our plan has fallen apart, Faramir.” Eowyn groaned and sank into the chair next to Legolas. “She has been in a foul mood the whole week and I know not why.”

“Perhaps it is her studies in the Houses of Healing?” Legolas suggested.

“No, I do not think so,” Faramir said. “The Warden has sung praises of her, and more than once Beinalph has asked if we could persuade her to stay in Gondor.”

“I can think of one good persuasion.” Eowyn grinned, mirth dancing in her eyes.

Faramir felt blood rush to his cheeks and heat to his ears, but the feeling was quickly drowned. “Do not jest, Eowyn. I fear she is indifferent towards me.”

“Indifferent! I could not think of anything less likely. She is my friend, I know her heart well. She was lost to you the moment she saw you in the Houses of Healing.”

“A mere infatuation, perhaps. It might be that her feelings have since cooled.”

“I witnessed the both of you in the gardens that one day. I have never seen her so happy or, dare I say it, so in love.”

Faramir thought back to that day. The weather had been fair and the flowers in full bloom. He had walked with you at his side, close enough that your shoulders would occasionally bump into his. You told him of the plants that grew in the gardens, opening his eyes to their healing properties. You glowed in the afternoon light, brilliant like the sun above, radiant among the trees and flowers. He had yearned to reach out to you, to offer his arm as the both of you walked, to lean in close and whisper the tender words that were forever pressing up against the back of his lips.

What would it be like if you were to stay in Gondor? To stay with him?

Peaceful mornings with you, strolling in the courtyard before you both parted for your duties, your soft words meant only for him. Quiet evenings in the library, shrouded from the rest of the world, where the both of you could read together and he could gaze upon your beautiful face unabashedly. He could hold your hand when he desired, kiss you just because he could.

“My lord,” Legolas said. “I can see that you are all but lost to her already. I, too, have observed the both of you together. She is fond of you.”

“That may be so, but how am I to tell her? I am so wrought with anxiety when I see her. I am not normally so ill composed, but of late my words stumble and my eyes cannot bear to keep her gaze.”

Legolas laughed. “Seek her out and speak plainly. There you may find your heart’s ruin or joy, but at least your suffering would be ended.”

“I would not wish to affect our friendship if it were to go ill,” he muttered.

“I have known her since girlhood,” Eowyn said. “She is not the type who would scorn you for your feelings if they were unwelcome. Have faith, my friend, and be bold. Go at once, she is headed towards the markets.”

He hesitated and glanced back at the dinner table. “It would be discourteous to abandon you both. After all, it is in my quarters that we are dining.”

“We know dinner was but a ploy to dine with her and perhaps whisk her away afterwards!” Eowyn snickered. “We willingly complied with the plan, and will not take offence if you leave now that it has gone awry.”

“I will be delighted to keep Eowyn company here,” Legolas said and then turned towards her, his voice lowering to a murmur. “Perhaps we can take a turn about the gardens later?”

Eowyn’s cheeks coloured and her wide smile morphed into a shy one. “I would like that very much.”

Faramir sighed. His part of the plan may have run afoul, but at least Eowyn’s had not. It was her who had dragged him into his quarters two nights ago, and hatched the plan in hopes of allowing each of them to spend more time with the people who had captured their hearts. He looked between the elf and his friend. He would leave the couple be. “I will take my leave then, and search for her.”

You lingered at the edges of the market, watching the people as they drifted from stall to stall and listening to the indiscernible chatter. The last of the sun’s rays gilded the white tents and awnings gold, and torches blazing on sconces coloured the cobbled streets orange. The scent of spiced meat and fried dough wafted through the air, and your stomach rumbled. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get a small snack before distracting yourself from your aching heart by browsing the stalls.

Someone cleared their throat behind you and you turned to find Faramir. His hair tumbled over his face, windswept and disarrayed, as though he had hurried to his destination. His grey eyes were bright but soft, just as you had imagined, and you found yourself unable to look at him. It was some torment, to have your own unattainable daydream played out in front of you. Why had he come?

“Faramir,” you greeted and tried to smile. “I thought you were having dinner with Eowyn and Legolas.”

“I have left the both of them to each other’s company.” His smile turned wry. “My absence will not be missed, I think.”

You frowned at his statement. What did he mean by that? Perhaps Eowyn’s heart lay with Legolas. It would not be surprising; you had seen her with the elf and saw a spark in her eyes that was not there with anyone else. Perhaps Faramir, dejected and dismayed by this revelation, had sought you out. It seemed you would have him this evening, but it would be nothing more than a shade of what you envisioned. It would be too much to bear.

“I will not be good company this evening. My thoughts are dark, and the feelings in my heart are darker still.” You turned to leave him but heard his feet hesitating on the stones.

“I care not,” he said and came to stand beside you, his eyes beseeching and his smile disarming. “I would be happy to simply walk with you this evening.”

Your stomach growled and you looked towards the food stalls. “I have not supped yet.”

He chuckled and offered you his arm. “Come, we can find something to satisfy the both of us.” You glanced down at it, then back up at his face.

What cruelty was this? But so worn from the week and weary from the day, you gave in. It would be one night, just one, where perhaps you could pretend, and then tomorrow you would bury your feelings and forget.

You tentatively stepped closer and looped your arm through his. His body was warm against yours, and his scent, like old paper and worn leather, filled your lungs. You fought the urge to lean into him, and walked woodenly at his side. He led you towards one of the stalls and paused at the array of small cakes and tarts on display.

“Oh, Lord Faramir!” The woman behind the counter beamed. “What a surprise to have you gracing my shop.” She glanced at you then back at him. “What would you and your lady like this evening?”

You froze at her words. You were not anyones, let alone Faramir’s. You waited for the correction, but it never came. He grinned at you and gestured to the glazed rolls. “Orange and poppyseed. You are fond of them, are you not?”

“I am,” you muttered.

“We’ll take two of those, and perhaps one apple and honey tart.”

He rummaged around in his pocket for some coins and you shook your head. “I can pay for my own, Faramir. The Warden gives me a small stipend for my service.”

“Allow me, please.” He handed the coins over and the woman passed you the bag of treats.

The woman chuckled at the both of you. “What man doesn’t love to treat his lady every once in a while? You are very lucky my lady, if I can be so bold, to have such a partner.”

A flush rose to your face and you nodded at her, tugging Faramir away from the stall.

“There is a place near the ramparts that has an unobstructed view of the lower circles,” he said and nudged you away from the crowd. “Let us sit there for a moment, and perhaps we can talk. I…” He cleared his throat. “I have missed you dearly this last week.”

You blinked at him. He missed you? How could that be so when it appeared that he did near everything in his power to avoid you? He led you to a stone bench off to the side, and you sat down.

The stars twinkled above you, like a thousand pinpricks of light in the endless velvet of the sky. The stone was cold under you and you shivered. In one swift motion, Faramir removed his cloak and draped it over your shoulders. His smell enveloped you and you tugged the thick fabric, still warm from his body, closer around you. He sat down next to you, his thigh pressing against your own, and placed an orange poppyseed roll in your hands.

You stole a look at him as you ate. He seemed at ease, but there was a tension in his shoulders you could not ignore. His behaviour had been strange, different to your limited knowledge of how a heartbroken man would act. Perhaps with Eowyn’s revelation, he had turned to you instead, as a second choice. The thought twisted your stomach and the sweet roll tasted like ash in your mouth. You would not have his second hand love, even if it meant giving up the intimacy you longed for.

“Faramir,” you said when you finished your roll. “I must speak plainly.”

His brows drew together. “What do you wish to speak about?”

“I am confused by your intentions. You ignore me for a week, but invite me to dinner with my closest friend who you seem to have an attachment to. Then you leave her with another man, potentially another suitor, to come find me.” You steeled yourself and looked him in the eye. “Tell me, has Eowyn spurned your love, and now you seek me as some consolation prize?”

Faramir blinked at you, his jaw slack. Perhaps you had said too much. He sighed, deflating with the long breath. He reached for your hands and held them on his lap. “No, that is not so. Though, you are not far off the mark about Legolas and Eowyn.” He bowed his head, voice no more than a whisper. “My… My love has always been for you.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. His love, for you? How could you dare to hope? “I do not understand.”

“What is there to understand?” His smile was resigned. “I have loved you since I saw you that day in the Houses of Healing. I have thought of nothing but you every day since. There is nothing that brings me more joy than to simply be in your presence, be it walking with you or sitting in silence.”

He caressed the back of your hands with his fingers and continued. “If I have been distant it is because I have been fearful for my own heart and frustrated at my fumbling tongue. I did not realise it would also wound yours so.” He looked at you, his eyes imploring. “Do you really believe yourself unequal to Eowyn?”

“Not until recently,” you confessed. “I misunderstood your closeness with her and thought perhaps there was more to it than friendship. I allowed my deepest fears to cloud my judgement.”

“You are both remarkable women, but you are second to none to me.” He brought your hands to his lips and planted a tender kiss on the back of your hands. “I must also confess to orchestrating some of tonight's arrangements. Eowyn sought to spend more time with Legolas, and I with you, and so we set about the dinner plans.”

A small laugh escaped from you. “I am sorry then, to have ruined your plotting. I was unwilling to watch you love her.”

“Let us leave these mislaid plans and confusion behind.” He brought his hand to your face, cupping your cheek. “I wish for you, and you alone, and nothing would bring me more happiness than to have you by my side.”

You leaned into his touch, allowing his words to wash over you. “I have been foolish.”

He grinned. “No more than me, my love. But we have found our way somehow.”

Laughter bubbled in your chest and spilled from your lips. You could have him. His gentle smile, his changeable grey eyes, his steadiness and warmth. You tilted your head back, an invitation, and he brought his lips to yours. His breath was hot on your cheek, his lips soft and pliant. He planted kisses on your cheeks, on your nose, on your brow. He chuckled, his entire frame shaking with laughter, and drew back.

“Eowyn will tease me when she hears of this.” You smiled and rested your head on his shoulder.

“That may be so, but we may tease her back about Legolas.” He wrapped his arms around you and sighed. “I must ask, will you be willing to stay in Gondor?”

“For a while yet, but I think perhaps I can be persuaded to stay longer.” You smirked at him.

“And what would this fine lady of Rohan desire?” He bumped his nose against yours.

“More orange and poppy seed cakes, more reading with you in the library, slow walks in the gardens.” You settled into his embrace and looked out at the city and the plains beyond. The torches flickered in the dark below you, mirroring the stars above. The evening breeze swept over the both of you, carrying the scent of trees and grass. The crowd was nothing more than a faraway bustle, the worries of the day nothing more than a distant memory.

“More evenings like this forevermore.”

“That, I can promise.” He kissed the top of your head. “Forevermore.”

#faramir #lotr #faramir x you #faramir x y/n #faramir x reader #lotr fic #lotr fanfic #request

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