#Éomer and firefoot

[jorahh]

Éomer and Firefoot having a playful moment together in total freedom. Their relationship is so deep and strong that there is no boundaries anymore between man and horse. There are two parts of a same soul.

[artwork by me]

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[themoonlily]

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[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Any headcanons regarding how Firefoot got his name? Love your blog! 💕

What a fun question, thank you! ♥️♥️♥️

It’s very tempting to say Firefoot is so named because he has blazing fast feet, but he likely would have been named shortly after being born, which would be too soon to know whether he was going to be unusually swift. There also aren’t many common coat colors that are red/orange enough to justify that name on the basis of a flame-like coloring of his lower legs either. So then where did it come from? My HC is it came from an incident the night he was born.

Éomer was a young teen at the time, and Théodred had him working in the barn for spring foaling season to round out his horse education. Firefoot was the first birth Éomer witnessed, and he was totally awed by the whole experience. But it was a difficult delivery and the foal didn’t get to his feet and start walking in the first few hours as expected. The horsemaster sent Éomer home because it was getting late (he was still a boy after all) with the promise that they’d take care of everything. But it bothered Éomer not to be there to help and he worried about what would become of this sweet little guy that he already somehow felt protective of and invested in.

So, Éomer snuck out of his room after bedtime and went back to the barn by lantern-light. There was no one else there (the horsemaster had gone to retrieve something he wanted for the foal’s mother), but Éomer was relieved to find the foal standing. He watched contentedly for a few minutes but noticed the baby wasn’t moving around much. So he set his lantern down on a stool and tried to encourage him to take a few steps. Whatever sounds and gestures he made worked, and the little horse took a few awkward steps in his direction. But an unsteady hoof caught the stool and knocked it over, and the lantern set some of the stall bedding on fire.

Éomer freaked out and hauled the foal out of the stall and led the mare out, too. And that’s when the horsemaster came back to find the mother wandering away, the foal standing confusedly in the barn aisle, and the king’s young nephew desperately stamping out a pile of smoldering straw while wearing his PJs and looking very embarrassed indeed.

In the end, there was no harm done and the horsemaster agreed not to tell anyone that Éomer almost burned the royal stables to the ground. But he did name the foal Firefoot and laughed his ass off when Éomer blushed to hear it.

[celeluwhenfics]

A little horse scene out of my pHORSEuasion drafts

We have been talking about dressage and Haute École today, and I wanted to show a little scene I have in my drafts. It will appear in a flashback scene in much later chapters of pHORSEuasion, probably much reworked, but as it works well as a standalone vignette, here it is for your early viewing!

The year is 3010, the humans are between 15 and 19, and the horses are between 3 and 8.

The morning was bright and balmy, and Rowena had set out early to exert her young Kellynch before the heat would become unbearable. She led her to a pleasant round of grass in a clearing out of sight from the house, and spoke to her gently, pushing her hips or shoulders with a willow stick, then pulling her, calling her, and in turn rousing and calming her with her voice and precise gestures.

But Wylfric had allowed a rare day of recess to his disciples, and soon Éomer and Gárulf appeared riding abreast on their stallions, passing down the path on their way to the river. Rowena blushed and pretended not having seen them, but Kellynch turned to them, perked up, and refused to pay any more attention to her mistress.

‘Good morning Wena!’ called Éomer.

‘How is Kel doing?’ asked Gárulf.

‘She’s good, thank you. How are your boys?’

‘Wonderful! Don’t you want to join us to the river?’ said Gárulf.

'Oh, wait, let me show you what we've been working on!' cried Éomer.

With a gentle nudge of his heels, he lifted Fýrfot into a bouncy trot. When he reached the bend in the path, he turned him on his hips and started a calm, composed canter. After a few strides, he asked for a lead change, then another, then another. Fýrfot, his ears forwards, neck proud, tail flowing, linked the flying changes with ease and elegance. Éomer grinned as they passed prancing, the peculiarity of the allure teetering between ridicule and magnificence. Rowena gaped and leaned onto her grazing mare's shoulder.

Meanwhile, Gárulf sat back, and with precise aids roused Hasufel into a fairly good piaffe. He held him trotting in place, moving him further and further back onto his hind, until his front legs lifted off the ground and he balanced in a tentative levade.

Rowena, trying to keep herself from turning back to Éomer, echoed some of the encouragements she had heard her father give in lessons.

'Ooooh that's progress, he's so collected now! What a good boy, Hasufel! Can I give him a treat?'

Gárulf flustered and led Hasufel to Rowena as she took a few dice of apple from her reticule. Éomer, who had been going back and forth in passades on the path, pulled closer and started a pirouette. Rowena, aware that he was hoping for her to praise the manoeuvre, but hesitant to let him see her genuine admiration, bashfully smiled down at Hasufel's black muzzle and reached beyond the reins to scratch his neck.

Too busy ignoring Éomer through diligent caresses in Hasufel’s mane, Rowena realized too late how Gárulf was squirming in the saddle with pride and delight. She stepped back in disarray and scrambled to find an excuse to take both young men’s attention off her, and especially to avoid feeding Gárulf’s hopes.

A small bird was singing. Glad for the opening, she whipped her head around to squint at the crown of a tree nearby.

'Shhh! Boys! Quiet!'

Éomer, a little vexed, broke his pirouette.

'What?'

'Shhhh!'

All was silent for a moment.

'Ooooooh, I think… I think…'

She gestured to them to keep still. The bird tweeted again and flew into view, his bright yellow plumage striking against the blue sky. Rowena vibrated with excitement.

'It's a prothonotary warbler!' she hissed.

'A what?' said Éomer as Fýrfot pawed the ground.

'A prothonotary warbler. It's the species. It's rare!'

'Aaah, yes, protronatony warbler.' said Éomer. 'I remember well when I heard that word the first time.'

'Do you?' said Gárulf, impressed. 'When was that?'

'About ten seconds ago.'

The rolling of quick hooves was heard from up on the path, and Rowena's warbler flew. Fýrfot got himself out of the way just in time to avoid being taken down by Windfola flying like an arrow, spurred by Éowyn’s shrill war-cry. Folcred, kicking Adali, yelled and coughed in the cloud of dust raised by Windfola's hooves. He was desperately distanced.

'Éowyn, stop! Slow down!'

'The last one at the ford is a lazy donkey!' cried Éowyn as she fast disappeared beyond the trees down the path.

Éomer rose in his stirrups, hesitant between the thrill of attempting a courbette to eclipse Gárulf’s success, or the fun of at least taking part in the race, if he couldn't beat his sister. At last, he decided that fighting for praise would be fruitless for the time being. With a grunt of spite he turned Fýrfot around and sent him off at a furious gallop. Gárulf also pushed Hasufel on the path and gave him the reins, but he had not made a few strides before he looked back to Rowena and halted.

'Do you need a hand to get on?' he asked, panting, but perhaps not from the short run. His eyes were unmistakably hopeful.

'I can do bareback, but not bridleless! And Kellynch is still much too green for that kind of play.'

'Hm, you're right to be prudent, sorry. Do… do you mind if I walk you home?'

'Oh, Gárulf, you’re too kind, but do join the others. I would rather continue what we were doing, without stallions around.'

'Of course, yes. Well, goodbye then!'

He started again on a canter, as Éowyn's victory cry erupted from far down at the river. Rowena waved her mare back at a trot on the lunge circle. She smiled. Fýrfot's astonishing gaits were still bouncing on her mind.

@from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras although you've seen it already, @torchwood-99 @emmanuellececchi @konartiste @dilettantefeminist @the-dolphin-is-dead

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

THE LORD OF THE RINGS HEADCANON

In Rohan it is tradition that the widows of warriors who died in battle assist mares in giving birth; most foals are born in such a situation.

Except for Firefoot. Éomer took care of the delivery himself; it took almost two hours, and at first the foal was so small and weak Éomer had to nurse him with a milk bladder.

Éomer saved Firefoot's life on two different occasions.

The horse saved his on three.

[celeluwhenfics]

Oooooh this is such an interesting subject, about which I've been thinking for a long time! I love the Old English names you found for the moves!

Let me take the occasion to show you two videos that are part of my Firefoot/Fýrfot faceclaim! (maneclaim?)

Alright. If it's distracting to you, ignore the costumes, the feathers, the poor video quality, the music (it's not period accuraaaaate, says the musicologist), the commentary in French if you don't understand it. This horse is how I picture a kingly horse to be. THIS is my Firefoot. Philippe Karl is an outstanding horseman, and Odin (I think it's him?) might be one of the sexiest stallions ever.

Yes, I HC the Rohan war horses to look like Andalusian or Lusitanian breeds, as they are described as being predominantly grey, and this type is particularly suited for dressage, haute école and battle skills.

The skills demonstrated there are some of what I imagine the young officers of the Mark practicing with their war horses.

My HC is that they would train on schoolmasters in their teens, and receive a foal that they would train to become their first main war mount between age 12-14, so that this horse would be in his prime during their twenties. The horse would be fit to me mounted from age 4 or 5 (when the rider is at least 16 and has LOTS of experience already), then spend a solid 3-4 years learning basse école (dressage without the jumps), before graduating to actual haute école, jumps and fighting skills.

For example, Firefoot could be about 14 at the time of the War of the Ring, in his very prime, and Éomer could have at least two more horses at different stages of training and ready to replace him in case of an injury. With excellent care and luck, that kind of horse could stay in service until 20 or 25 years of age.

Remember two great principles of horse training:

Give an old horse to a young rider, and a young horse only to an "old" (or experienced) rider

The more you take your time in training a horse, the longer its career may be! (If you push a baby you'll get injuries and young retirees 😣)

Now let's look at some basse école. Yes, most of the time when we talk about dressage nowadays, what you see at the olympics, what your classmate with a rich dad did, is basse école dressage, which is an art in itself, but also must be mastered before haute école. I love this video of Juan Manuel Muños Diaz and Fuego XII for the sheer swag of it.

The whole kur (aka a show of dressage with music) has a magical aura of brilliance and pride, which I find fitting for a young Éomer parading his skill on a gorgeous horse, but especially, the lead changes at 6:07, with the rider letting go of one hand and being carried by the crowd, is so unbearably showoff that it's almost painful, and I can't stop watching. That is the move I think of in the little scene I'm about to show...

Riding in Rohan

So after watching the behind the scenes clip about the Capriole performed in Rings of Power, I got thinking about Rohan and their horses, and the moves they might be taught to execute on them.

I went and googled the “Airs Above Ground” movements in classical dressage, and I looked at the meaning of their names and the actual movement, in order to come up with Old English names for them, to be used for our Rohan Gang.

Here’s what I got. 

Pesade-

the horse raises its forehand off the ground and tucks the forelegs evenly, carrying all weight on the hindquarters, to form a 45-degree angle with the ground.

Reren (Middle English) or  Ræran (Old English) for “Rear” or “raise”

Levade

asking the horse to hold a position approximately 30–35 degrees from the ground. 

From the French word “to raise” 

Ārīsan (Old English) for “Arise” of Lyft (Old English) for “lift”

Capriole-

the horse jumps from a raised position of the forehand straight up into the air, kicks out with the hind legs, and lands more or less on all four legs at the same time.

Playful leap- Caper

Literal translation: Leap of a goat;

gāt (Old English) for “goat”

hlēapan (Old English) to “leap or run”

We can put these together and make a new word;  Gāthlēapan 

Courbette

the horse raises its forehand off the ground, tucks up forelegs evenly, and then jumps forward, never allowing the forelegs to touch down, in a series of "hops".

Hoppian (Old English) for “hop” 

@konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @celeluwhenfics and all the Rohan gang, if we ever want to write a fic about young Eomer and Eowyn learning to put their horses through their drills, here's maybe a bit of a starting point.

[anxiouswizardart]

Éomer with Firefoot

[frodothefair]

Related to your recent post: what do you envision for modern Éomer and modern Lothíriel? Who are they? What do they do? How do they meet? Tell me everything!!

Well, for the fic with the parking spot conflict in particular, here's what I imagined. @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras, you'll like this too, I'm sure.

Éomer and Lothíriel are young professionals in a large city. She is in her early 20's and he is in his late 20's. She is from a privileged family, and works for a publishing house as a junior editor, since she's always loved literature and is an aspiring writer herself, but at the stage in her life, she doesn't yet have any coherent ideas for a full fledged novel. Éomer is... well, at first Lothíriel assumes him to be a "finance bro" based on his appearance, his wardrobe, his car, and the hours he keeps. (Finance bros, by the way, have a reputation for working hard but partying harder, and being uncommonly full of themselves). However, in the end it turns out that he is a civil rights lawyer (a good type of lawyer :)), and is a partner in his uncle's law firm.

Anyway, they both live in a brownstone walkup on a small downtown street, and in such neighborhoods, real estate and parking come at a premium. The older houses don't come with parking attached, so you have to pay an arm and a leg for parking in a designated structure (usually several blocks away), or park on the street -- but there you have to compete with people who patronize local businesses, and it's generally an awful mess. Many people don't have cars for this precise reason.

On Lothíriel's street in particular, since most of the buildings are residential, there are unwritten rules about where everyone gets to park, and there are few outsiders to contend with because there are no businesses right there. However, when Éomer first moves in, he doesn't know the rules, and it becomes one car too many on the street.

One day, Lothíriel has enough, and taking advantage of the fact that it's snowy, she shovels out her usual parking spot and puts out two chairs and a sign (doing all of this in her high-heeled booties and her tights, no less). She then leaves for work.

But when she returns, Éomer's big, fancy car, with its characteristic "FIREFOOT" license plate, is there yet again.

And that's when Lothíriel bubbles over -- having had a stressful week at work shepherding a high-maintenance author named Nisilë (hello, self-insert!), her mother being in the hospital, the holiday stress getting to everyone in her friend group, and her father and her brother fighting over politics yet again.

She gets out of her car, double parked and leaving the hazard lights on, and is about to key his car in the darkness, but Éomer -- whose approach she did not notice -- catches her before she can do so.

Verbal barbs ensue, including "WHAT ADULT NAMES THEIR CAR?!" and angry speculation about whether or not Éomer can afford to pay for parking elsewhere, until at last, Lothíriel bursts into tears as a culmination of her stressful week, and after a few long moments of observing her, Éomer awkwardly puts a hand on her shoulder, and offers to take her out for a drink in Firefoot, which by the way has lovely, heated seats. :)

[howling-medic]

Alive Then

TW: Angst, mentions of violence, injuries

A/N: this is my first time writing both Éomer and Éowyn, so please be kind. I do, however, gladly accept feedback.

Dust still chokes the air around Éomer. Dust kicked up by flying hooves and long fighting - a fading remnant of battle in the eerie stillness that remained. Soon the space would be busy with the work of finding the wounded amongst the dead and carrying them to healers. For this one fleeting second he simply stands beside Firefoot and catches his breath. His chest heaves with the effort of drawing in enough air to soothe his aching muscles. His body begins the work of cataloging his aches and pains. His mind clears and begins to think beyond the singular goal of kill to stay alive. 

Alive. He is, in fact, alive. A very good start in one’s self assessment after a battle, in the scheme of things. Better than could be said of a lot of his men. The world feels hazy, though. The air shouldn’t be choked with dust, for the grass is green, and the ground is wet. The dust is not settling. Instead, its haze is getting thicker. There is an ache in his leg. He touches it, and his finger comes away wet and sticky. He just registers red before his face when his knees buckle. He can hear shouts coming from all around him as the world goes dark.

Before he opens his eyes, Éomer can feel the sun warming his face. His body aches, so surely he must be alive. He can only hope his reward for dying for his people would not be entering the afterlife injured. With more effort than it should require, he forces his eyes open to find himself laying in a familiar bed - one in the halls of healing in Edoras. Alive then. 

“Brother, you may not scare me like that ever again,” a familiar voice chides him. Alive and home. “The healers can only put you back together so many times.” Éomer turns, despite his muscles protesting, to face Éowyn. “I shall endeavor to watch my weak side more carefully, dear sister, but I only collapsed, and I made it home alive.”

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 7 of 7

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

Summary: As the King of Rohan journeys to Ithilien to celebrate Elboron's birthday, the whispers of the willow tree in his sister's garden unveil a tapestry of hidden truths and untold tales.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Word count: 6,764

Read it on AO3 here.

Another four years had passed since Théoden’s funeral, and King Éomer Éadig was riding through fair Ithilien, the shadows of the leaves dancing upon his face. Rarely had he seen lands so green, bathing in the sunlight filtering through the lofty branches of mighty trees. It was a much welcome respite from the dim setting of his court. 

Amidst the draining grind of his early days as a monarch, the signing of decrees and documents, the councils, the enunciation of edicts, the royal visits, the grievances, and other emergency measures, he found some reward in knowing that his people were cared for. He had reimagined the traditional ruling system, dissolved the titles of Second and Third Marshals, instead appointing Lord Erkenbrand and Lord Elfhelm as Marshals of the West- and East-marks. Things were changing for the better, and only few had opposed his decisions. But Éomer was a king willing to compromise — a quality that stubborn Théoden did not possess.

As he had once been foretold, he was a king loved by most and celebrated as a remarkable monarch. Life made a habit of keeping him on his toes, but he did not dislike it. Not even when, at the end of particularly hefty days, he would crash onto his bed, still dressed and with sore limbs, only to fall asleep the second his head would hit the pillow. Most of his role, albeit nerve-wracking at times, was something that he felt that he was born to do. It surpassed the duties of a prince, which he would never want to be burdened with again.

It was at the pinnacle of a new reform project that he had received a letter from Éowyn, inviting him to celebrate his nephew’s birthday at the prince’s court in Ithilien. At first, he had been hesitant to leave Edoras behind without a ruler, but when Elfhelm had offered to oversee the realm in his stead during his absence, he had accepted his sister’s summoning.

And so, he had ridden all the way from the capital on horseback. As a skilled rider, the prospect of being granted a luxury carriage to journey abroad was an offense to his person. If tragedy was to strike him then, then he would have a soldier’s death, as he had always willed it. It had been a long expedition, but as soon as the prince’s court was in sight, nestled among the trees and with ivy snaking up its columns, he felt relief that he could finally walk.

No sooner had he steered Firefoot onto the paved path to the modest palace, lined up with wildflowers and blue daisies, than a shrill voice resounded throughout the forest.

‘Mother! Uncle is here!’

Éomer lit up and advanced towards the porch, where he hopped off his steed to greet the little blond child darting towards him. His nephew threw himself into his arms and he picked him up effortlessly to embrace him, before emitting idiotic grunts and twirling the boy around, holding him upside down and tossing him onto his shoulder. All the while, the boy roared with laughter, more than delighted to see his uncle.

‘Happy birthday, little rascal!’ he cheered, gently rubbing his knuckles against the child’s scalp. ‘It has been far too long, how you have grown! Soon enough you will be towering over me!’

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ Elboron chuckled, while he was being adjusted to sit on Éomer’s shoulders instead.

Éowyn appeared on the doorstep, her long golden hair framing her shoulders even more gracefully than ever before. Being a mother and a healer had done her well — he had never seen his sister as merry as since she and Faramir had married and come to live in Gondor.

‘Elboron, give your uncle a moment to breathe,’ she called out. ‘Your auntie needs to descend from her horse, too.’

‘Listen to your mother,’ Éomer advised the boy, giving him a playful wink, ‘she is always right. Auntie will not be able to carry you this time, but fear not, I have all my strength to spare.’

‘Deal.’

Elboron clambered down from his uncle’s shoulders and ran up to his mother, clinging to the skirt of her dress and pressing his head to her thigh. Éomer watched him with a fond smile and turned his attention to the other horse that had been trailing behind his own. His eyes softened as he beheld its rider and felt butterflies in his stomach as though it had been their first encounter. He extended his hands towards her, letting the sunlight reflect upon the ornate golden band around his finger.

‘Come, beloved, let me help you,’ he murmured.

The woman atop the black mare — gifted by him on their wedding day — grinned down at him, her cheeks still flushed from the ride. Lothíriel slipped her delicate hands into his, trusting him to lift her off the saddle. His strong arms steadied her as she dismounted, and he held her longer than was necessary, solely to gaze into her eyes and savour the closeness.

‘You spoil me,’ she teased, her voice as light as the sea breeze.

‘Always,’ he responded, before capturing her lips with his, his fingers cupping her chin.

When they parted, Lothíriel’s mirth chimed along the rustling of the tall grass around the estate and the soft nickering of the horses in a harmony unlike anything Éomer had ever witnessed. He brushed a strand of her raven black hair behind her ear and placed a kiss onto her temple. Elboron rushed back towards them, followed by his mother, and the king released his queen from his embrace, although he laced a protective arm around her waist. After a brief greeting for his aunt, the boy began to spin around in circles around them with his arms outstretched, as though he was trying to hold the whole world.

The sight filled Éomer’s chest with an indescribable contentment that he had once thought beyond his reach. For all the trials and sacrifices that had marked his journey, moments like these reminded him why he endured them. His kingdom, his family, and the woman by his side — these were the treasures that made every burden worth bearing.

And in the warmth of her smile, Éomer found a peace that even the weight of the crown could not diminish.

Éowyn greeted them in turn, giving her older brother a tight hug, burying her face into his chest.

‘I have missed you terribly, Mer…’

‘And I you, Wyn.’

As she pulled away, he beheld his little sister and gave her cheek a loving stroke.

‘You look like Mother,’ he said. ‘You seem well, and happy; it warms my heart to see you this way.’

‘And you do not eat nearly enough!’

Lothíriel snorted behind the back of her hand.

‘If you have any recommendations on how I could shove a meal down his throat once or twice a day, I will never thank you enough,’ she jested.

His sister’s playful retort died on her lips as her eyes fell upon his wife. The queen stood poised and radiant, clad in her lavender gown and sapphire blue cloak. But it was not her beauty, nor her impeccable taste in garments that held her attention. Between the parted folds of the richly embroidered fabric, was a gentle curve that was unmistakable to her knowing eye. The Lady of Ithilien’s breath hitched as her hands flew to cover her mouth, her heart leaping with joy.

‘By the Valar!’

Lothíriel blushed, her elation more than apparent, and she instinctively cradled her belly.

‘The healer said that it should be a little over three months until I deliver.’

Éowyn lowered her hands, her smile breaking free like a dawn through the hills. She closed the distance between the expectant mother and herself to give her a warm embrace. As soon as she pulled away, still grinning at Lothíriel’s pregnancy, her surprise shifted into indignation. She slapped Éomer’s shoulder with the reverse of her hand, with no small amount of force, her lips pursed at her brother.

‘How dare you make your pregnant wife travel all the way from Edoras on horseback!’

Another slap thudded against the leather of his light armour.

‘And how dare you not send a letter to announce that she is with child!’

‘Ow! Wyn, ow!’ he winced, rubbing the spot, despite the snorts he could not conceal. ‘I thought that it was a matter deserving more respect than to be announced by an unknown messenger.’

‘More respect? Really?’ his sister protested with a tilt of her hip. ‘Had I not sent you an invitation for my son’s birthday, would you have bothered to come to Ithilien at all to announce it?’

‘Perhaps not, my duties have occupied most of my thoughts and time, through no fault but my own, I will admit. But I intended to invite you and your family to visit us.’

‘Mh. But, at least, you should have allowed Lothíriel to take a carriage to travel. Queen of the Rohirrim she might be, but this bairn will not fare well if its mother is subjected to such exhausting travelling. No arguing — when you return to Edoras, I shall arrange transportation for her. You are free to ride if you so wish.’

The king and the queen shared a knowing look and reluctantly accepted their host’s help. A few servants, both from Ithilien and Edoras, rushed to their side to take away the horses to the stables and carry their luggage inside. Éowyn overlooked the helpers as they bustled around and furrowed her brow.

‘Did Théodil not accompany you? Eithriel was looking forward to bake with her again.’

‘I have allowed her to take a leave of absence,’ Éomer responded. ‘She and Fréagar are travelling to his family’s farm in Dunfast to celebrate their wedding.’

‘Their—?’

For the briefest of moments, her features froze in startled disbelief, her brows arching as though caught between astonishment and doubt. Then, as brightly at the sun shone beyond the trees above their heads, her expression softened into a beaming smile, her pride unfurling with unrestrained warmth.

‘Good for them,’ she intoned with the utmost sincerity. ‘What a comforting change for Meduseld, that all may now thrive as equals.’

Éomer shrugged with a bashful grin. Indeed, many things had evolved under his reign. Oaths to be sworn by new servants had been abolished, and both maids and manservants enjoyed identical privileges and rights. All were free to take lovers and marry, although the matter of liaisons between diverging social ranks remained a delicate question, especially among courtiers. Temporary leaves were allocated to them so they could visit distant families, without having to worry about replacing them. Orphans from a house in Edoras were given the opportunity to step in until their return and a generous salary for their hard work. Those who desired to continue to serve the royal household were evaluated by Edelmer, who would then decide which position to assign them.

A year into his reign, Éomer had visited one of his lords and former brother in arms on his deathbed at his manor in Aldburg. When sitting by his side until his dying hour, he had recognised Théodil, his former chambermaid exiled by Théoden, among the maids. Since her master had no heir, she was fated to lose her livelihood once more. Éomer had approached her when she was alone to present a heartfelt apology for the harshness of her punishment under her uncle’s rule and offered her to follow him back to the capital to occupy a stable position at the Golden Hall. She had hesitated at first, then gave her own condition; Fréagar, the guard with whom she had entertained the affair that had resulted in their banishment, would have to be reinstated as a palace guard. Éomer had not hesitated — the wrong had to be righted for them both.

Now reunited, the whole family entered the Gondorian palace and enjoyed some well-earned rest after such a heavy journey. On the following day, they celebrated Elboron’s fourth birthday and spoiled the little boy. Wooden shields decorated with the arms of the House of Eorl, a pony, and a Rohirric rider’s helm brought by Éomer and Lothíriel had elated the child beyond compare.

In the late afternoon, when most of the cake had already been savoured, Elboron placed a small slice onto a plate and tugged at his uncle’s sleeve while the others were talking and Lothíriel was taking a nap, exhausted by her dizziness.

‘Come with me bring cake to Hillie?’

‘Hillie?’ his uncle repeated with an eyebrow arched. ‘Who is Hillie?’

‘My friend! She loves cake!’

Éomer glanced around for any indication of whether his sister or brother-in-law approved. Since Éowyn and Faramir were in a deep conversation with Prince Imrahil and Beregond about the reconstruction of Osgiliath, he eclipsed himself from the table with his nephew. The boy led him by holding his fingertips, holding the plate in his other hand, guiding him through the corridors of his father’s court.

‘So, who is Hillie, ‘Ron?’

‘My friend, I told you.’

‘Why did she not come to celebrate with us? She could have had cake then.’

‘Mother said that she was ill, and she was sleeping.’

‘Are we not going to disturb her rest, then, Elboron?’

‘No. We leave the cake, and she can eat later.’

Éomer chuckled and kept following his nephew until they exited the palace from the western wing. Before them stretched a green garden, adorned with a multitude of colourful flowers, which he knew Éowyn and Faramir had arranged themselves. Birds chirped from the branches, fluttered their wings between them, and butterflies passed along the neat rows of purple blossoms. In its centre, a marble fountain, enclosed in an arched gazebo bearing the arms of the couple’s lineage and realms, spouted water, its gurgling sounds adding to the serene atmosphere of the terrace.

Elboron stepped down the short stone staircase leading down to the garden and sauntered onto the gravel. His uncle followed him, admiring the magnificence of the place. What a shame that the soil of Edoras does not allow for such a display, he thought to himself, I would make a neat bed of flowers for Lothíriel.

The boy came to a halt on the opposite side of the fountain, by the edge of the garden, and crouched to place the piece of cake on a stone slab there. His curiosity piqued, Éomer approached and observed the surroundings for a silhouette, but he and his nephew were alone.

‘Where is she? You said she was sleeping. Is Hillie a hound?’

‘No, silly! She is here, Father said.’

He came closer and noticed that the plate had been set down at the foot of a tombstone covered in ivy. His heart ached for Elboron, whose innocence had been preserved from the reality of death by his parents. He crouched beside the boy and grinned at him.

‘This friend of yours, is she kind to you?’

‘Very! She tells me stories sometimes. And she sings lullabies when Mother and Father cannot.’

‘Then she sounds like a beautiful person within.’

‘Yes… But I have not seen her in months. Her nap is long.’

Éomer patted the boy’s back and turned to the headstone. He bowed to it to pay respect to the deceased and reached out towards the stone to free it from the invasive plant. As he did so, brushing his fingers against the engravings, his heart stopped. With a frown, he frantically scraped away the thin layer of moss that had grown since the burial, and, the name offered itself to his view, in full clarity.

Éorhild.

Stumbling back, he withdrew his trembling hand from the marker at once. Everything rushed back to seize him then. The swarms of butterflies in his stomach whenever he would find her waiting for him on the bench inside the hall. The long conversations where both she and he dared to bare their hearts for once, without fear of judgement. The scent of her hair caressing his senses when the wind blew through it on the hillside. The two of them huddled under his cloak when she shivered from the cold. Their first kiss and first tears. The morning that he woke up to find her working as his chambermaid despite her reluctance to accept. When he carried her back to Meduseld on Firefoot’s back when he had seen her collapse on the pavement. Their lovesick pleas to each other. Their single night between the sheets. Their burning skins against each other. The laughs and the embraces.

Inevitably, the heartbreak of losing her. The years spent chasing her across the kingdom for a chance to tell her that he loved her. The obligation to abandon all hopes of ever beholding her again. His unconsolable state on the morning of his wedding, when he had hidden from his servants to weep, biting into a rolled-up towel to muffle his anguish. His soft cries stifled by the pillow, which he knew Lothíriel pretended to not have noticed, as he lay with her on their wedding night.

Having not uttered a word after his startled fall, his silence worried Elboron, who gently shook his arm to pull him out of his reverie.

‘Uncle?’

Éomer covered his little hand with his own and placed a kiss into his blond curls. He wrapped a protective arm around the child’s small frame and pressed him to his side, as if to anchor herself as much as he did his nephew.

He could be misconstrued — Éorhild was a name from the Westfold, and she most likely was not the only woman to bear this name. Yet the presence of a Rohir, other than Éowyn herself, at Faramir’s court was unsettling. None of the maids that he knew there hailed from their land, all were Gondorian in origin, whether from Minas Tirith or other regions.

‘Tell me, Elboron, what sort of songs does Hillie sing to you?’

Reassured at last, the boy nestled further against him, twiddling with the folds on his uncle’s sleeve.

‘Many songs,’ he exclaimed. ‘She sings about horses, about the stars, and the moon… My favourite is the happy song.’

‘The happy song?’

The child nodded and hummed a tune, tilting his head from side to side and tapping his foot onto the gravel to mark the rhythm. Its haunting familiarity confirmed his suspicions. The woman buried under this stone, on the edge of the regal gardens, was his Éorhild. And she had taught his nephew his mother’s lullaby as well.

Éomer’s eyes filled with tears, but he forced himself to shield Elboron from them. Instead, he forced a brief smile, rubbing the child’s arm.

‘Is she good to you?’ he muttered, fighting against the tremor in his voice.

‘The best! She bakes nice pastries, and she is funny — we laugh a lot. When I am sad, she comes to hold me and sing to me, when Mother and Father are busy or absent.’

‘Elboron?’ a feminine voice rang out.

Simultaneously, they turned their heads towards the side of the palace, where they saw a distressed Éowyn, wrapped up into a shawl, calling out for her son. She had paused in the doorway, her hand still heavy on the iron latch. From the moment that she caught sight of them, a loud sigh rolled off her lip and her shoulders relaxed. However, when she saw where they were sitting and what they had been paying attention to, her concern re-emerged, and Éomer could perceive it even from where he sat.

‘Elboron, come inside, my love,’ she chimed towards her son. ‘Ask your Father to give you another slice of cake, mh?’

‘Yes, Mother!’

The child ran back to his mother and disappeared inside the house, eager to feast on another piece of the lemon cake that the maids had baked for him. Before Éowyn could close the door, Éomer’s deep voice thundered across the garden.

‘Éowyn, here. Right now,’ he commanded her with an icy glare.

‘One moment, Mer.’

His sister upheld a collected composure as she shut the door and descended the stairs. When she reached her brother, he had already risen from the ground, clenching his fists with his nostrils flaring with fury and the veins of his forearms taut. The mere sight of his cherished sister, who had dared keep such a secret from him, was beyond devastating.

‘You lied to me,’ he seethed, restraining himself from pointing an accusatory finger at her. ‘You, my own flesh and blood! How long was she in Ithilien?’

Éowyn met his fiery glare with a patience that only battle, heartbreak, and the building of a new life could have instilled.

‘Let me start from the beginning,’ she responded.

But he was not ready to listen. Not yet. His emotions, unfurling within him deafened him to any word of reason.

‘For years, you watched me rot into insanity over her absence,’ he screamed, his grief too great to mask. ‘You were the only one I confided in — about her, about everything. And that is how you treat me? By concealing Éorhild and her death from me?’

Tears streamed down his reddened cheeks as sobs wracked through his guts. Pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, he attempted in some way to contain this bereavement, but it was much greater than he. By casting a mere glance towards the grave, he felt his strength wane and found himself sinking to his knees onto the hard stone, his eyes reading the name over and over in hopes that it would eventually spell another.

‘You let me mourn a ghost for so long, and now she is gone. And you did not allow me to bid her farewell,’ he cried.

She raised a hand to silence him with the same authority that he used to still men on the battlefield. Her voice was steady, but it softened when her gaze landed onto the lone grave between them that, unbeknownst to him, she had dug herself.

‘Before you cast your judgement, brother, I bid you to listen,’ she said while fixing the tomb, as though it, too, deserved a confession. ‘You are not alone in your mourning, for I held her hand in her final moments. I bore witness to her last words, keeping them secured within my own heart and carrying the burden for her. Do you think it has cost me nothing to keep this truth from you? To shield you from a truth that I knew would break you and prompt you to act harshly?’

Éomer’s jaw tightened as he stared at the headstone.

‘How could you do this to me? Why, Éowyn? Why let me believe that she might still be out here, somewhere? Living a life I knew nothing about?’

‘Because you needed hope,’ she retorted, ‘and you had a duty at hand that you were ready to forsake altogether! You confessed to me that you would abandon the throne if you would find her, yet you thought not about the consequences of such an act. Who else would have ascended? We have no family left; it has been only you and me for the past four years. And Rohan would not accept a queen, let alone a Gondorian king. You would have ended an entire bloodline for a forbidden affair, and you would have broken Lothíriel’s heart in the process. Let us not mention the diplomatic crisis that it would have entailed!’

‘You robbed me of the chance to properly say goodbye!’

‘Éorhild had begged me to!’

The siblings held each other’s gaze in an eerie silence, as Éomer’s animosity vanished within a second. Why would Éorhild demand such a thing from his sister? Had she not loved him as much as he had loved her?

‘She would never have done such a thing,’ he muttered.

‘And yet, she did. She understood as well as I did that you were setting yourself for failure if you pursued her after your coronation. She did not want to see you shackled by guilt or haunted by her memory. She firmly believed that your reign would be a blessing from Béma himself.’

Éowyn stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm.

‘And if you had been there when she passed, would you not have taken her death as your own failure? Would you not have cursed yourself for not protecting her, though her fate was never in your hands?’ She paused, squeezing his shoulder. ‘Her final wish, Éomer, was for you to live as a king and as a man who could carry her love with him, not her loss. As one who knew duty from folly, who would remain faithful to his wife, no matter his contempt for her. Honour her memory as a selfless woman who forsook her happiness for your own, who preserved my family and yours from afar.’

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths and shared pain. Éomer traced the letters of her name, aching to call it out and see her return to him. For a long time, neither spoke. The only sound was the whisper of the wind, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the faint echo of distant songbirds.

‘She loved you, Mer,’ she said softly. ‘Enough to let go, so that you might pave your own path.’

Éomer closed his eyes, bowing his head as the weight of her words settled within him.

‘Tell me how you came across her. How she came to join you in Ithilien. I cannot wrap my head around it.’

She crouched beside him, wrapping her shawl tighter around her arms as the breeze rose.

‘Faramir and I were returning from Edoras after Elboron’s first visit when he was a baby, and I had decided to guide him through the Eastfold and the Rohirric towns I had visited in the past to teach him about our traditions, our language, and our culture.

‘One morning, as we ventured towards the market of Beaconwatch, we came across this feeble baker’s apprentice, with her hands bruised and burnt. I had a vague memory of her face, and she revealed to me that she had worked as a maid at Meduseld. When I asked her about the state of her hands, which I instantly tried to heal, she admitted that the baker she worked under showed little patience towards his apprentices, and he did not refrain from beating them if the pastries or the bread were not prepared exactly like he demanded.

‘So, knowing that our home in Ithilien would soon be finished, I offered her a position as my chambermaid. She refused at first; naturally, she expected the same restrictions as in Edoras, but I decided against upholding the same unreasonable standards imposed in Rohan. After negotiating her tasks and rights — which required nigh on no concession on our part, since I knew the quality of her work already — she followed us to Ithilien and helped us build our home here.

‘Éorhild was at the centre of our household as much as we are. When I could not find rest because of Elboron’s crying and teething and Faramir was not home, she would stay up with the baby and soothe him to sleep. She never complained. Not even once. She learnt to make our favourite meals and treats, and we would let her introduce us to new dishes in return. She became acquainted with Gondorian delicacies, and she would cook the best feasts when we did not yet have cooks here.

‘Faramir taught her to read in his free time. The ballads from every corner of Arda that she could decipher, she would sing to Elboron or to herself when washing the laundry. Sometimes, she and I would sing Rohirric chants while Faramir accompanied us on various instruments, when he was not frantically writing down the lyrics to save them for future generations. Truly, she was a delight to be around. She was family.’

Éomer listened attentively about his sister’s account of Éorhild’s life, which he had not been allowed to witness himself, not even from afar. It seemed that in the years they had been apart, she had found some joy in her life, and he could not help but rejoice at the idea.

‘Elboron said that she fell ill,’ he responded, prompting his sister to explain how his beloved Éorhild had come to pass.

‘Indeed,’ Éowyn sighed. ‘In the winter, she was coughing much more than usual, and the sounds of it began to worry me. As a trained healer, I tried my best to ease her pain and find the source of her ailment. When I found myself at a loss, I sent for one of the best healers in Minas Tirith to come urgently. But her lungs were beyond saving. There was nothing that either he or I could do. Sometimes, no matter how much effort and research you put into a patient’s case, it is simply not enough.’

He sniffled and rubbed his nose on his sleeve.

‘When did she die?’

‘In early spring.’

‘Did she suffer?’

Éowyn placed another loving hand upon his shoulder.

‘She did, but I did all I could to ease her pain.’

She turned to the grave as well, and smiled joylessly at the name inscribed into the stone.

‘Faramir called me urgently one afternoon, telling me that the end was near. I rushed into her chamber, and I sat by her side until the moment came.’

‘You mentioned her last words,’ he hiccuped. ‘What were they?’

‘First, she confessed her affair with you, apologising to me for having offended the House of Eorl with her affront. She was inconsolable, she would not listen to my saying that there had been no harm done, besides your anguish, which I thought gone.’

He scoffed.

‘But,’ she continued, ignoring his brief intervention, ‘after a moment of unconsciousness — so weak was she — she became aware of her end.’

And in every detail, she reconstructed the event as it happened, as faithfully as she could.

When her maid had awoken with a start, Éowyn had placed a hand over Éorhild’s forehead and felt that her twilight was approaching faster than she had assumed. With bated breath, her patient had held out her hand.

‘Draw near to me, my lady, for I feel my strength waning,’ she had pleaded. ‘Receive my last words to ease my soul and let it soar.’

The Princess of Ithilien had sat by her side on the bed and squeezed her hand as she leant closer, supported by Faramir’s touch on her shoulder. Éorhild’s eyes had illuminated with a twinkle as she gathered the last bits of her energy to utter her final words in her lady and lord’s confidence.

‘My lady, if ever there is need to cut me open once I have departed this unjust yet beautiful world, you shall find the name of Éomer Éadig engraved on my heart.’

And in a last rattling exhale, Éorhild was no more.

Tears streaked Éomer's face at the realisation that, even after nearly six years apart, his beloved Éorhild had borne him in her mind and soul until her very last breath. His sister held him, laying her golden head upon his shoulder for comfort. Her hand held his skull to hers as she let him express his grief, but there came a time when she pulled away and rose to her feet.

‘Cry for as long as you want, Mer. This grief is your own,’ she murmured. ‘But remember that a loving wife is waiting for you in your room, and that your heir is on their way. Do not lose sight of them. Embrace them like Éorhild wanted you to. Do not lose sight of what matters, Éomer. In your bed lies your expecting wife who loves you more than she does the sea — and that is quite telling, coming from her. Do not neglect her for a ghost that shall bring you nothing but grief. Rejoice that Éorhild passed surrounded by people who loved her like family, and not like yet another maid to replace, or worse, beaten to death by that damned baker. She never ceased to love you, and everything she did, even saving you from her own presence, was in your best interest. Do not throw away all she worked hard for in your name.’

And, she departed, leaving him to mourn alone by the grave.

Éomer pressed his forehead to the cold stone and bit his closed fist to stifle the howl that wracked him as he wept. His tears dripped onto the rim of the small, ornate plate that Elboron had brought for his Hillie.

What a sweet nickname for such a wonderful person.

One by one, all the reunion scenes that he had imagined along the years dissipated into smoke, wafting through the sky. In consolation, he found solace in the idea that, somewhere beyond the sparse clouds, her soul collected and nurtured them. Perhaps, when his day would come, she would welcome his own spirit in a way he had so long yearned for. And then, only then, could they love freely.

But Éowyn was right. He had a family to protect and raise, a realm to lead, and all the Rohirrim to provide for. His desolation could not be an obstacle. As much as he had loved her — and did —, Éorhild was to remain someone from his past, regardless of how much she still influenced his present. In order to ensure his own thriving and that of his people, it was Lothíriel he had to build a future with.

And, in truth, he was rather content with the prospect. His heart, although haunted by Éorhild, now beat for his goddess from Dol Amroth, the woman who had infused so much joy into his existence and never ceased to amaze him. Now, he had to concentrate on supporting her during her pregnancy and holding her hand while she would insufflate life into their child. He had much to look forward to — the countless stories she would recount to him at bedtime, the moments of complicity they would share, the celebrations of their love, the gatherings of their families, holding their newborn and watch it grow into both a gentle and kind person and a fierce and firm ruler who would do anything for the good of the land.

Even the hardships were something he would love to endure by her side. Arguments, fear, grief, tempests and famine, war and death — he could sustain it all with Lothíriel. He would let himself be pierced by all the arrows of fate to shield her from evil. If a single tear was to grace her cheek, he would defy anybody who had caused it to even form in her eye. He would read every manuscript in the realm and in her father’s archives to encourage her in her passion for them.

His kingdom for her hand.

Éomer sat back on his heels to catch his breath and caressed the stone under his fingers. It was time for goodbyes. Final farewells.

‘Good day, Éorhild,’ he whispered, his eyes flickering between the headstone and the sky, unsure where to turn. ‘It is I, your Éomer.’

Another wave of tears seized him. He hastily halted their course with the back of his wrist.

‘This is not how I wished for our paths to cross again,’ he whimpered between sobs. ‘Oh, Béma, you have no idea how much I have missed you and miss you still.’

He shifted his knees closer to the marker and sat beside it, leaning his head onto it.

‘What to say… I am a married king, but you knew that already. Lothíriel is expecting our first child. The whole realm is blessing us with wishes for a boy, but truth be told — and you will be the only one to know, so do not tell —, I would much rather raise a daughter.’

He let out a chuckle and brushed a fragment of moss that had caught in the inscription of her name.

‘Back in the days, I would have wanted to raise one with you. On a beautiful estate, somewhere, far from Meduseld. A home we would have built together, as we once dared to dream. But life has separated us in a most cruel manner,’ he reflected, running his tongue inside his cheek, finding this monologue to soothe his nerves. ‘I have no doubt that Lothíriel will be a brilliant mother. You know, the beginning of our marriage was rough for the both of us. I was still aching for you, and I did not give her a chance to win me over. Yet she did, and ever since, she has been a beacon of light amidst the darkness I have settled in after you left. There are still times when I struggle with it, but she makes it easier by the day.’

A smile passed onto his lips at the recollection of the sweet moments he has experienced with his wife.

‘We fell in love, she and I. And I thank the Valar every day for her presence in my life, but there is still this part of me that belongs to you and always will.’

Above him, a dove fluttered its wings and circled into the air, before flying away.

‘When you left, I thought that my whole world had ended. I cared about nothing anymore, only about finding you again and marrying you despite it being forbidden. But that did not happen, now, did it? Now, when I find you at last, you are gone and interred. I resent Éowyn for never telling me that you were here all along. One day, I will forgive her, but for now, I need to feel. I need to feel you near again, no matter in what form.’

Emotions constricted his heart once more, and he placed a hand onto the bed of grass under which she lay, to both ground himself and reach out to her.

‘Were you happy, Éorhild? Did Gondor treat you better than Rohan ever did? Did you feel free at last?’

His fingers clutched some of the grass blades as a sob rose in his throat, but he forced himself to release them. Not her grave. Any grass but that growing on her grave.

‘As king, I do everything in my power to overturn the laws that have harmed you and I. All oaths have been repealed, and all servants are free to love and wed. Théodil and Fréagar both returned to Edoras, and now they are married. How I wish you were here to see these changes, beloved.’

Inside the house, voices rose as the maids wished Elboron a happy birthday in the kitchen and sang for him in turn.

‘I am sorry for not holding your hand as you passed. I would have come, you know? Had you or Éowyn said the word, I would have come to see you go in peace. I would have kissed you one last time and said a proper farewell, not one to a deaf stone. I would have sung you my mother’s lullaby in hopes that you would have found it as pacifying as I do. Now, it does not only bear my mother’s memory, but yours too.’

His forehead found the cool stone again.

‘Thank you for everything you have ever done for me, whether from the shadows or in plain sight. Thank you for having brightened up my life for evermore. But, also, thank you for attending to my sister and Faramir with such care, and for helping them raise Elboron. I am sure that he will grow more empathetic and kind thanks to your patience when comforting him. I truly owe you my life, Éorhild, and my life you will always have.’

Éomer pressed a kiss to her name and covered it with his hand before bringing it over his heart.

‘So be at peace, daughter of Rohan, and let your spirit soar, for your memory will be carried on for as long as I draw breath. All my efforts to improve our people’s lives, I shall carry in your name, so nobody will ever endure what you and I suffered. Know that my love for you is infinite and, when I too must die, your name will, in letters of gold, be engraved on my heart. Farewell, my Éorhild.’

Author's note: So... You made it to the end! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for having read this little story, which was challenging when it came to the writing style but also was my first full Lord of the Rings fanfiction. I would like to thank everyone who interacted with it and gave it even a little bit of love. You motivated me to write after so long without writing anything daring or serious, and that means the world to me. Hopefully, you don't hate me too much now that the curtain has fallen, and if you're willing to read more about the silly little ideas in my head, I hope you will enjoy the other stuff I put out there (not all of them are as dramatic, I promise). Thank you again for making this little author happy!

Tag list: @emmanuellececchi @konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras

If you wish to be tagged (or no longer tagged), don't hesitate to let me know!

[themoonlily]

Firefoot with everyone else: chooses violence every day

Firefoot with Éomer, Lothíriel and Elfwine: the goofiest horse that ever existed

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Hello! I'm seeking your wise Rohan knowledge.

I recently watched ROTK again and I have two questions for you.

1. What horse does Aragorn ride to the black gate?? Because it LOOKS like Breggo but how would he have gotten him back after he fled at the mountain pass and didn't leave that way? Did he give some soilder a special mission to go get his horse back? Did he go himself like???

2. Do you happen to know or have any headcannons about what any of the other Rohirric horses names are? (Minus Firefoot, Snowmane, and whatever Merry's pony he rides to the encampment that starts with a s is???)

Hello, anon! Let’s see what horse-based info we have!

To start, I believe that was meant to be Brego again, though how he got there after having fled from the Paths of the Dead is entirely unexplained! (This is just one inexplicable thing about Brego!*) I prefer to imagine instead that the horse Aragorn takes to the Morannon is the one he had in the book: Roheryn, a gift from Arwen who was brought to him by his fellow rangers on the road to Minas Tirith.

As for named Rohirric horses other than Firefoot, Snowmane and Merry’s pony (Stybba, or “stubby”!), there are a few: 1) Éowyn’s horse Windfola (“wind foal”); 2) Arod (“quick”) and Hasufel (“grey skin”), who were lent by Éomer to Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn; 3) Lightfoot, the father of Snowmane; 4) Shadowfax (“grey hair”), king of all horses!; and 5) Felaróf (“very valiant”), Shadowfax’s ancestor and ridden by Eorl himself.

It seems to be the Rohirrim’s general practice to either name horses for their physical features (color of coat, etc.) or a personal attribute, so I’ve followed that when creating my own HC horse names. So Elfhelm’s horse is Fléotig (“swift”). Wídfara’s horse is called Cypren (“made of copper”), and Guthláf’s horse is Syndrigan (roughly “special one”). Háma’s horse was called Ánhydig (“resolute” but also “stubborn”). I think that might be it so far?

Was that helpful at all? I hope so! Thanks for checking in — I love a good horse of Middle Earth!

*If Brego was Théodred’s horse and scarred by the experience of having his rider killed, then I agree with Aragorn that it would have been the generous thing to retire him and let him live his remaining years in peace. But apparently they decided that “let him live in peace” meant to turn him loose on the plains while wearing a halter AND A LEAD ROPE??? Which is an extremely dangerous thing to do, because that rope could have gotten caught on anything and trapped him or tripped him and caused a fatal injury. NO SELF-RESPECTING ROHIRRIM WOULD DO SUCH A THING!!!!!

[celeluwhenfics]

Weekly Rohan poll!

[bookish-tardigrade]

Fanfiction Recommendations for Tolkien Gen Week 2023

Hello everyone!

I have a huge collection of LotR fanfiction that I love to read and revisit. For @tolkiengenweek, I compiled a couple fics from that collection as per the day-wise prompts. So this is a kind of gen-fic rec list. Do let me know how you like the fics and please tag the authors of the fics here if you know their usernames! Also don't forget to leave a comment on their work if you liked it :D

Most works are from Stories of Arda, and Fanfiction.net. Some are also from AO3.

The full list of fics arranged prompt-wise is below the cut.

DAY ONE: Family ● Mentorships ● Community

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13983155/1/A-Lesson-Remembered A Lesson Remembered (Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas teach a young Estel to fight. fluff!!) 

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=240 Blood of Kings (Theoden takes Eomund’s place to support Eomer through an important ceremony. Fluff!)

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=5346 Dawning Hope (Theoden and theodred help Éomer and Éowyn adjust to Edoras after their mother's death) (so sweeet and full of love and compassion!)

4. http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=5429 Dawning Hope: A Day Out (theodred takes Éomer and Éowyn out riding and...)

5. https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10176609/1/Fathers-and-Daughters Fathers and Daughters (Imrahil and Lothiriel's relationship throughout the years.)

6. https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13194454/1/make-the-world-safe-sound-for-you make the world safe & sound for you (Boromir and Faramir spend time with their young cousins. pre-war, ofc. pure fluffff.) 

DAY TWO: Friendship ● Animals ● Group Dynamic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149706/chapters/2330031 A Conspiracy of Hobbits (how did Sam, Merry, Pippin and Fatty plan their conspiracy?)

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=2094 A Different Sort of Game (an intra-fellowship food contest on the way to caradhras)

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=74&cid=323 An Elf, A King and Blueberry Tarts (exactly what the title says.)

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=5992 Eight Elven Cloaks (eight maidens of the lady Galadriel weave the fellowship cloaks and blessings) 

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=6441&cid=27882 A Yule to Remember (the fellowship celebrates Yule)

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=3091 Healing the Healer (the hobbits take care of Aragorn, who has cold. fluffy!)

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=2892 In the Deep Places (the evolution of Legolas and Gimli's unusual friendship.)

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=7055 The Riddle of Strider (bilbo comes to know Aragorn and writes him some verses)

9. https://archiveofourown.org/works/38280559/chapters/95651293 His Humble Opinion (exploring the relationship between Éomer and firefoot)

10.  http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=1101&cid=4382 Havoc in Hollin (pippin is a frog. or is he? - by Gandalf) 

DAY THREE: Gray Spaces ● Enemies and Rivalries ● Fealty

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13526063/1/Brother-Captain-King Brother, Captain, King (Faramir's musings about his liege lord and king.)

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13477219/1/Coming-of-Age Coming of Age (Elboron comes of age. so sweeeeet omg!)

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=7124&cid=31715 Oaths of Allegiance (Faramir swears oaths to two very different liege lords)

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/1381980/1/ Proof (stories about Faramir and (his) rangers of Ithilien.) 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017881 A Captain and a Cause (thorongil and a young boy in minas tirith.)

DAY FOUR: Solo ● Work and Craft ● Language

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26066944 Down From the Door Where It Began (pippin reflects on how he's changed after the quest.)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15472 Emblematic (aragorn's musings during the fellowship's journey.)

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11345772/1/B%C3%A9ma Béma! (Eothain gives Amrothos rohirric lessons. yes, while drinking.)

DAY FIVE: Culture ● Diversity ● Traditions

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=4246 Making It Right (the hobbits bring shire traditions into Aragorn and Arwen's wedding.) 

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=3515&cid=13364 Mushroom Lore (the fellowship exchanges shroom dishes according to their regional recipes.) 

DAY SIX: Environment ● Places ● Objects and Symbols

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=107 Belts of Silver, Leaves of Gold (Merry and Pippin receive some relics from their quest) 

DAY SEVEN: Freeform

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=7436&cid=37395 Shadow and Flame (Glorfindel helps Faramir and Legolas overcome ptsd attacks)

http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=7438&cid=37405 Black Raven (Faramir meets someone in the woods)

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13525384/1/Ballista Ballista (Faramir's geometrical theories are tested in the battle of the Pelennor fields)

[swordoaths]

@homebehind sent: [HAIR]: in the process of pushing the receiver's hair back from their face, the sender lets their hand rest against the receiver's cheek a moment longer. (lothíriel & éomer!)

Éomer had always been whole if ever he was in the saddle, but there was wholeness anew in his heart for this ride. With one hand on the reins and the other wrapped securely round Elfwine, he saw the world not only through the framing of Firefoot's ears, but also his son's eyes. The plains had never been more golden, the sun had never been more bright, Elfwine's laughter had never been more joyous, and his heart had never been more full. Low and steady was Éomer's song as they rode-- sung to the rhythm of Firefoot's gait-- and he felt Elfwine find his seat until all three were one. Éomer turned his gaze to Lothíriel, who rode beside them, and the rays of sunlight caught the glistening in his eyes.

The sun had been shining down upon the plains when they rode out, but now it sank low on the horizon. All too soon, it was time to dismount.

"You shall ride circles round us before long," Éomer spoke with pride as he gathered his son from the saddle.

Once he was in his arms, Éomer lifted a hand to brush the stray strands of hair from Elfwine's face before a sleepy Elfwine rested his head in the crook of his neck. It was then Éomer looked to Lothíriel, and though his hands were full, his gaze reached out to her. "And so we shall treasure these rides now, ere you grow too big to ride with your father." His voice was quieter as Elfwine fell asleep in his arms, but not so quiet that Lothíriel could not hear. She answered him thus: with a gentle hand that reached to tuck the loose strands of his hair away from his face. "How he has grown," he murmured. And when her hand rested against his cheek, he leaned into her touch with eyes closed. A moment that would be sung about for years hence.

[hobbitwrangler]

a fish, floundering on dry land by ncfan (Finduilas, Ivriniel, Denethor) Love the depiction of the impact Minas Tirith has on Finduilas and the contrast with her childhood in Dol Amroth. Also featuring Ivriniel and Denethor's sister!

What Comes Naturally by @imakemywings (Míriel/Indis) Wonderful investigation of the complexity of Míriel's emotions surrounding motherhood, the raw emotion in this is fantastic and I love the author's portryal of Míriel.

Mutual In Divine Love by @elvain (Arwen/Éowyn) Thank you for this fic MK, I loved the emphasis on Arwen and Aragorn becoming their own people separate from ideas of fate and mimicking their ancestors.

one of your girls by @swanmaids (Celegorm/Oromë) Beautiful writing, Celegorm's self-loathing internal monologue, Ainur mystery cults, this fic has everything!

Ride Out In The Country by @elvain (Éomer/Lothíriel) Sweet and funny look at Éomer and Lothíriel's relationship, I love Firefoot's personality in this.

Transcript of Divorce Proceedings: Mairon v. Melkor by @imakemywings (Morgoth/Sauron) An absolute scream from start to finish, the messy Angbang divorce we all deserve.

floristry by @swanmaids (Fingolfin) Beautiful, vivid depiction of the Noldor arriving in Middle Earth and Fingolfin's emotional state as he leaves his old life behind.

Happy Friday, Fellowship! 💛

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