#Eomund

[mummelthecryptid]

The royal line of Rohan on inherited mental illness

[torchwood-99]

Eowyn's Pre-Canon Life

Inspired by @emyn-arnens post

Eomund is usually away on campaigns and Theodwyn is in charge of running Aldburg in his absence. When Eomund is home he spends most of his time with Eomer, preparing him for leadership.

Eomer gets most of the attention from the people at Aldburg, who make a fuss of him as a future lord. Eomer is favoured over Eowyn by most of the people. Not only is he the lord, and the people are eager to please him, but Eowyn is reserved and resentful, and Eomer is outgoing and friendly.

When she was little, Eowyn used to throw tantrums about this but was scolded and punished harshly, and told to act like a young lady. If she got too rowdy playing with Eomer, she would also be told to behave and calm down, in a way Eomer wasn’t (not that harshly, but it stung nonetheless),  and if an adult got involved in a childish squabble with Eomer, the adults would side with him, or be significantly less harsh on him if he was undeniably in the wrong, and find some way to twist it back around to Eowyn.

 As a result she learned to repress her emotions early on, and became deemed as “cold” and “sulky”.

Eomer gets more attention from Theodwyn. As she is acting Lord in her husband’s absence, she has Eomer accompany her in her duties, so he can learn to be Lord of Aldburg, and because he reminds her of Eomund.

 Theodwyn prefers Eomer’s company because she sees the best of both herself and Eomund in him, and not knowing what to make of Eowyn, except that she’s rather like her mother, who Theodwyn had always fancied as haughty. 

Theodwyn herself is either very cheerful or very tearful, and naturally effusive and openly affectionate, while Eomund is “sunshine and storms” either being boisterously cheerful or furiously angry. Neither Theodwyn nor Eomund really understand Eowyn’s reserve, and they dub her as a “little changeling”, in a way they mean to be affectionate, but doesn’t really translate as such.

During the day, Eowyn is usually left with the womenfolk of Aldburg, who (being overworked and having their own families to care for as well as their work) are impatient with her. They do teach Eowyn household duties, but Eowyn dislikes the work and resents Eomer not having to learn it, resulting in her getting a lot of scoldings.

Eomer is the only person at Aldburg who consistently shows Eowyn affection, having been told at a young age that it is his “duty” to protect her, so if anyone is outright unkind to Eowyn or shows him blatant favouritism over her, he sticks up for her, however he still takes a lot of the favouritism shown to for granted, as he (and Eowyn) have been raised to expect it.

Eomer sometimes asks Eowyn why she isn’t as nice and warm as he knows she is capable of being, and tries to encourage to be so, but Eowyn believes herself to be the bad and sulky child she’s treated as and thinks she can’t help it. 

After Eomund’s death Aldburg suffers a great deal, as Theodwyn is unable to handle running Aldburg in her grief.

When Theodwyn falls ill, as Theodwyn’s closest kinswoman, it is Eowyn’s duty to sit with her on her deathbed to witness her passing. Theodwyn spends her coherent moments asking for Eomund and Eomer, who sometimes seem to become one in her mind.

After Theodwyn’s death, Eowyn keeps to herself and is often forgotten. Eomer is busy observing the lords left in charge so he can learn about leadership, and he becomes more focussed on learning to fight, determined to avenge his family. 

Theoden arrives to take the children into his care. Eowyn is dazzled by him and sees in him everything she wishes to be. Theoden meanwhile expects a child who has just lost her parents to be a bit “odd”, and dismisses the court’s warnings that she’s a naturally bad tempered child, so he is patient and affectionate with her in a way few adults are. He also encourages Eomer to play a bit more, which means Eowyn has her old playmate returned to her somewhat.

Eowyn warms up to Theoden in a way she hasn’t anyone else, and on returning to Edoras he initially makes a lot of her and Eomer, feeling sorry for them for what they have suffered. The rest of Theoden’s court follow suit.

Theoden’s attention to Eowyn wanes once she is settled, and he leaves her upbringing to the court, but he still makes a bit of a fuss of her when he sees her, giving her presents and taking her and Eomer out on rides. Eowyn loves these excursions, and finds her uncle’s company very exciting.

Eowyn is also allowed to start training as a shieldmaiden (which is customary for ladies of the nobility, more as a traditional practice than for practical reasons) and proves herself quick witted enough to be educated alongside her brother, which focusses her energies.

She’s sent to assist in duties around Meduseld, both in the house, but also in the stables and the village. While she doesn’t like the more domestic chores, the company is more friendly to her, and she’s able to tolerate it because she’s also doing work she enjoys. 

She gradually becomes popular with the people at Edoras, as popular as her brother. She isn’t as easy in her manners as Eomer, being naturally rather serious, but people find this precocious and admire her sincerity and depth of feeling, and many of her uncle’s court take pride in being able to make her laugh and smile.

That the people in Edoras don't have cause to favour Eomer over Eowyn as they do in Aldburg also means they are treated (on a personal level) on slightly more equal grounds, although Eomer as future lord and Marshall still gets attention and training that Eowyn doesn't, and Theoden is more hands on in his training. At the same time, Eowyn is more likely to be "indulged" (given treats and coddled slightly) as there is less need of her to grow up "hardy and strong" like Eomer.

Having been treated rather coldly her whole life, and believing this to be her own fault, she credits her uncle with the change in attitude towards her, and this incentivises her worship of him. Theoden is amused by this and quite enjoys the adulation, so once she has reached her teens he makes her his cupbearer.

When Eomer leaves to become Lord of Alburg, he offers to bring her along, but her memories of Aldburg and her love and gratitude towards Theoden and Edoras keeps her in Edoras. 

Eowyn becomes acting Lady of Edoras, and while she likes the rank and responsibility it gives her, she finds the work dull and repetitive, and longs to become a Rider. This is denied her, as Theoden, Theodred and Eomer all agree that having "a woman" in their ranks would only cause discord.

Of all her duties, Eowyn finds healing the most interesting, as it challenges her intellectually and physically. She likes making potions and gathering the ingredients, and she likes getting to leave the house to visit patients in the town. 

She is very aware that when her cousin and brother marry, her standing will drop, as both Edoras and Aldburg will have a lady. Knowing she is forbidden to join an eored, she resolves to travel to Minas Tirith to become a fully trained healer.

She thinks having a trade will grant her freedom to go wherever she likes, and the rank of healer will ensure she will continue to have authority and prominence after Theodred and Eomer wed, in a way that isn’t tied to her male relations. 

She works on Theoden to allow her to go, and he is inclined to do so, but then he sickens, and he takes back his permission. Eowyn feels it is her duty to tend to him, and dedicates herself to his comfort, out of gratitude for everything he’d done to her. 

Besides, as the king’s loyal counsellor, Grima Wormtongue, points out, Gondor’s friendship to Rohan has been suspect of late, and it’d be a bad idea to send a hostage straight into their hands. 

[emmanuellececchi]

A sad and yet very beautiful story. your way with words is always impressive. I am in awe of your writing, as I am in awe with how you show those emotions , those moments...

🥀 Unwary 🥀

After working on and off for MONTHS and staring at it a long time, here’s the Théodwyn story many of you have heard me agonizing over. I can’t look at it anymore, so we’re just hitting “post”!

It’s called Unwary, which is one of the few words Tolkien gives us to describe Théodwyn’s husband Éomund. He was a “hater of orcs” who often rode against them “in hot anger, unwarily and with few men.” That got him killed and, shortly thereafter, Théodwyn herself died of an illness. This story is my attempt to tie all that together.

Note that Théodwyn’s 3 (canonical but nameless) sisters are here; they came to help after Éomund’s death. You’ll see I gave 2 of them Gondorian names; more explanation of that at the bottom if you’re interested.

There is a fire inside Théodwyn that will not be doused.

It has smoldered for years, just waiting for the breath of air that would coax its glowing embers to life and send a wave of flame racing through her as though she were made not of bone and blood but of kindling and fuel. Now lit by Éomund’s inevitable death, the fire burns bigger and hotter each new day that dawns without him, and it laps at her heart, singeing and charring until there is nothing left but heat. Gone is anything soft and pliant, anything tender or understanding, replaced instead by blistering fury.

She stalks the plains outside of Aldburg in the dark, crunching heavily over glittering, frost encrusted grass. She is trying to outrun that fury, though a fortnight of this new nightly ritual has achieved no such thing so far. But if she cannot leave her anger behind, maybe she can still exhaust it, tire it enough that it can be wrestled into submission and leave her in peace. Deep down, she suspects the effort is in vain, but she has no better plan. She is bereft of ideas, just as she is now bereft of laughter and sympathy and hope. Her husband is just one of many things suddenly missing from her life, and he is not the one she most wants back.

Sweat soaks into both her dress and cloak, and large red blooms form on her cheeks. Each gale of frigid wind catches the dampness at the small of her back or along her hairline beneath her hood, and sends a wave of wracking chills across her heated skin. But her pace never falters despite the passing of long hours and long miles. Over the sound of her boots grinding delicate ice into so many shattered crystals, she mutters her mantra again and again, hissing out the words in time with the rhythm of her steps.

I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen.

The night is her time to let this anger out, far away from Éomer and Éowyn, both much too young to be burdened with the knowledge that their dead father was a reckless fool. Someone who couldn’t control his own impetuous need to act and, worse, refused to accept a cautioning hand even from one he professed to honor and cherish. She had begged him not to go, to delay for even a single hour until more men could be gathered to join his small party of riders. But he had been blind, as ever, to anything but his own rash impulses and instincts. He had scoffed at her fears, swept aside her concerns, given bold assurances that weren’t in his power to make. And now he was being hailed as a fallen hero while she was left alone with the consequences of his folly, to manage a tragic loss that she knew to be entirely of his own making.

She hadn’t always felt this way about him. There was a time when she found his passion and spontaneity exciting. Stirring. Romantic. To be the object of his attentions, to be the desire that he would overturn the world to sate, was a special brand of intoxicant, and she drank it in willingly. His quickness to action and his unfailing courage set him apart from other men, and he gained much by risking more than others could stomach. She felt his every gain as her own, and they ran heedless together through the world, two free souls as yet unchecked by the realities of life.

But what felt brave and thrilling and decisive when they were twenty had begun to look much different on the doorstep of forty, when he had already gained more than most men could dream of and only stood now to lose what had been so daringly won. Slowly, creepingly, she began to see his whims as childish, his zealotry as self indulgent. It surprised her every bit as much as him, but somewhere along the way, with age and responsibility and perspective, she became the person who would check him as life never had. The person to ask questions, to say no, to thwart his boldest ambitions and disappoint his most absurd hopes.

Whenever she did, he would look at her as though he looked upon a stranger, an unrecognizable drudge that had stolen the body of his daring and passionate wife. He would look at her as though she had broken faith with him, betraying their bond by choosing to accept that they lived in a world of constraints and limitations. And then she would hate herself, and him, too.

A dull, thudding pain hammers away in the space right behind her eyes, and her muscles and joints ache with every wearied step, calling out for rest. To sit or lay quietly for a while might ease the strain that has increasingly weighed on her body these last few days, the strain of too little sleep, too little food, too little protection from the harsh bite of winter. But she no longer cares for physical ease or comfort. She can endure without them; it has always been the way of the Rohirrim to bear such things without complaint. What she cannot bear is the seething in her mind during moments of stillness, those times of lonely silence while others sleep and she can only gnaw on the bones of her grievances and look with contempt at her memories now tainted by abandonment. And so she stomps through the cold desolation instead, the frozen cloud of her breath drifting along in the wake of a body indulging in the only escape available.

She knows she should be at home in case her children need her, and she knows that her sisters disapprove of how she has been acting. You’ll catch your death out there, says Edlenniel each night as she walks out the door. You need to start taking better care of yourself, clucks Théopryte, a critical eye cast over her increasingly bony figure, her unkempt hair. And this, too, makes her angry, the insistence of her elder sisters on treating her as though she is still a child even now. Nothing she does is ever good enough in their eyes – her home is too untidy, her language too profane, her daughter too much at liberty to run wild rather than learning the ways of respectable girlhood. And now she cannot even grieve correctly.

In truth, she had not expected to mourn this way. The day Éomund rode off, she had imagined her own reaction to the eventual return of his meager company without him. Sorrow, longing, despair, regret – these had been anticipated despite her frustrations. But when Éothain knocked at her door with the news, watery eyes rimmed with red and a battered horse-tailed helmet in hand, she felt none of those things. They vanished in an instant, disappeared from her heart and mind, perhaps never to return. Instead, she became like the cicadas that come to Rohan every dozen years and litter the ground with their delicate molted shells, perfectly formed images of themselves that have been deserted, no longer fit for use and liable to shatter under the slightest of pressures.

Now every interaction, every well-meaning friend or suffering relative, is at risk of being the next target of the dull blade of her anger, always at the ready to hack and slice ineffectually at those who draw her attention and, thus, her scorn. The neighbors who look at her pityingly as they pass by. The men of Éomund’s company who expect her to join them in their grief. Even her sweet son, all knobby knees and gangly elbows, works an inflamed nerve as he swings a sword much too big for him, vowing to protect their house now in his father’s absence. It’s a mother’s job to protect her child, not the other way around, she says to the thin frame and slight shoulders that are not yet grown enough to bear his own charge. You have years left just to be a boy, safe under my care. But it is said through gritted teeth, her tone emotionless, and he doesn’t believe her.

She has enough awareness still to see what she’s become, and though she cannot change it, she knows to try to hide it. She labors each day to be the mother her children need, sitting with them as they cry and holding her tongue when they paint Éomund in their remembrances as a valiant hero, a man to rival all the greatest legends of song. But they know that something isn’t right within her; some voice inside their childlike minds warns them of peril in the one place where they were trained never to expect it. Éomer has stopped asking why she doesn’t cry, and Éowyn now clearly prefers to seek her comfort from Tadiel, whose soft arms, doughy middle and doting indulgence provide what Théodwyn’s sharp, angular body and brittle bearing simply can’t or won’t.

As it inches toward sunrise, she reluctantly turns toward home again, where soon the rest of the household will begin to stir and her absence will be noted, frowned about and tsked over. The judgment of her sisters is no real concern, but she doesn’t want to add to the worries of her children. For them, she will fight to maintain even the barest pretense of normalcy. For her children, she will sit in that house among the remains of Éomund’s life – his belongings, his clothes, his scent – and she will struggle to breathe through the poisonous resentment that is trapped in her throat because she cannot allow it to pass her lips. For her children, she will choke.

The gate comes into view and, beyond it, the garden that she once loved and nurtured into glory, now gone dormant for the winter. She stumbles on the rise to the path, and a knee drives into the frozen ground. She rights herself with difficulty, grunting in the effort, and she curses at this clumsiness. Weakness of body has never been a challenge of hers, and she cannot understand the heavy, dragging feeling that follows her to the door. For the first time, she considers whether everything – the throbbing head, the sweating skin, the screaming joints – is not just a product of exertion but something more serious. Something brought on by the refusal to rest, to eat, to stay warm, to accept comfort and support. It is an unsettling thought, and she tries to push it from her mind as she slips quietly inside.

The frozen sting in her fingertips and toes is a strange counterpoint to the burning heat of her forehead and cheeks, and she collapses into a chair by the fire, waiting out the gradual thaw of her frost-dulled limbs and the eventual return of her body to how it is supposed to feel. But though her fingers slowly lose their bluish tinge and sensation tentatively returns to her feet, the heat in her face and the exhaustion in her muscles only grow. Time ticks by, innumerable minutes that seem like hours, and she can feel it all continue to worsen. What little energy she had now spills from her body like the blood of the stags that Éomund used to hunt, their carcasses sliced open and left to drain. A shiver runs through her, once and then again and again and again, every time stronger until the shivers are full-body spasms that clack her teeth together, threatening to catch her tongue in each jolt. A low, groaning noise fills the room, and she discovers with surprise that it is coming from her own throat.

Good gods, Théodwyn. What have you done to yourself? Edlenniel is in the doorway, and the horrified alarm in her voice is enough to smother the instinct to snap in response. What has she done? She tries to stand, but her legs don’t respond. A strange distance has crept in and inserted itself between the intentions of her mind and the obedience of her body. She wills herself up again and lurches forward with great effort. Is she standing now? She cannot be, not with the cool, smooth stone of the floor somehow pressed to her flushed cheek. She would lift her head to check, but the exhaustion is so heavy that it pins her down, the turning of a screw that secures her, motionless, to wherever she has landed.

Her mind becomes slow and hazy, her sight flickering in and out as though she is passing quickly between rooms that are brightly lit and others that are in total darkness. Théopryte is there and then not. Calls for help are relayed down the hall, and more people rush in. Tadiel pulls Éomer from the doorway, a hand over his eyes as though the sight of his mother is too frightful for him even to look upon. Clamoring, urgent voices echo around inside Théodwyn’s head until they are no longer intelligible to her, just a whirling churn of volumes and tones. She floats, alone and disconnected, in a sea of others’ panic.

A man’s face appears in her field of vision, lifting her up and carrying her to a nearby couch. Théodred? It comes out as a hoarse whisper, and the face shakes its head. No, of course not. Her beloved nephew doesn’t live in Aldburg and never has. A neighbor, then? Or servant? She loses interest before she can unravel the mystery, distracted by a painful new sensation that prickles across the surface of her skin like a thousand small needles. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to exhale the pain with her every labored breath.

Uncounted hours pass, and she is now in her own bed, though she cannot recall being brought there. It takes all her effort just to keep her eyes open, and each time she blinks, it feels like scraping her eyelids over sand. She drifts in and out of lucidity, bobbing in a current of confused thought like a small boat tied up at the edge of a running river. When she’s lost, she is certain she can see Éomund in the corner, watching her in grave silence. When she’s present, she hears bits and snatches of hushed conversation, all in the voices of her sisters. The healer says there is nothing more to be done, says one. Such an awful waste, sniffles another. I knew this would happen, sighs the third. But who could stop her from running herself into the ground this way? She’s always done just what she wanted, no matter how rash or irresponsible.

Amidst all her pains, these words hit her like a blow, and an immediate, convulsive heaving in her stomach has others running for the healer again to manage this fresh symptom of her malady. But she knows it for what it really is: the retching out of unwelcome truth, her body’s rejection of this simple distillation of her fate. Recovery is not coming. She will die here in this bed, and her death will be needless. Pointless. And all the more shameful because she should have known better. She could have heeded the cautions and warnings of others.

Edlenniel leans her over a bowl as she empties herself of what little she’s eaten in the last day, and the bitter taste in her mouth lingers even after she has swirled and spat out many mouthfuls of water. It lingers as she collapses back into the sweat-soaked sheets that cling to every inch of exposed skin. It lingers as her addled mind struggles to reckon with the weight and cost of her mistake, this tragedy of her own making. It will always linger, for all the minutes she has left in the world and for the eternity that stretches out into the boundless, unknown future beyond it.

Her head lolls weakly to one side, and she can see Éomund in the corner still watching, silent and attentive. His face is not impassive, but calm. He accepts what has happened, is happening, will happen, and she must accept it, too. He dissolves into a vague blur as hot tears begin to spill down her cheeks, and whether they are tears for him or for herself, she isn’t sure. When she blinks her eyes clear again, he has moved closer to the bedside. He smiles softly, the wistful look of one who knows what it is to carry the burden of self-blame past any hope of remedy, and he reaches toward her with an open hand. A hand of consolation and invitation.

She will take it, but not yet.

Bring the children, she rasps out.

There is a moment’s debate in the room, furious whispers that drift to her ears. Not something a child should witness, she hears. There may not be time to wait, is the response. She repeats her request, louder this time, and the debate intensifies, rising in pitch and strength. But before the argument can resolve itself, Éomer has pushed in from the hallway, towing little Éowyn by the hand. Her words have reached them on their own.

She struggles to bring her son and daughter into focus, just as they struggle to see the outlines of their strong, capable mother in this frail, spiritless form. She craves nothing more than rest, but she knows she cannot; if she rests now, she will not wake again. She takes each one by the hand, their skin cold and dry against her own clammy fingers and palms, and presses those hands to her lips.

Be good for your uncle, she tells them. Your cousin will love you as a brother.

Éomer, quicker to understand, begins to cry, and his tears trigger Éowyn’s. Soon all three are crying together, for both the first and last time.

You deserve better than this, she should say. I have failed you, she wants to say. But would it give them any comfort to know that she belatedly understands her own mistakes? That left to do it all again, she would guarantee that they would never be without their mother? What can she tell them now that will help and not hurt, that will be a gift and not a hindrance? She swallows hard, and it is like swallowing gravel. Your father and I did the best we could, she whispers. The two of you will do better, and we will be proud.

She drops back to the pillow, exhausted beyond measure, and someone bundles the children back out into the hall again. Éomund smiles at her, and she nods. Her eyes drift closed as his hand wraps around hers, and the burning in her heart and skin slowly fades, the fire extinguished at last.

A note on the sisters of Théoden: Their father, Thengel, ran away to Gondor as a young man and lived there for a huge chunk of his life. He married Morwen, a Gondorian woman, and Tolkien tells us he only went back to Rohan “unwillingly” to take up the throne after his own father died. 2 of his daughters and his son were born in Gondor before that happened, and my HC is that all 3 of them had Gondorian names because, at the time, Thengel never had any intention of ever going back. So that gives us Edlenniel (“daughter of the exile,” since that’s how he saw himself) and Tadiel (“second daughter,” so overshadowed by her siblings that Thengel couldn’t be bothered to even give her an interesting name).

Théoden himself had a Gondorian name as well (Arnhereg, “royal blood”) but he changed it to something Rohirric (Théoden means “leader of the people”) when the family went back to Rohan both because he wanted to fit in better and because it seemed only appropriate that the future king of Rohan have a Rohirric name. Then when the other two sisters were born in Rohan, they were given Rohirric names as well (Théopryte, “pride of the people,” who was extremely beautiful; and Théodwyn, “joy of the people,” who was full of spirit).

3 of the 4 sisters were dead by the time of the War of the Ring (Edlenniel from old age, Théopryte from an accident, and Théodwyn as described here), and Tadiel had gone back to Gondor. Edlenniel never had any children and Tadiel and Théopryte had only daughters, which is why we don’t hear anything about other cousins that might have competed with Éomer for the throne after Théodred’s death. I’ve made a backstory for each of the sisters, but no use putting that all here since I’ve already gone on too long!

(Dividers by the wonderful @quillofspirit !)

[severussnapedamagedlove]

Do people like Eomer (LOTR) fanfics? i have one that is kind of my baby and I want to release it, but it's important that it is loved so I'm nervous

[theleakypen]

'We shall see,' said Éomer. 'So many strange things have chanced that to learn the praise of a fair lady under the loving strokes of a Dwarf's axe will seem no great wonder. Farewell!'

To this day one of the best lines in the whole of the Lord of the Rings

[iamfitzwilliamdarcy]

eomer is such a champ

[girl-hobbit]

— Éowyn, The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

Paintings by Matthew Stewart, Nick Robles, Chris Rahn, Çağlayan Kaya Göksoy, Craig Spearing, and Stephen Graham Walsh

[killbilled]

“But to some one I must now entrust my people that I leave behind, to rule them in my place. Which of you will stay?” No man spoke. “Is there none whom you would name? In whom do my people trust?” “In the House of Eorl,” answered Hama. “But Eomer I cannot spare, nor would he stay,” said the king; “and he is the last of that House.” “I said not Eomer,” answered Hama. “And he is not the last. There is Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted. All love her. Let her be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone.”

“It shall be so,” said Theoden. “Let the heralds announce to the folk that the Lady Eowyn will lead them!”

- The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien

[emmanuellececchi]

Following the post about conflict between Faramir-Eowyn and Eomer-Lothiriel

and hoping we will be able to reblog all without Tumblr tumbling. @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras I can't for the lvoe of me, access @celeluwhenfics reblog as well... @torchwood-99 I am tagging you a well so that you can jump in, idem for @dilettantefeminist I saw you there but not sure if you did write or not... it seems there is a bug.

As it is, I didn't write a conflict for Eomer and Lothiriel about the language. On the other hand (@from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras thinking about you) I studied a bit about Thengel and Theodean languages... and the conflict thereafter... For Tirwald story XD.

One thing had been pointed out on various site about Tolkien lore is that "the royal family was speaking Sindarin and Westron" in Rohan, after Thengel and Theoden. So: Eowyn and Eomer are certainly speaking Westron and Sindarin AND Rohanese, as Theoden, unlike his dad, made sure to learn Rohanese, even having his name changed (although it might be Thengel doing... it was a bit confusing).

So, I am still convinced Eomer and Eowyn know how to write, because Theoden and his sisters knew how too. Although Eomund might have seen that differently (and so maybe they learned it later in life) and they know three languages. And of course, Theodred knew how to speak and write as well

Now about Faramir and Boromir (I alsmot write Borodred). They know Sindarin and Westron. And here I guess: Boromir knew Rohanese. Why? He was known and respected by Rohan. Something implying he went there often enough. And so I guess he learned it for strategic reasons (or reasons of the heart - as you see fit). But Faramir? I don't think he would. Denethor would tolerate this from Boromir, but never from his younger son. Maybe Faramir would be curious enough to try to learn it on his own of course, so maybe he would knew a few words.

Lothriel knows Sindarin and Westron but certainly not much of Rohanese or at all. On the other, and mostly because this is how I see her, once she get to know Eomer, she might just decide to learn it. As a way of expressing herself/rebelling against her entourage. And to surprise him. She would be shy about it at first but I can imagine how Eomer would feel when she tries to speak it (sorry I digress).

So, to come back to conflict: Eowyn and Faramir have certainly (and they're known characters with establish personnality) some cause for friction ("some" XD). As for Eomer and Lothiriel, it will essentilly depends on how Lothiriel is written. We know a bit about her family, link to others and gondorian context. But nothing about her personna. So I guess my answer to @torchwood-99 for them would be: you can have as much or as few conflicts as you want with Eomer and Lothiriel ;)

[lolotr]

I'm capping it at ten otherwise we'll be here forever

tagging @queerofthedagger @the-ipre @athymelyreply @many-gay-magpies @schweetheart and anyone else who wants to do it!!

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Éomer sits on the edge of whether or not he should inquire. Decides to push himself off into his choice: ‘What is it?’ ‘My lord?’ ‘What are you thinking over? It’s something to do with…we need a name for him [Saruman].’ ‘The Collector,’ Gríma says far too swiftly for Éomer’s liking. ‘He collects things. Keeps them in cabinets that line the walls of this one room…Specimens—insects pinned to boards, birds, also jars with preserved animals, body parts. All meticulously labelled—’ ‘And this is the man you thought to follow?’ ‘It’s a study, Éomer. Have you never wondered how something works? Take apart an animal to see what goes where inside of it? How some deaths are caused by things unseen to the naked eye? Have you never wondered?’ ‘Not about that.’ ‘Whatever it is you have wondered about, there is likely an answer to it in Orthanc. The books he has, a tremendous number. More than any one man could read in a lifetime.’ ‘Is there an answer to that time the sun disappeared?’ Éomer asks, harsher than intended. ‘Is there an answer to why some men seem incapable of love while others love too much? Is there an answer to why some children die in their cot and others live to adulthood? Is there an answer to why there is evil in this world? Is there an answer to why there is good? Why is it we all have both inside of us and some are able to do what is right while others struggle?’ Gríma looks at Éomer for the first time since they began this strange, evening conversation. Eyes wide, pools of black ink, lips in a thin line like a suture. Éomer believes he is being weighed. He believes some unknowable calculation is being thought through. [...] ‘Collector,’ Éomer prompts. ‘I dislike it. It makes my skin crawl.’ Gríma lifts an eyebrow, face profile to Éomer for he continues to study the blinking red of the cinders. ‘It makes it seem as if he views everyone and everything as nothing more than objects,’ Éomer continues. ‘Something to use up, discard. Like those specimens you described, but instead of snakes or frogs or what-have-you it is people.’ ‘Sometimes,’ Gríma murmurs. ‘It is sometimes like that.’ Should Éomer ask if Gríma is being literal? ‘What troubles you?’ Éomer tries, instead.   ‘What is this?’ Gríma bites back, but with little heat. ‘Éomer son of Éomund is interested in Wyrmtunga’s well-being?’ ‘I am interested in you remaining well enough to see this through to the end. After that point, I care not what comes of you.’

"I don't care about you beyond this plot we have going together" says Eomer son of Eomund, a lying liar who lies.

also man I love Grima being like "This is very normal!!" about Saruman and Eomer being like "This is not, in fact, normal!! This is, in fact, deranged behaviour!!"

[mummelthecryptid]

eowyn realising she inherited the worst traits of her parents,,, eowyn who sees her fathers recklessness reflected in herself knowing it brought him death. Eowyn who knows that while her mothers despair was visible in the way she slowly rotted away, her own resulted in her trying to get herself killed in battle.

[torchwood-99]

I feel almost like a fake Rohan fan not knowing how close Aldburg was to Edoras.

I vaguely assumed it was a fair way off, and it made me wonder how often Theoden and Theodwyn got to see each other after Theodwyn married Eomund, and if Eowyn and Eomer were separated by quite a distance after Eomer became Lord of Aldburg.

I finally actually looked it up, and Edoras and Aldburg are both in the Folde.

Edoras and Aldburg are closer to each other than Edoras is to Minas Tirith or to Isengard.

The minimum amount of time to get from Edoras to Isengard would be 2 days, the average 8, and the minimum amount of time to get from Edoras to Minas Tirith is 4 days, average 15.

Considering Eomer, Eowyn, Theoden and presumable Theodwyn are capable riders, with good horses, and for such journeys probable did not need to bring a great deal back and forth with them, the distance between Aldburg and Edoras seems pretty doable, enough to allow the family members to see a fair deal of each other.

While Eomer being off fighting would have taken him far from Eowyn, at least the two weren't separated during his time off campaign.

That also means there's a fair chance Theoden saw Eowyn and Eomer quite a bit before Theodwyn's death, as we know Theodwyn and Theoden were very close, and therefore it is probable they would have made efforts to see each other.

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

Question: since Eowyn and Eomer have the same parents (read: Eomund’s hothead genes), do you believe Eowyn would be just as hotheaded as her brother if she were a man? As a lady, there were different expectations of her, so perhaps that’s why we don’t get to see much of that hotheadedness?

Ooh, thinking about what someone with Éowyn’s personality but who was born into the opportunities and freedoms that men had is a really interesting exercise! Thanks for asking! ❤️

I do believe Éowyn had those same hothead genes, and I actually think that we can already see them in her in the canonical story. She doesn’t have all the same opportunity as a man to show it, but she does repeatedly act impulsively and decisively; is very brave and heedless of danger; is very consumed with realizing her own goals to the exclusion of other considerations, etc. — all characteristics that are definitely hothead-adjacent.

When Aragorn unexpectedly appears in Rohan, representing everything that Éowyn wants to be and do and achieve, she wastes very little time before she is literally begging him to take her away with him. She’s immediately willing to throw overboard almost everything about her life to date to follow a man she barely knows into a situation that she doesn’t fully understand. That’s not exactly careful, rational decision making (even if we, as readers, don’t disagree with her choice!). We also famously see her boldly defy the orders of her father figure and king by sneaking into battle on her own — and with an unauthorized hobbit in tow! — not because she made a reasoned calculation about what was best for Rohan or Théoden or herself but simply because she was so singularly focused on her own goal. So again, even if we are entirely sympathetic to that decision and in retrospect know that it was the right one, that’s got some clear hothead vibes that go with it. 

She also repeatedly courts death, mouths off to the Witch King himself (“be gone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion!”) and laughs in his face, demands to be put back into battle as soon as she’s awake again in the houses of healing even though she doesn’t know anything about how conditions have changed since her injury, and is a little bristle-y with Faramir in some of their early interactions, jumping to her own conclusions about what he thinks and means when he speaks to her. All of that feels consistent to me with someone who is quick to their emotions, recklessly brave, and willing to act without sitting around to carefully analyze a situation first. She even talks about herself as being ungentle and a wild woman that others might seek to tame, which suggests to me that she also saw herself as embodying many of those same hotheads traits — bold, unconventional, potentially dangerous, etc. 

So I think she and Éomer both show some signs of hotheadedness throughout the story, and I think they show that a little hotheadedness isn’t always a bad thing! Éomund just had way too much of it and was impervious to being curbed, whereas Éomer takes advice when it’s given and Éowyn comes to see that acting with more deliberateness (as Faramir does) isn’t a bad thing either.

But all that leaves open to question whether Éowyn would have been an even bigger hothead if she had been a man. I see two possibilities there. Either her personality would have been exactly the same but the effect of her actions and behavior would have been magnified (making Lord Éowyn SEEM like a bigger hothead than Lady Éowyn) because a male version of her would have had more opportunities to follow his impulses and cause a ruckus. OR, perhaps some of her instincts would have actually been dampened a little bit by the additional freedoms of life as a man — without some of the (entirely justified!!!) resentment and frustrations that Lady Éowyn felt, perhaps Lord Éowyn would have been a bit mellower. I’m inclined toward a middle ground — some of the latter, but with the clear stipulation that even then Lord Éowyn was NEVER going to be an entirely cool, collected cucumber because that’s just not his core personality or how this family works! 

All my own 2 cents of course. I’d be very curious to hear others’ thoughts as well! 

[severussnapedamagedlove]

Eomer: Your hair looks nice. I like what you’ve done with it. Changed it? Washed it maybe?

Eowyn: …

Faramir: 👍🏽👍🏽👍🏽

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

never have i ever been so ???? as when someone was talking about merry, eowyn, the witch king and the whole "no living man" thing, and they loved the books very much were quoting them and everything... and they got hung up on the man thing.

as in, they were sure it was actually the burrow downs blade merry was carrying that made the witch king vulnerable to killing, with eowyn being the one to step up and K.O. him despite her shattered shield arm- which yes yes I am following along perfectly fine so far, tom bombadil strikes again, ok-

and the person was frustrated bc if the "no living man may hinder me" thing was true then what about merry isn't merry a man didn't merry hinder-

And I swear I sat there for a full ten minutes, staring.

the thing about the middle earth books is, almost everyone is a dude. it's the default. i couldn't even remember when characters referred to each other by gender specifically (outside of eowyn's arc) beyond polite titles like lord or king, because it'd be so weird. the default is always male. it's assumed. im still trying to remember if any of the hobbits were called men- halflings, shire folk, little ones, i remember them being described by the things that set them apart from the people around them, and that was always WHAT they were. short, mainly. or presumed rich and important, for pipin the halfling prince while in gondor

in the lord of the rings and the hobbit the gender norm is so universal the word "man" almost always means... humans. as opposed to, elves, dwarves, orcs, blah blah blah, hobbits yadda yadda

So it was just, shocking to hear someone talking about the "man" in the witch king's context as a gender thing

eowyn answers it like it is, but i always thought that was her being cheeky. her whole thing there is defiance so i just figured, well, she expects to die and wants to piss him off while she goes. sure she'd make a joke of his boast. no living man. well no living MAN am I. like a pun?

then a hobbit, not a man, stabs the dude with a blade made to hurt and weaken him, and a woman, not a man, gets him in the head with her sword right after

which subversion of the "man" thing killed him in the end?

"not by the hand of man will he fall"

teen me thought the prophecy had been man vs hobbit, originally, but eowyn herself ALSO made it woman vs man, because only she- a woman, alone of all the men who rode to battle- only she understood merry and thought it right to bring a hobbit into war,

(something something, the theme of the books about different people coming together to save their world, those long overlooked shaking the towers of them who never thought to fear them)

but prophecy aside, she eowyn- as a woman- also served up this witch king with his own arrogance and superiority, because this whole battle WAS mankind HINDERING him, wasn't it now? she IS standing in his way, hindering him as well. one of mankind killed him, and the woman who sent him packing made a mockery of his pride right before she did it.

"no living man" pssh. begone if you be not deathless. eowyn daughter of eomund is gonna hit you with her fucking sword even if it kills her

and isn't that what the mankind of middle earth were all about?

(glorfindel you were either slightly wrong or being a pest) (i'd almost bet pest tbh)

man, mankind, fought that battle on the pelennor fields against the witch king's might, though it took a woman specifically to bring together all the pieces that would finally make him fall (herself) (1 hobbit + dagger) (love for her family) (friendship) (urge to KILL)

but still humans are the lays potato chips of middle earth

no dwarven unbending will, no longevity or wisdom of elves, no magic, not even that hardiness of the heart that hobbits can push through on

boromir, eowyn, eomer, theoden- humans other than aragorn the elvish or faramir the wizardly- hell even grima... kinda...

they might fail and die and falter, but when the end comes, they throw their whole selves into it. they'll at least be a hindrance on their way out

what was i saying

oh whatever. eowyn killed the witch king with snark and he died mad about it or something