#I want to name her Ithilien

[ysabeau-valikov]

I guess I’m in a blue and purple phase. Trying out a different approach to the shading process, what do you think?

[torchwood-99]

Elboron's Birth

Elboron is the only named child of Eowyn and Faramir, and because of that I tend to headcanon him as their only child.

I imagine Eowyn struggling a great deal with pregnancy. The limitations on her body and the hormones puts a great strain on her mental health.

Eowyn actually has a subconcious terror of death in childbirth, because as part of Wormtongue's grooming, he planted ideas and suggestions in Eowyn's head of her family being told they must choose between saving her or saving the child, and for the sake of the bloodline, they choose to save the child.

She's actually had nightmares of this exact scenario, planted there by Grima, that she doesn't recall fully in the day, but leave her with a lingering dread and distrust of those around her during her pregnancy.

Faramir would never allow such a thing (nor would Eomer or anyone else), and the standard practise in Gondor is always save the mother first, but the unspoken terror that Eowyn can't quite articulate takes its toll on her and her relationships.

Elboron's birth is difficult, with Eowyn nearly dying at one poin. She is told that it is unlikely she will ever have another child, and Eowyn thinks she's a bad person for being relieved.

Eowyn's recovery takes a long time, and she is stuck on bed rest for weeks. Even once she's allowed out of bed, her strength has diminished and it takes a long time building it back up.

She hates how even now her body still isn't her own, and finds it difficult to bond with Elboron immediately, whereas Faramir takes to fatherhood right away. This causes Eowyn a great deal of shame and further unhappiness.

Theoretically she knows Elboron is her son, and that she loves him, but she doesn't feel it. Her feelings towards motherhood are dominated by her experiences with pregnancy and childbirth, and her shame that she cannot feel an instant affection for her son.

She ends up resenting Elboron because she liked it being Faramir & Eowyn as a unit, and now suddenly there's this child taking up time and attention. And because she can't bond with him like Faramir does, she feels excluded in her own family, a sensation she's very vulnerable to.

Eomer arrives at Emyn Arnen shortly before or after the birth, and adores his new sister-son. This doesn't help, and Eowyn feels herself supplanted not only in Faramir's heart but also in Eomer's. Once more, her male kin folk have created a unit and shut her out.

Everyone is delighted with the Steward's new son and heir, and great celebrations are held, while Eowyn can barely get out of bed. More and more she feels like a vessel for the Prince of Ithilien's heirs, who can be forgotten and discarded now that she has fulfilled her purpose.

Eowyn's family can tell she is struggling. They try to cheer her up by assuring her that she will be out of bed soon, and by talking about how wonderful Elboron is. This is rather the opposite of what Eowyn needs to hear, but she can't possibly say such a thing, because what sort of mother doesn't want to talk about her own son? What sort of mother doesn't allow her whole existence to revolve around her son?

(What sort of mother regrets becoming a mother at all?)

Eowyn is slightly comforted when she tells the midwife a little of what she is feeling, who tells Eowyn that many, many mothers struggle to bond with their child right away, and that Eowyn's exhaustion and unhappiness is very common after the travails of childbirth. This eases some of Eowyn's shame, and she's able to confide in Faramir and Eomer a little more, allowing them to help her feel not quite so neglected.

Faramir is somewhat concerned at Eowyn admitting her own lack of interest in their child, remembering his own strained relationship with his father, but he abides by the midwife's instructions to allow Eowyn to bond with their child in her own time.

Once Eowyn has recovered her strength enough for her to start going about her former duties and interests, herblore, settling law and land disputes, training horses, and she is reminded of who she is beyond Elboron's mother, once she is treated as someone other than Elboron's mother, she starts to recover her own sense of self.

Eowyn and Faramir's duties have the pair working together and mixing together away from the nursery, allowing Eowyn to feel like they are a partnership again.

As Elboron grows more active and starts forming more of a personality, Eowyn takes a greater interest in him, and finds it easier to grow close to him. He's a very bold, curious child, which Eowyn finds enchanting.

According to customs of the Mark, Eowyn has him riding with her before he can even walk. Riding with him in a satchel across her chest is the first time Eowyn is really struck with that fierce, maternal love everyone had promised her. Before that moment, Elboron seemed more like a vaguely sweet and amusing child who now lived in her house. Now he felt like her son.

Eowyn is able to form her own bond with Elboron, as well as entering into a family unit with Elboron and Faramir, and retaining a partnership with Faramir, and an identity of her own through her work and her passions.

The first time Eowyn joins an orc hunt and returns with an orc head on her spear is really bloody cathartic, for sure, and she returns laughing, feeling completely herself at last.

As Elboron grows, Faramir is the more present of the two parents. His emotional intelligence and innate gentleness means he is ideal for working out the needs of a child, and in time, a young man. He takes a more active hand in arranging Elboron's upbringing, and most of the decisions made for Elboron are made by Faramir.

Eowyn is happy to let Faramir take a lead in Elboron's upbringing, but when she insists on something, or feels strongly about some decision or other, they work it out like equals. Eowyn is also very pro-active in passing down the customs of her homeland to Elboron, and Elboron grows up with a very strong sense of his identity as a child of the Mark, as well as of Gondor.

If Faramir is the parent Elboron goes to, or is sent to, when he needs to talk, then Eowyn is the one he goes to when he needs not to talk.

Sometimes if Elboron is angry, or throwing a tantrum or frustrated about something, and Faramir is struggling to talk him through it, Eowyn will say "right, stables" or "you're coming to the stillroom", and she will set him some simply, physical task, such as cleaning tack, watering plants, cleaning potion flasks or weeding a flower bed. She will work beside him, but at a distance, and give him the chance to cool off.

Eowyn knows this works because this is what Theodred did when she got into a state as a child.

Eowyn is also the one who will burst into Elboron's schoolroom and declare that he is riding with her today, or assisting her in some official business regarding the villagers, or checking out some plants growing in the forests. They always justify these adventures by telling Faramir what Elboron learned on them.

Faramir does sometimes mourn that they never gave Elboron a younger brother, or that he never had a daughter, whom he would have doted on, but he does not grieve overmuch and mostly takes joy in his family as it is. Eowyn cannot develop feelings for a child that doesn't yet exist and never will, and quite frankly she is relieved that she will never have another child. Pregnancy was a horror, and there's no guarantee she will like her next child as much as she does Elboron.

[tanoraqui]

I COMPLETELY FORGOT A VERY IMPORTANT PART OF CROWNLESS (the Young Aragorn show that lives in my, and apparently many of your, hearts): Each season opens with the framing device of middle-aged Sam Gamgee sitting by the fire in Bag End, telling his kids stories about the King. If you don’t have a (historical inaccuracy-excusing) narrative frame in a Middle Earth story, wtf are you even doing?

Also, the theme song in my mind is "All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter" by Clamavi de Profundis, but I'm open to some other group doing their own arrangement of the poem.

so, key elements of season 3 (s1 and 2 here):

A couple times in s2, including notably in the season finale?, Rohirrim were involved…so at the very end of that season, King Thengel invited Aragorn to come serve in his court/armed forces. That’s right, it’s time for UNMITIGATED HORSE GIRL!ARAGORN HOURS!

(confession: I could be persuaded to combine s2 and s3, with some elements of s3 going into s4)

(and clarification: Aragorn isn't deliberately using a false name, but he's also not presenting himself as anything more than a random northern Dúnedain ranger, son of nobody in particular.)

The show starts to shift in this season: in addition to/in place of some monster of the week episodes, we get political drama of the week, and more ongoing plotlines. Also, I realized it’s as much ‘location of the week’ as ‘monster of the week’—that continues, centered around Rohan (which means we’ll retread some locations from s2)

First trip to Minas Tirith, on some diplomatic excursion!

fun canon LotR info: Thengel, Theoden's father, was a total Gondor stan - he lived there from his teens until he had to come home to take up the crown, he married a woman from Lossarnach, as King of Rohan he spoke Sindarin and Westernesse and not Rohirric...

so I'm gonna say that teenage Theoden is kind of resentful of that? He was born in Lossarnach, came to Rohan at age 5...but Rohan is his home and he loves it, and he wonders if his father is too enamored of Gondor to be the best king of Rohan. He's skeptical of Thengel recruiting this random Ranger to be a captain of the Riders. On the flip side, Aragorn is SO COOL, and superb with horses. and Theoden wants to be him when he grows up. It's hard, being a teenager and a prince, with 4 sisters. It's hard and nobody understands

Sauruman is there for an episode, being genuinely helpful but his vibes are faintly rancid. He's about to start building up Isengard as an armed power. If the season finale involves something like a proper battle again, he might pitch in.

Halbarad and Dúnawen might actually stay in Ithilien? Or they come along to Rohan but they just join the Riders without getting involved in court stuff at all. Aragorn is going to start doing more things on his own. They presumably have their own B/C-plot character arcs btw, I just don't know what

Roddis definitely stayed behind in Ithilien/Gondor. New in the cast, however, not from quite the start but maybe like ep7/22, or the midseason onward? Is a perfectly normal human woman with dark hair and grey eyes...

Arwen. It's Arwen.

Aragorn: Why are you here? Arwen: I am the daughter of Elrond Half-Elven. My grandparents include the Evening Star, White-Winged Elwing, and Galadriel, student of Melian who on separate occasions told both Fëanor and Eonwë to fuck off. Everyone who met her agrees that I look just like my great-great-grandmother Lúthien Tinúviel. The distant echo of the Doom of the Exiles runs in my veins, as do the Songs of Lúthien and the Light of a Silmaril. I know the weight of Fate when it settles on my shoulders like a mantle, as it did when you called me 'Tinúviel' beneath Imladris's twilit trees—but the Choice of the Peredhel remains mine and mine alone. So I have come, Elessar, Isildur's heir, to see if I actually like you. Arwen: Curiosity. Aragorn: [vividly remembering how in s1 his mom said, "She's way out of your league" and Elrond said, "You won't get married until you're king." (Aragorn: "...married to your daughter?" Elrond: "To anyone. Period.")] Aragorn: Cool. Curiosity is cool. I'm gonna be so normal about this.

(Spoilers: he was not entirely normal about this.)

(Spoilers: they super do like each other, though)

Idk what the backup rangers are doing overall, but I do want Aragorn and Dúnawen to still have some sort of romantic Thing in s2, maybe off and on again, as Aragorn thought Arwen wasn't interested and was trying not to just be moping about it... Then Arwen arrives and Aragorn is So Conflicted for like 1 episode, before Dúnawen comes to him like, "Aragorn, I love you as a friend and comrade-in-arms and I love you as my chieftain and king-to-be, and I could probably love you as a wife if we really tried...but you clearly have not just a crush but some sort of Destiny thing with Lady Arwen, so I'm going to go back to Ithilien for a bit, maybe get drunk and laid with a handsome barmaid, and get over you. While I'm gone, you should try, like, talking to her."

A thing that Aragorn and Arwen...do bond over, but more it's there to demonstrate their compatibility to the audience, is: ...So, we (the writers/producers) don't have the rights to The Silmarillion, right, just The Lord of the Rings and its Appendices, and The Hobbit. These do periodically namedrop people, however, with dashes of elaboration mostly in the Appendices...and Aragorn is established from the start to be a bit of a history nerd, because that's what happens when you're raised by Elrond...so periodically, Aragorn and his friends will be in a Situation and Aragorn will whisper, like, "This is just like when [Fëanor/Túrin/Tar-Minastir/etc...]—" and Halbarad or Dúnawen hisses, "Does that actually help us right now?" and Aragorn will say, "Sure!" and start doing something that Silmarillion nerds can recognize is inspired by whatever the person in question did in a similar situation (note: sometimes Aragorn deliberately does the opposite of what the historical figure did, and it works much better.) The writers very carefully do not explicitly reference anything not explicitly in the permitted texts. If they need/get to elaborate on a historical figure, they'll toe a careful line of Silmarillion canon and blatantly made-up things.

That happened more in s1, when the show needed to make good with the old fans, but also in s2. Aragorn remains the only one referencing this stuff. Then in s3, he and Arwen are...let's say captured by bandits, and Arwen murmurs in his ear, "I have an idea. You know in the Lay of Lúthien..." Aragorn's eyes widen. "Beren and Lúthien or Beren and Finrod?" Arwen: "Finrod." Aragorn nods, and they proceed to bullshit their way out of being captive with flawless teamwork and yes-and-ing (and maybe fight a wolf on their way out, just to be thorough).

No idea what this season finale is. Like I said, you could probably weave parts of most of this season into s2 and s4? But that would ruin the "a different significant geographical area every season" thing we've got going on.

[s4 here!]

[lemonlyman-dotcom]

Tagging myself ✨

Beck 5+1 More of the scene I teased on Sunday. This is rough, y’all. A real work in progress. Feedback appreciated!

Song: Sexx Laws

“Oh my God, I love this song!” Gwyn exclaims while TK bounces over and grabs her hand.

By now Carlos is, unfortunately, familiar with the voice of Beck Hansen. TK twirls Gwyn around the kitchen to the warbling beat while she hoots and sings along to the bizarre lyrics.

“Babe, it’s your favorite!” TK laughs, green eyes twinkling with a joy that’s slowly been bubbling to the surface the more he’s gotten to know him, the more comfortable TK’s gotten in Austin and the further away he gets from the damaged boy he was when he first burst his way into Carlos’s life. Filling it with color and excitement and something he can’t quite put a name to yet.

“Gwyn, I didn’t realize you were such a Beck fan,” Carlos says from his seat behind the counter.

“Oh, honey, where do you think TK gets his exquisite music taste from?” She says with a sly raise of her eyebrow. “Certainly not from his father.”

“I heard that,” comes a voice from the hallway. Owen shuffles into the kitchen shortly after with Buttercup hot on his heels. “Just because I’m not hip to this bohemian hipster nonsense doesn’t mean I’m not a bit of a music buff myself.”

“Oh yeah, Dad?”

“Yeah, I listen to all the music: Steely and Dan!”

“Ha ha.”

Brief encounters in Mercedes Benz

Wearing hepatitis contact lens

Bed and breakfast getaway weekends

With Sports Illustrated moms

Owen sets the bags of food on the counter before eagerly joining the kitchen disco. Gwyn and TK gyrate and spin around while singing along to the crazy lyrics about sex laws and hepatitis contact lenses while Owen busts out an air guitar. Not a one of them is on beat.

He should feel awkward. This is something he’s never encountered with any of his previous boyfriends. But somehow he finds it endearing. TK has such a comfortable relationship with both of his parents and he’s never been ashamed of it.

Carlos met Gwyn on her second night in Austin. TK’d told him she’d demanded to meet him as soon as possible, saying it wasn’t fair that Owen had such a head start on getting to know their son’s boyfriend. Since then he’s had a standing invitation (more of an expectation, but he wasn’t complaining) to Friday night dinners when his shifts would allow. He’s usually encouraged to spend the night, a small part of his mind tells him he should find it awkward — having sleepovers with his boyfriend with his parents down the hall. But mostly he just finds it nice. It’s nice to feel a small part of this family, feeling welcome here in a way he hasn’t felt in his own family in years. Plus the chance to wake up wrapped in TK’s sheets, covered in TK’s scent while he snuffles sweetly into Carlos’s shoulder is too enticing to pass up. Even if it means he’s also covered in drooling dog.

“Mom and I have seen Beck play like four times,” TK says as he dances up to Carlos like one of the dudes from Night at the Roxbury. “We saw him play at Madison Square Garden a couple years ago.”

TK keeps dancing up against Carlos’s side.

“Are you trying to get me to dance with you?”

“Maybe. Is it working?”

He grabs TK around the middle and picks him up as he stands, eliciting a squealing laugh from TK as he spins them around in a circle. He catches Gwyn’s eye as he sets TK down. She’s got a small smile, he thinks it looks approving. At least, he hopes so.

Tagging @guardian-angle22 @chicgeekgirl89 @ambiguouspenny @carlos-in-glasses @goodways @rmd-writes @alrightbuckaroo @welcometololaland @louis-ii-reyes-strand @ithilien-writes @mikibwrites @sanjuwrites @basilsunrise @birdclowns @bonheur-cafe @freneticfloetry @heartstringsduet @liminalmemories21 @kiloskywalker @lightningboltreader @chaotictarlos @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @rosedavid @iboatedhere @thisbuildinghasfeelings @wandering-night19 @reasonandfaithinharmony @theghostofashton @thebumblecee @lonestardust and OPEN TAG 🏷️ for anybody else who wants to play. Tag me back I wanna see!!

[sotwk]

Hi!

OC Matchmaker with my latest OC.

Her name is Faelivrin—everybody calls her Fae—and she's the third child and second daughter of Faramir (his second biological child). Her older siblings are Elboron and Elenna "Enna" (my main OC in my current WIP "The Lady of Ithilien"). As Éowyn died giving birth to Elboron, Faelivrin is the daughter of Finduilas of Lamedon (my OC, youngest daughter of Angbor the Fearless). Theirs is an arranged marriage Faramir accepts because of *things that happen* and for Finduilas is basically a gift from the Valar since she's pushing 30 and still unmarried (it is my headcanon that Gondorians marry VERY young and all of her older sisters are already married with children while she's still a maid at 28/29).

Facts about Faelivrin "Fae":

• She absolutely adores her older sister Enna. The feeling is mutual and Enna, despite her many issues and things she has to deal with, tries her best to be a good sister. She and her mother try to raise her as a proper lady and Enna will be an extremely hands-on sister as far etiquette and protocol are concerned. Though they won't see much of one another because of *things that happen* (if you want spoilers, you're very welcome to text me privately, but I don't want to spoil the story for those who are interested and may have not read the chapters that I've already posted), they'll remain very close throughout their lives. Fae also worships Elboron who's of course very protective of her and jokingly disapproves of all her suitors.

• She's Faramir's little baby and he worships the ground she walks on and their bond gets stronger as time goes by. As Enna falls out with basically almost her entire family, Fae becomes his only comfort. She's his baby, his happy place and his sunshine. She loves it when he reads to her and she'll become one of few reasons he still keeps going after some of his grandchildren, his son-in-law (Eönwë, Enna's husband. Yes, the Herald of Manwë. There's a Middle-earth Maiarin/Noldorin invasion in the Fourth Age basically) and *possibly* some of his grandchildren by Enna die (courtesy of a Maia with a fascination for smithing and jewelry).

• She loves singing (Enna taught her) and one of her favorite songs to hum is the lullaby Enna used to sing to her. She's also very good at drawing and sewing. Also, similarly to her beloved older sister, she's a historian and would read every book ever written by anyone. She's a decent dancer too.

• She's tall with dark hair and blue/gray eyes (not much else to add about that. She probably has a birthmark somewhere)

• She wears a pearl necklace with the initials of her siblings. She loves pearls.

That's her teenage/early adult version (she looks particularly young. Actress: Isla Merrick-Lawless)

I'm not including an adult version because, although I have a vague idea of how she might look like, I'm still unsure. I was thinking of Jennie Jacques (Princess/Queen Judith in the show "Vikings" but I'm not 100% convinced yet. I'll keep her as an option and I'm still on the lookout for someone else. It should be someone who wears a lot of pearls 🤣)

That's all for now! Thank you!

Oooh! It's tricky to find a match for a young Fourth Age character, since most canon characters even named or mentioned past the War of the Ring have sparse details written about them (but you know all this, since you write mostly for the Fourth Age!). Only my Éomer fic is set post RotK, but as it happens I do have an "obscure canon" that I would like to propose for a match!

The SotWK Matchmaking Machine pairs Faelivrin with:

HALETH, Son of Háma!

In the SotWK AU, Haleth (movie character) not only survives the Battle of Helm's Deep, but he also becomes the squire of Éomer King himself! His career as a Rider only continues to rise from there, as he earns himself plenty of honor on the battlefield. Taking after his father, Haleth is brave and kind, and fiercely loyal to Rohan.

It would take quite a bit of charm for someone not from Rohan to win this Rohan loyalist's heart, but Fae has beauty and grace, so who knows? I think the bigger issue would be whether her family would allow her to love a "lowly" rough-around-the-edges cowboy from Rohan--even if he does become one of Éomer king's most trusted and formidable soldiers.

(Note: This picture of Haleth is of Callum Gittens, the very same actor who played him in the Two Towers movie! He grew up WELL didn't he??)

Thank you for trusting me to match up your OC! :)

This OC Matchmaking game is part of SotWK's Summer Campfire Sleepover 2024. (Requests accepted only on July 11-15, 2024.)

[annab99awritersdream]

Maiar in 'The Lady of Ithilien'

(to be updated with new information as the story progresses. As such, things may change)

Eönwë

Herald and banner-bearer of Manwë, the High King of Arda. He's among the most powerful Maiar in Valinor and the mightiest in arms. Military leader and High Commander of the Host of the Valar, he was one of the key fighters during the War of Wrath, which marked the end of the First Age of the Sun.

Birth: he entered Arda shortly after it was created.

Married to Elenna of the House of Húrin.

Fancast: Daniel Sharman

Ilmarë

Eönwë's younger sister and handmaiden of Varda, Queen of the Valar and Manwë's wife. Along with her brother, she's one of the chiefs of the Maiar.

Birth: she entered Arda shortly after it was created.

Eventually married to Eldarion, Crown Prince of Gondor and Arnor.

Fancast: Matilda Lutz

Olórin

Also known as Gandalf (one of his many aliases), he has served several Valar throughout the various ages of Arda. He's mainly associated with Manwë and Varda, but he also served Nienna, Valië of sorrow and compassion and Irmo, Vala of dreams and visions. (Olórin is a Quenya name and its meaning is something along the lines of "dream of mind")

Birth: he entered Arda shortly after it was created.

Fancast: Sir Ian McKellen (as Gandalf during the War of the Ring. He sticks to this form for a little while longer before switching back to his usual one); Bradley James (as Olórin)

(they give the same vibe tbh)

Wilwarin

Maia serving Irmo and occasionally Nienna. She's had a major crush on Olórin ever since she met him. She's not the sharpest tool in the box (sorry girl, I still love you), but she's kind-hearted and keeps to herself because no one wants to befriend her due to her perceived stupidity. SHE NEEDS LOVE AND AFFECTION, which no one has ever given her because most Maiar are stuck up and arrogant. Extremely naïve and completely clueless at times, she's been nicknamed "Wilya" (meaning airhead) by her fellow Maiar. She's obsessed with Olórin because he's the only one who's ever actually interacted with her.

Birth: She entered Arda at the beginning of the Second Age of the Sun, following the War of Wrath.

Fancast: Tuğba Melis Türk

Isilmë

Maia of Vayanna. Considered among the most beautiful Maiarin women to ever enter Arda, she has been obsessed with Eönwë ever since she first saw him. They had a brief fling following the War of Wrath, which, needless to say, ended very quickly (and badly). She's firmly convinced he's still in love with her and will do anything to get him back. Her name is Quenya for "moonlight".

Birth: she entered Arda following the War of Wrath (around the same time as Wilwarin)

Fancast: Beste Kökdemir

Isilya

Maia of Yavanna. She's Isilmë's close friend (or so she believes). She fails to realize Isilmë doesn't really love her or value their friendship, but simply uses her for her own purposes. She blindly follows her "friend" and indistinctly agrees with everything the latter says or does, as she's been brainwashed into thinking she's perfect. She doesn't seem to have a mind of her own, modeling her own behavior after Isilmë, as she's afraid to lose the connection they share. She's petty and very annoying, but not inherently evil and might even redeem herself eventually. Who knows. Her name is Quenya for "the third day of the week" according to the Númenórean calendar.

(It might sound odd, but I picked the name purely because it sounds similar to Isilmë and because I like the sound of it, not necessarily because I had a specific idea. I'm terrible at naming characters, I know. Please don't be mean)

Birth: she entered Arda following the War of Wrath.

Fancast: Dilara Aksüyek

Elenna's household

Four Maiarin ladies enter her service after her marriage to the Herald.

Handalimë

Originally a Maia of Vána, she is thoughtful, level-headed, smart and highly practical. Elenna is entrusted to her and she quickly grows fond of her new lady, becoming one of her most trusted servants and her main confidante. She's usually calm and collected and makes it her mission to protect her lady from anyone who might wish her harm—namely her sister Isilmë and a few of the Noldorin elves— and constantly worries about her. Her lady's well-being is her utmost priority.

Birth: she entered Arda sometime before the end of the First Age.

Fancast: Gülcan Arslan

Naráel

A Maia of Aulë, she's spunky and crafty but also naive and shy. She loves making rings and necklaces and will be gifting many jewels to her new lady. She can often be found chatting with Gimli, as she's never seen a dwarf before and wants to know all about dwarf customs and traditions (for fairly obvious reasons, I'd say). Kind-hearted and wiser than she lets on, she loves sitting by fireplaces (and lighting them).

Birth: she entered Arda at the beginning of the Third Age.

Fancast: Sophie Turner

Aranwen

A Maia of Nessa, she loves dancing, nature and poetry. She's not a great conversationalist, but when she does speak, one had better stop and listen. She loves reading and will spend many hours discussing books and history with her lady. She enjoys needlework and she's quite a good painter as well. She respects Elena greatly and often reassures her. Even though they get on each other's nerves quite often, she's great friends with Naráel. She too will spend a bit of time with Gimli, but only to try and convince him that ripping down trees is inherently bad. Nevertheless, she grows fond of the lord of the Glittering Caves- she and Legolas will try and teach him how to dance. Whether they will succeed is still unknown.

Birth: she entered Arda at the beginning of the Third Age.

Fancast: Rose Williams

Elenya

Maia of Varda (the name is kind of a giveaway).

She's sweet, kind and very protective of Elenna. She often likes to remark how similar their names are and loves to recount stories that most have forgotten (star-related, of course). She was lady-in-waiting to Ilmarë before she volunteered to join Elenna's household.

Birth: she entered Arda during the Years of the Trees.

Fancast: Yasemin Allen

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

The Fire Inside

Summary: Éomer is back in Minas Tirith a few years after the war, getting ready to help Gondor again with the ongoing clean-up after Sauron. But his life has changed and so have his feelings about war and warrior culture, so he needs Éowyn to help him talk it out.

Context: I love spending time with Éomer and Éowyn, and I hope this shows the affection between them and how Éowyn’s perspective (and some of Faramir’s) continues to inform Éomer’s understanding of the world. I’m interested in the way that they’ve both been really reckless with their lives in the past (her in the attitude she had when going to war, and him in the book after he thinks she’s dead and he kind of goes berserk and charges into a really bad situation) and how that echoes their own ancestry, given that one of the only things we know of their dad is that he was so passionate about fighting orcs that he rashly rode into an ambush and got killed. Now that both siblings have had more experiences and their lives have changed, I expect they would view their past actions quite differently now.

Content warning: Beyond a reference to the courting of death, there’s an implied history of miscarriage in Éomer’s marriage. My own relationship to pregnancy is v. complicated and that tends to pop up now and again in what I write, but I understand why other people might want to avoid that. (And for those who like to know there’s a happy ending, you can find in some of my other stories the proof that Éomer has a daughter, and his wife names her Sigewyn (“joyful victory”) in acknowledgment of their struggle to get there.)

**********

The greaves slid easily over Éomer’s shins, and he bent down to fasten them tight. The motion was so familiar, so ingrained in his memory, that he no longer needed to look or even to think about what he was doing. His fingers moved on their own to find and secure each buckle–one behind the knee, one at mid-calf and one above the ankle–while his mind wandered back over the many miles to his home, back to his wife and the last words she had whispered to him as he prepared to ride out. Those words played over and over again in his ears, and when his fingers finished their task he remained frozen in place, still listening to the loop of his wife’s voice. By the time a knock at the door returned his attention to his current surroundings, he wasn’t sure how long he had been stooped there, half-armored and adrift in a sea of thoughts and emotions.

“Enter!” he called over his shoulder, expecting Freaward to help him with the last few pieces of his gear. He stood and ducked into his mail coat, but, as he pulled it over his head, the hands that reached up from behind to free his hair from underneath the collar were not Freaward’s. He caught one, strong but graceful, in his own hand and knew in an instant who it belonged to.

“Éowyn!” He turned and pulled her immediately into a tight embrace. “What are you doing here? Aragorn told me that you were still in Ithilien.”

“Did you really think my big brother would come all the way to Gondor and I wouldn’t find a way to see him?” She put an affectionate hand to his cheek and then turned to the pile of his armor, rust red leather over iron plates bearing the device of the House of Eorl. She picked up the breastplate and spaulders. “And if you’re going to ride off into danger again, then I will see for myself that you are properly equipped.”

She set to work covering his chest and shoulders, a task that was normally performed by the young men still in training to become full riders. He couldn’t help but smirk a little as she positioned, buckled and tightened each piece. “Other men may rule bigger kingdoms or have greater wealth, but what other man can say that he has an actual princess of Gondor as his personal squire?”

She narrowed her eyes and reached down to yank on a strap around his ribs, cinching it so tightly that he doubled over and a grunt escaped his lips.

“I take it back,” he wheezed. “I’ll stick with Freaward. What he lacks in age and rank he makes up for with a kinder hand.”

She laughed and let go of the strap, stepping back to appraise her work. After a few small further adjustments, more gently executed, she handed him his vambraces and took a seat while he secured them in place.

“Now, brother, before you are called off, you must tell me how things are at home. How is my lovely sister-in-law?”

Warm blood ran to his face and ears, and he felt his heart thumping beneath his breastplate as he pictured Mereliss once again, her eyes shining brightly with happy tears. He shook his head lightly before looking up, aware of his awkward pause. “She is well, as always. She works hard, and you would be proud of the way she rules. She follows in your example as a woman of Rohan to be reckoned with.” His words sounded unnaturally rushed even to his own ears.

“I am glad to hear it,” Éowyn said, studying him carefully. “And yet, your manner suggests there is something more that you are not telling me. What is this look on your face? I cannot read it, but I see it clearly enough.”

He turned away belatedly, but there was no hiding now from what she had already seen and perceived. He would have to tell her something, either the truth or an invention to put her off. The truth was supposed to remain a secret, but…she was his only sister. His only close remaining relative of any kind, in fact. And he had always been a terrible liar. He cleared his throat.

“Just as I was leaving, Mereliss told me…Well, she had just confirmed…”. He pictured her again, gently placing his hand on her lower stomach. “It seems that she is expecting.”

“Oh, Éomer!” Éowyn leaned forward to grab both of his hands, squeezing them between her own. “I’m so happy for you both! There are no better tidings than a new baby–and possibly an heir for your line!”

He smiled and returned the squeeze. “Definitely an heir for my line. Boy or girl, this baby will inherit the crown.” He laughed lightly at the surprised expression on her face. “I thought you might appreciate that change. If it’s a girl, she will owe her title to Aunt Éowyn’s good influence.”

She beamed at him for a moment before the smile dropped off her face and she swatted at his arm. “You scoundrel! You had joyous news to share, and yet you made me pry it out of you? What if I had not asked?”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry. It’s just very fresh, even to me, and Mereliss says it is too soon to tell others.” Indeed, though he had thought of nothing else since leaving Rohan, he had not told another soul. Instead, he turned the revelation over and over in his mind, alternating between elation and disquiet.

This was not the first time he had received such news from his wife, but each of the other times had ended only in pain. In waking late at night to find her huddled somewhere, bleeding and in tears. In walking into a room and seeing immediately by the haunted look in her eyes that something had gone amiss again. Their happiness seemed always destined to be heartbreakingly brief, a short, private journey from joy to grief. This time, her kind heart had attempted to shield him from the possibility of more disappointment by keeping the news to herself, enduring many weeks of nervous anticipation, doubt and uneasiness on her own, until she felt confident that things were different at last and that their happiness was here to stay. The joy and relief he felt were deep and profound, but now he found himself with pain of a different kind: the pain of missing even a moment of something he had waited for his entire life, something that had repeatedly slipped out of his hands but now seemed to be finally in his grasp.

Éowyn knew none of these details, but she could clearly sense that he had more to say and she waited patiently for him to share whatever weighed on his mind. He took a deep breath before continuing.

“I should be happy, and of course I am. This is something that we have desperately wanted and struggled for, more than you know. But I didn’t expect to be separated from her as it happened. Leaving loved ones behind to carry out a duty is never easy, but it has also never been this difficult. My body is in Gondor, but my heart is still in Rohan.” He shrugged helplessly. “It cannot be otherwise.”

“Of course not. Nor should it be. But you will be back to her soon. This separation is only temporary.”

He grimaced. “I hope that you are right. I’m here to fulfill my oath–the oath of our people–and I am proud to do it. But something inside feels different now. A little off.”

“What do you mean, ‘off’?”

“It is hard to put into words.” He picked up his gloves but did not put them on, fidgeting instead with the leather seams. “Fighting is what I have trained for and done my whole life. Sitting in a saddle with a sword in my hand has always been comfortable to me. Enjoyable even, at times. But it suddenly doesn’t feel that way now. I am uneasy, feeling the pull of home so much stronger than I ever have before. The charge of excitement that I used to feel on the eve of battle is gone. The fire inside me smolders rather than burns. And I worry that if I have lost that fire, if my sharp edges have dulled, I may find myself at the wrong end of a spear before I know what has happened.” He looked up, stricken. “I would not have my child grow up without its father, as you and I did.”

She sighed and took his hand again. “Éomer, our father died because he had too much fire in him. He let his fire direct his actions, and he took risks that should not have been taken. He was reckless with his life, and he lost it as a result.” She paused, looking off into the distance at some past event that replayed itself before her eyes. “I have done the same. Been reckless, I mean. At best, I treated death with heedless disregard; at worst, I courted it directly. I was only lucky not to meet our father’s same fate. My fire, as you call it, did not protect me. I lived despite it.”

Her words struck him hard. She spoke of her own experience and yet he heard himself clearly in the description. His mind went back immediately to the siege and that little hillock by the port in Minas Tirith where his fury and his battlelust had driven him so deep into the Haradrim’s position that he found himself utterly surrounded by foes and preparing one last desperate shield wall, doomed to fail. Had Aragorn not arrived in the harbor at that exact moment, he knew well what would have become of him. He passed a hand over his eyes, as though to wipe away the image. He could not let something like that happen again. He would not. “Perhaps you are right.”

“Of course I am. Believe me, I have thought much about this. In the Houses of Healing, I thought of little else, and Faramir and I have discussed it often. What makes a great warrior is not enthusiasm for war itself. It isn’t acting from excitement or rage or ambition or revenge. It is having something to fight for and committing yourself to doing what is necessary to protect those things and to return to them.”

He looked up and smiled. “I certainly have things to fight for. Now more than ever.”

“And that is why you’re going to be just fine. Loving your life is a much better motivation than loving to fight, and it will keep you safe in the end.”

A horn sounded outside, the clear call bouncing off the stone buildings and walls of the city and echoing on for several seconds. The time for departure had come.

She picked up his helmet, smoothing the long, flowing horse tail at its crest, and held it out to him. He took it with one hand while the other reached around her shoulders and drew her in for another embrace. She squeezed him tightly and then looked up into his face.

“Be brave, but be smart. And I’ll be here to unbuckle all that gear when you return.”

He kissed her on the forehead and headed out the door, helmet in hand. She watched as he strode down the hall, tall and strong. Just before turning out to the courtyard where his horse awaited him, he looked back and saw her watching. “I’ll be back soon,” he called to her.

She raised a hand in farewell. “I know you will.”

[muciusscaevola]

Does cracking your egg mean finding new trans story headcanons everywhere? Aragorn: only after passing through a place of death and shadow, coming out on the other side, can he unfurl his banner and declare his name, title, and preferred pronouns. Frodo: struggling with a heavy burden, which at times makes her invisible, while a piercing, hostile gaze follows her every step. Only through friendship does she make it, even if some wounds will never fully heal.

Merry and Pippin: the two meet an ent in the woods. He gives them entjuice. They become taller, indescribably different in manner and deed. Some bullshit happens, they become community leaders and live out their best lives. Gimli: the first cracks showed in Moria, then when they asked for Galadriel's hair as a gift. Then in the depths of Helm's Deep, a true awakening as they cast aside the consuming, expanding ways of the Dwarfs, to become the steward of the Glittering Caves. Gandalf: fell down a well and came back up with a pair of big naturals. I will not elaborate. Eowyn: bestie was so desperate, he forsook his duty to ride to his destiny. Faramir: father wanted a boy. Only after a brush with death, father and brother gone, does she realise who she is. In the arms of Eowyn, she now tends the gardens of Ithilien, no longer skulking and hiding in caves.

[merilles]

Can I just say I adore Dúvain?! She's so cool! I have a bunch of Nazgul ocs myself and I hardly ever see any other Nazgul ocs out in the wild. She reminds me a bit of my oc, Lily. Both have a lot of angst surrounding their Nazgulification. I was wondering if there's a summary of some kind of Dúvain's backstory? I've gotten tantalizing hints and I need to know more! :D

Giggling and kicking my feet, it's delightful to know people are interested in her! My favourite wet cat lady knight <3

CW below for non-graphic discussion of topics such as war, death, and torture

Dúvain, born Lómivanë, was the niece of the Lord of Andúnië during the last years of Tar-Atanamir's reign. Her uncle, Andúnion, was married to the princess Antaríel and had a daughter as well, Eldacálë. the two grew up like sisters, but were very different people and the Lord obviously favoured his own over Lómivanë. She was strange, solitary, quiet; preferring books and horses over people. Her beautiful mother Melilótë died in childbirth, while her beloved father Tindómion later fell ill shortly before her majority. She was thus left to her uncle who loved her little, deprived of an independent inheritance as the daughter of his younger brother.

Andúnion sought to marry her to another Lord of Númenor, condemning her to keep his house and bear him children. She feared that fate more than death, her dread driving her to join the Númenórean military as a calvary soldier. Few mortal women participated in such an occupation, and she found herself scorned both by men and her own sex. But she always wanted to explore Middle-earth, seeing the colonial wars as an excuse to do so. At the time Númenor was rapidly expanding and fighting sauron's vassal-kings, who had grown mighty with their rings of power. She had no idea what she was getting into, succumbing to Númenórean propaganda and having grown up quite wealthy and sheltered.

Through deeds of surpassing valour and sacrifice she rose in the ranks despite being a woman. She was knighted, established in Lebennin by the king's decree as the captain of the Númenórean forces in that land. She also translated her name into Sindarin to reflect her new life. She was very principalled: valuing honesty, honour, and obedience. She followed orders from her superiors closely, because she believed that they knew what was best. They were fighting against people they perceived to be evil, and some certainly served Sauron, not the least those who received rings of power from him. She bought into this sentiment, though had frequent second thoughts when killing soldiers who were just like her.

She imagined they too had brothers-in-arms that mourned them, certainly making many widows and orphans. She questioned the purpose of this war of attrition, for they gained little ground and could not kill these kings. The council of Númenórean lords upon Middle-earth gathered under the shadow to make a deadly decision. They sought a foray into enemy territory to gain an advantage at last in the lands over the great river, and so a company of the finest warriors was sent secretly into the land under the Ephel Dúath (which would later become Ithilien). Sauron perceived them, in part thanks to the traitorous lord of Umbar. They were outnumbered and defeated, a their Captain taken prisoner.

She was brought in chains to Barad-dûr, where she was thrown in the deepest dungeons and tormented endlessly. She was isolated in the darkness, grieving for the deaths of her fallen brothers. She blamed herself for leading them to their doom, despite it being the Númenórean Lords' decision. Sauron intended to put her to his own use by granting her a ring of power, a dark knight to lead his armies against his enemies. Dúvain only hung onto life by a thin thread, for she still feared death, as was the condition of mortals. She was broken, quailing under the weight of her own despair.

Now weakened, she was taken out of the dungeons and brought in chains at the foot of Sauron's throne. Worn down to nothing with no power of her own, she had no choice but to accept a ring of power from her enemy; in fact, it was forced upon her by his hand. No deceit did he use, only the full extent of his cruelty and will to dominate others. He twisted her into a deadly weapon, unmatched on the field of battle; men fled before her upon her return from Mordor, their blood and the blood of their sons staining her sword. And she wept in secret for what he had turned her into.

She became known only as The Black Blade of Lebennin, bearer of Sapthân the Foolstone, the woman she once was forgotten...

[lady-of-imladris]

Ten Sentence Thursday

I have FINALLY managed to write something! It's a new WIP, but it's only a oneshot so it's fine.

So it is time for another round of @somebirdortheother and lady-of-imladris WIP ping pong! That means YOU @somebirdortheother are getting tagged again. I am also tagging @coraleethroughthelookingglass because I want more Cel/Gal/Hal smut (do we have a name for this ship?)

I am currently writing a sweet and funny little fic about what would have happened if Theoden survived and met Faramir. Theoden "I have to immediately adopt this person" King of Rohan and Faramir "my dad wanted to kill me" Prince of Ithilien would get along SO WELL. Plus, I needed Theoden to be alive to see Eowyn happy. He loved her so much. And Theoden and Merry need to smoke weed together (they planned that in the books but never got to do it). Snippet under the cut.

“Master Brandybuck,” Théoden addressed the Hobbit, whom he counted among his dear friends, “you do not happen to know this Faramir, do you?” Merry sat down in the chair next to Théoden’s bed. “I do know him, he and my cousin Pippin are good friends. Although technically he’s Prince Faramir now I suppose. Strider will announce that soon.” “Strider?” he inquired. “You know him, tall fellow, fancy sword, has an army of ghosts-” “Aragorn? The King of Gondor?” “Yes, that one.”

[aurore-parle-de-ses-idees]

au roulette #2: coffee shop

it's- well. there's a coffee shop. and it's an au. sure!

The stones of Minas Ithil are still new, fresh-cut from the quarries of the White Mountains and star-bright beneath the unhidden sun. The city is still young and incomplete, but shops still spring up on the lower levels, in the shadow of new walls, coffeehouses and bakeries and weavers’ shops. It’s here that Abrazâni meets Valardis.

The coffee shop has no name yet, unless it’s that of the proprietor, a young Númenórean with long hair braided back and some of the most ingenious combinations of flavors Abrazâni thinks have ever been put to coffee. The fact that she actually likes some of them is an even greater testament to Sildor’s skills.

“The city is coming along quite well,” Abrazâni says, watching her son vanish around the corner after Valardis’s. “It’s beautiful already.”

“It is,” Valardis says, nearly glowing with pride. “And far more swiftly than we expected.” She draws a heavy notebook from the satchel at her side and spreads it between them. “We have some early designs for the citadel,” she says, flipping through smudged and sketchy pages until she finds the one she seeks, rough drawings of a tall, proud tower decorated with images of the crescent moon. “I thought we might have a beacon at the top,” Valardis says, “like the ones in the great lighthouses. Estenan thought the light would surely disturb the city at night, but I think it would remind many of us of home.” And if she hesitates a little on the word, Abrazâni does not mention it, and does not try to decide the places she should now call home.

“It’s wonderful,” she says instead, reaching out but not daring to touch the page. She lets a teasing note into her voice. “You really are trying to live up to the moon theme, aren’t you?” And Valardis laughs, the bright sound echoing off the stone, and turns to another page.

“We called this place Ithilien,” she says. “We may as well commit to it.” She pulls a pencil from her hair, making a face as the bun wound round it unravels. “There is something else. Less grand than a palace, perhaps, but I think you may like this one better.” She spins her sketchbook round and pushes it towards Abrazâni, smiling expectantly.

These sketches are more careful, depicting long, high-roofed halls and great windows up above, and in some of the drawings they are filled with shelves, and the shelves with books. Abrazâni looks up. “A library?” Valardis’s smile widens.

“We will collect as much as we can of what remains of our lore, but it will want for a keeper sooner rather than later.”

Abrazâni studies her friend. “You don’t mean to fill the role yourself?”

“Ah, I’ve always been a better dreamer than a planner, you know that.”

“You sell yourself short,” Abrazâni murmurs, but she runs her fingertips gently over the arched windows in the pictures.

“I know my strengths,” Valardis says primly. “And besides, I will not lack for other duties. It would please us to have one who knows her business to keep the archives.” And Abrazâni smiles then, and accepts the offer gladly, and Valardis embraces her.

“Don’t tell me you designed this just for me,” Abrazâni says, turning through half a dozen pages of sketches and things that are very nearly architectural plans. It bears a great resemblance to the grand library of Andúnië where she had met often with Valardis and with Isildur and Anárion in more peaceful days.

“Then I will not tell you,” Valardis says easily. “Is there anything you would see changed?”

“Not at all,” Abrazâni says quickly. “Well. Not at the moment, anyway.” Valardis laughs.

“Make a list and we will see it done,” she says. Abrazâni quirks a smile.

“This was not your plan alone, was it?”

“As I said,” Valardis says serenely, “I am not the great planner in my household.”

“And Isildur is?” Abrazâni says, mostly under her breath. Mostly.

“Hey!” a new voice protests.

Isildur joins them in the coffee shop, dirt still dark under his nails as he kisses his wife and lifts Abrazâni in a spinning hug as he and his brother so often had when they were children, never mind her protests. The Tree is growing well, he reports, and asks after Abrazâni and Tárandil when the matter of the library is settled. Abrazâni quiets, and does not miss the look her old friends share, but in truth she and her son are doing well, all things considered, and he often misses Isildur and Valardis’s sons when he and Abrazâni are out of the city.

“Then stay, if you find Minas Ithil to your liking,” Isildur says, and she appreciates it, she does, and having such a great library as her charge calls to her as little else, but some days she is still the wife of the Captain-general of the fleets of Númenor, and many have not forgotten that. Neither has she.

But if ever there was a time for new beginnings, this must be it, with the end of something great and from its shards building that which must come next.

“Perhaps I will,” she says.

[queenclaudiabrown]

Warmth

Fandom: The Lord of The Rings: The Rings of Power Pairing: Arondir x Bronwyn Content warnings: sickness, possibility of minor character death because of sickness, a Waldreg cameo, nothing much really Word count: 3,125 (Long) author's note: As of 3-2-23, it isn't posted yet, but this event will be referenced in my fanfiction Something Is Rotten In The Plains of Ithilien, with a little less detail.  ‘Robat’ is an OC and may be mentioned in the fic.  If you’re interested in that, keep an eye out for updates on that story (I’m working on it, honest).  This is set several years before The Rings of Power, not long after Bronwyn moved to Tirharad from Hordern.  Also, yes, ‘irater’ is a word.

     Arondir had heard that a young woman and her much younger son had arrived in Tirharad a few months ago, but had not laid eyes on either of them as of yet.

     Until today.

     He did not recognize the woman striding determinedly toward him as he left Waldreg’s tavern, her eyes and hair the same color- the color of rich earth, like the soil he’d once buried seeds in in Beleriand- and her sapphire-colored garment caught in the wind.  She marched up to him with a boldness that took him by surprise, as few ever spoke to him other than Waldreg, and ever fewer without contempt.

     “I believe you are the one they call ‘Arondir’.”  She said by way of greeting.

     He dipped his head in a nod.  “I am.”

     “Bronwyn.”  She introduced herself.  She shifted uneasily for a moment before speaking again.  “I have a favor to ask, and I do not ask it lightly.  There is a man here who is very sick, and I do not think I can save him.  there is an herb I need, but I have none left and I have searched the entire village and far around it.  The first snows of this winter will be upon us any day now; there will be no more of the herb until spring.  He cannot last that long.”

     Arondir was concerned for the man in question.  “Is it Elvish medicine you are asking of me?”

     Bronwyn shook her head.  “No.  I- I do not know if the Elves would have any need of it, but I wanted to ask if there might be any of the herb in the tower.”

     He had not expected that to be her request, but he had no reason to deny it.  “Which herb?”

     “Feverfew.  Such little of it grows, and so much of it is needed.  I will find a way to repay you, if I can.”

     Arondir nodded.  “I will search Ostirith, and if I find any, I will return immediately with it.  Perhaps in its stead, you could try Athelas- Kingsfoil, that is- and nightshade?”

     “I will try that.  Thank you.”

     She departed a moment later, walking quickly back toward the rest of the village.  Arondir hastened his pace, and the moment he returned to the tower he began his search.  The Elves had no real need of medicinal herbs, but it was likely they had a little of something in some corner or other.

     It was late at night, the Moon shining bright and clear and high in the sky, by the time Arondir found the small pouch of dried feverfew.  Stashing it under his breastplate for safekeeping, he departed from the tower, nearly running back to Tirharad to find Bronwyn.

     He knew from Médhor’s reports which house she lived in, but when he reached it he saw neither candle nor hearth burning within.  Walking around the exterior, he peered into the windows, and found one bed occupied by her son, the other empty.  From there he quickly went to Waldreg’s home and pounded on the door.

     Disgruntled, the Man wrenched the door open, holding a candlestick.  “Elf?”  He squinted at the Elf.  “Whatever is it?”  He demanded crossly.

     “Bronwyn, the healer.  Where is she?  She is not in her home.”

     “She’s with that ill farmer, I reckon.”

     “What is his name?”  Arondir pressed.

     Waldreg looked all the irater by the second, but replied nonetheless.  “It’s old Robat, son of-”

     Arondir did not wait for the butcher to finish before striding off, heading for the other Man’s home.  He knew where it was, on the far side of Tirharad.  Within a few minutes, he had reached the farmer’s home, and his keen ears picked up the sounds of footsteps and a crackling fire within.  He put his hand on the latch, and upon finding it open, he entered without knocking.  “Bronwyn?”  He called softly.

     The very startled healer appeared a few moments later, holding a candlestick of her own as she stepped out of a room on the other side of the house.  “Arondir?”

     “Waldreg told me where you were.”  He explained, crossing the house toward her as he produced the pouch.  “Feverfew.”

     Her eyes lit up, a spark not caused by the candlelight igniting in them.  He recognized the emotion- hope.  With cautious fingers, she took the pouch of brittle leaves out of his hand.  “You found some.”  She breathed in something akin to awe, looking up at him in gratitude.

     “I came as soon as I had.”  He told her.  “Will it be enough?”

     “It will have to be.”

     He nodded.  “What can I do to assist you?”

     Bronwyn seemed surprised by his query, a disappointing thing to him.  After a moment, she answered him.  “If you could fetch more water from the well so I can make more tea, it would be a great help.”

     He nodded, and taking a pail he went outside, across the village to the well.  A few minutes later, he returned with it filled to the brim.  Sending him a genuine smile, something warm that Arondir was not used to receiving- especially from humans-, she took it and hung it over the fire.

     “There’s naught else I can do until the tea is ready.”  Bronwyn told him.  “Thank you- for bringing the feverfew, and the water.  I think he will live, now that I have them.”

     Arondir dipped his head in a nod-like reply.  “Even so, I will remain here until you believe him on the mend.  If you will permit me.”

     Bronwyn frowned, but not in displeasure.  “It could be many hours before that is so.  Will the other Elves not wonder where you are?”

     Arondir shook his head.  “I doubt they will miss me until sunup.”

     At a loss for excuses to banish him, Bronwyn nodded at last.  “Very well, you can stay.  But I shall put you to work.”

     A hint of a smile flickered across his mouth.  “I am glad to be of use.”

     While they waited for the water to boil, he collected wood from the porch, feeding it into the blazing hearth in the bedroom and carefully adjusting it with the poker.  After taking two chairs from the farmer’s dining table, Arondir and Bronwyn sat together at Robat’s bedside.

     Soon the water had boiled, and Bronwyn stood to pick up a tankard from the Man’s bedside table, in which she had already deposited about half the pestle-crushed feverfew.  She moved to lift the heavy and scorching-hot cauldron from where it hung over the fire, but Arondir was at the hearth before she could reach it, picking it up carefully.  “If you burn your hands, they will not heal as quickly as mine.”  He explained, carefully tipping the pot to pour into the tankard she held.

     The flagon heated in her hands, but she set it down before its warmth could turn to a scorching heat.  Covering it with her mortar and pestle, she explained, “It will need to steep for a few minutes and then cool before he drinks it.”

     She looked over the items on the bedside table and turned to Arondir.  “I need to fetch something from home.”  She said.

     He nodded.  “Go.  I will watch him.”

     Visibly, she was hesitant, but after a moment she nodded.  “Give it to him slowly.  Only a little at a time, but don’t let him go more than a few minutes without drinking any.  I will be back as soon as I can.”

    He nodded, and she was out the front door in moments.  The night air was cold against her as she ran without a cloak, but she didn’t dare go back to fetch it from Robat’s home.  She reached her own within a few minutes, but slowed herself to avoid waking Theo as she searched for what she needed in the moonlight, cursing herself for forgetting to bring a candle.  She dared not waste the time to light one here, so she made do with the silver shining through the window above her worktable.  After a few minutes of frantic searching, she found the jar she needed, and as soon as she was back outside she was running again.

     She burst through Robat’s door soon after, startling Arondir, who had been so focused on his task of encouraging the man to drink while listening to the man’s heartbeat and breathing that he hadn’t heard her approaching.

     Entering the bedroom, she bustled over to the table.  “Any change?”

     “No.”  The Elf reported.  “Did you find what you needed?”

     “Yes.”  She poured out some of the powder into a tumbler, followed by some of the water from the kettle.  She stirred it together, forming a thick paste.  Once it cooled, she could spread it over the man’s forehead to help alleviate his fever.

     Satisfied she was now returned and did not presently need his help with Robat, Arondir went through Robat’s food stores, and he found bread, cheese, potatoes, and salted pork enough for the three of them.  He had done very little cooking in his long life, but he knew how to make soup, and over the fire in Robat’s room he made some.  Bronwyn, tending to the Southlander, had paid no attention to what he was doing until he held out a piece of bread to her.  “You need to eat.”  He reminded her.

     “Robat needs it more.”

     “I doubt he can chew bread right now.  I made soup; he can have the broth, if nothing else.”  Arondir reasoned.

     Reluctantly, she took the bread.  “What about you?  Have you eaten since I asked you to find feverfew?”

     “I have not.”  He confessed.  “I began my search as soon as I returned, and the moment I found the herb I came looking for you.”

     The Southlander was touched by his dedication to helping her, and hid her smile by biting off a piece of the tough, stale bread.  “You should eat as well, then.  Unless Elves do not need to eat?”

     “We do.”  He admitted, picking up the second piece of bread.  “But not as much or as often as Men.”  He tore off a piece of the bread and ate it, chewing as he watched the steady rise and fall of Robat’s chest.

     Less than an hour later, with her small meal consumed, Bronwyn had succumbed to exhaustion, wearied by her unending efforts to keep Robat alive.  Arondir knew that Robat lived alone, and as such there was no second bed he could place her in.  He also doubted she would be alright with him bringing her back to her house to rest, yet he would not lay her on the floor.  So instead he unclipped his cloak and laid it over her, folding the hood to tuck under her head.  She would be sore and stiff when she woke, but perhaps that would lessen it somewhat.  The cloak could’ve been thicker, but added to Bronwyn’s- which he laid over her also- it would likely provide more warmth than any blanket in the village.

     Arondir resigned himself contentedly to watching over them both as they slept, his keen ears easily sensing Robat’s steady breathing.  This freed him to ponder, the main subject of his thoughts the unfamiliar woman asleep across from him.  She was very lovely to look at, fair despite being a daughter of Men and not an Elf-maiden.  Not that he tended to think of Men as ugly, of course- they were Children of Ilúvatar as well, fashioned as mortal and less ethereal beings than Elves.  He might have thought her half-Elven, though, had he not known that she was not.

     He thought about her son, whose name he did not yet know.  The young boy’s existence meant that he had a father somewhere, in whichever village Bronwyn had come from, but if Bronwyn had been married, she was far too young for her husband to have died of old age.  True, sometimes women were married to men far older than them, but it was less common in these peaceful days.  He had not heard of any plagues or major bouts of illness in any of the villages, and there were no wars or battles in which her husband might have perished.  It was a mystery he knew he had no right to even try to solve, but Arondir had always been a little too curious- and a little too interested in the affairs of Men- for his own good.

     The rest of the night passed with little change.  Arondir collected more firewood to keep the hearth blazing once, and twice made a swift trip to peer into the window of Bronwyn’s son to be sure he had not woken or been harmed.  It was the least he could do for the healer, who was clearly not leaving Robat’s side anytime soon.

     Dawn came, and Arondir reluctantly placed his hand on Bronwyn’s shoulder, gently shaking her awake.  She blinked sleepily, frowning rather adorably in her confusion.  A string of unintelligible syllables came out of her mouth that even Arondir could not decipher.

     After a moment, she realized the situation and sat up, wincing at the stiffness and soreness in her body.  The cloaks laid over her slipped down, and her eyes widened at the Elven one.  “Is Robat alright?”  She queried, pushing all other questions aside.

     “I believe so.  He remained asleep through the night, and his breathing has remained the same.  The Sun rose a few minutes ago.”

     Bronwyn nodded in understanding, getting to her feet and moving up the bed to inspect her patient.  At that moment there was a knock on the door, causing both to look in its direction.  “I will see who is there.”  Arondir told her, and she nodded in reply.

     On the farmer’s doorstep was none other than Médhor, arms folded over his chest in a surprisingly Mannish gesture.  “I wasn’t worried when I fell asleep and you weren’t in your bed, but when I woke before dawn and it hadn’t been touched, I was.  I talked to Revion, and he hadn’t seen you either.  He’s sent someone to every village from Ostirith to Orodruin looking for you.  By the Valar, Arondir, what kept you?”

     Arondir let out a breath.  “Before I returned to Ostirith last night, the woman who came here recently approached me.”

     “The healer?”

     “Yes.”  Arondir confirmed.  “She told me she was caring for a Man who was very ill, but she could find no feverfew and was sure he would die without it.  She asked if there was any in the tower.  I found some and brought it to her, and I have remained here with her all night to help her tend him.”

     Médhor huffed out a sigh.  “You should have told someone.  Besides, it isn’t our place to interfere with the lives and deaths of Men- especially these Men.”

     “I will not be the villain they think me to be by turning away a desperate healer and condemning a Man to die.”  Arondir returned.  “If Bronwyn had asked you, would you have turned your back on them?”

     “No.”  His friend admitted.  “Come on, we should be getting back.  Revion will want to speak to you on this.”

     Arondir nodded.  “I will fetch my cloak.”

     He returned to the bedroom and found Bronwyn stirring the soup he had made the night before, Robat gone from his bed.  “Who was it?”

     “One of my fellow guardsmen.”  He replied.  “They were concerned by my absence.  I must return to the tower.”

     “I understand.”  She replied.  Turning to face him, she said, “Robat is awake.  He will live, thanks to you.  I’ll leave once he’s eaten.”

     The Elf dipped his head.  “I am glad to hear that.  You must be careful not to fall ill as well.”  He picked up his cloak and tied it around his throat.  “Do you have enough food for yourself and your son?  Robat has little in his pantry.”

     Taken rather off-guard by the inquest, Bronwyn faltered a moment before replying.  “Yes, we have enough.  Thank you.  For everything.”

     He bowed his head again, departing without a further word.  Robat’s room felt rather large to Bronwyn without his tall and broad-shouldered frame in it.

     Bronwyn didn’t see Arondir again for over two weeks, but when she did, she found him leaving Waldreg’s tavern, another Elf at his side.  She stopped mid-step, surprised at the sight of him.  As if sensing her, his head turned under the hood of his cloak, and his eyes landed on her.  He said something she couldn’t hear to his companion, who halted his steps as Arondir moved toward her.  He came to a stop but a stride in front of her, but said nothing.

     After a moment, she broke the silence.  “Robat is doing well.  He’s back to full health again.”

     “I know, he was in the tavern.  He feels very indebted to you.”

     Warmth and pink bloomed in her cheeks.  “It should be you.  After all, you brought the feverfew that saved his life.”

     “And you knew how to heal him with it.”  Arondir countered.  “You saved his life, Bronwyn.  You should be proud of that.”

     It was the first time he’d said her name, and it elicited a feeling in her that she didn’t dare attempt putting a name to.  She averted her gaze, trailing it over the horizon.  “Did I get you in trouble with your superiors?”

     “No.  They were concerned more than angry.”  He replied.  He elected to leave out the several hours of scolding from Revion and Médhor each, along with their warnings to not grow close and get attached to the humans.

     She nodded.  “That’s good.  I would hate to think I made things difficult for you.”  Fidgeting, she continued, “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you for what you did.”

     He offered her a rare smile of his own, as genuine as her honesty and politeness.  “Take care of yourself and your son, and should you ever need anything again, you may always come to me.  That is all I would ask of you.”

     Bronwyn was immeasurably touched by his unselfish response, and opened her mouth to speak.  However she was cut off by the other Elf’s call.  “Arondir!  We should not delay further!”

     “I must go.”  Arondir told her, somewhat apologetically.  “Until next we meet, Bronwyn.”  He dipped his head in a nod-like gesture of farewell and respect.

     She imitated the movement.  “Until then, Arondir.”

     He took his leave, returning to his companion.  Bronwyn watched him go, deciding that the Southlanders had certainly misjudged the Elves that watched them.  Unbeknownst to her, he was having a very similar thought about the reverse.

Note: I have no idea what the healing properties of the aforementioned plants are, other than that Athelas heals Morgul wounds.  However, Bard mentions both nightshade and feverfew in The Hobbit when they’re trying to find something to help Kíli, so I know both exist in Middle-earth. Also, to clarify, I wasn’t hinting at any Médhor x Arondir.  I’m under the impression that the Elves in Ostirith had barracks or dorms, and since they seemed to be friends, I assumed they might’ve shared a dorm.

[torchwood-99]

Faramir's personal guard as the Prince of Ithilien is called The White Company.

Farmir's wife is nicknamed The White Lady.

Faramir's guard was named after Eowyn, because anyone who wants to hurt her (utterly badass) husband has to get through her first.

I will be taking no criticism at this moment in time.

[watupmydudes]

Of Isildur and Faramir

Now this might just be me wanting two of my favorite characters to parallel each other, but I really think that Isildur and Faramir are quite similar. The first thing that comes to mind is that they both lost their father and brother during an Age ending war, but I think that it goes deeper than that.

I mean, they are both heavily associated with the moon. Isildur’s name means servant of the moon and his fortress is called Minas Ithil. Then you have Faramir who is a ranger of Ithilien and later its’ prince. This is on top of Faramir’s defining character moments, such a rejecting the ring and sparing Gollum, take place at night and he learns about Boromir’s death at night as well. The cloak that he gives Eowyn and symbolizes his love for her looks like a night sky. With how connected the moon is to night itself, it is clear that his connection to night is also the same connection to the moon that Isildur has.

Along with this, they are both supporters of kings. Neither the Lords of Andunie nor the stewards are meant to be kings of their own right, but rather a part of a line descended from the line of kings. They are both, however, thrown into a time period where they need to more than that and take it in stride. Isildur does it by saving a fruit from Nimloth and Faramir does it by gaining knowledge by learning from Gandalf. They then both continue to fulfill their roles as supporters even after their respective roles. Isildur takes the time to teach Menedil how to be king before going to Arnor where he himself would be king. Faramir readily gives up the title of ruling steward in order to support Aragorn’s claim to the throne. They both choose to ignore a chance for themselves to gain more power in order to support the rule of someone they care about. 

Then you have things such as Faramir dreaming of the great wave that Isilur escaped or the fact Ohtar and Beregond take on similar roles through their endless loyalty to their lords, but the real question is: what does this mean? 

Well, it is another example of how power is bad at the end of the day. Now, I could probably go on and on about the fall many monarchies throughout the history of Middle-Earth is a sign that monarchies and the power that they is bad, but this is not really about. It is about the fact that Isildur did not die until he did eventually head toward Arnor to claim a throne. Even though he had been king of both Gondor and Arnor previously, his focus during that time had been to train Menedil to be king. When he makes the decision to take power for himself, no matter what his reason, that is when falls using the One Rings - a hint of the corruption that would have grown inside him if he had made it to Arnor. Now contrast this with Faramir who does seek power, but is given it through Aragorn. He is able to live a long life with Eowyn because he is not someone who wishes for a throne of his own and he completely rejects the Ring. He is able to reject corruption itself - not because of his nature since he has the same nature as Isildur - because he does seek out power at all.        

[greenlikethesea]

first - re your tag about lumax naming their respective spawn after eachother. but like why do you have to be so loud? am crying for a million years about it. sec - food/meal sharing is a love language of mine so for anyone in fair ithilien - what is their go to meal? do steve and eddie have a fav date/take out spot? do they cook one another anything special? do they eat breakfast? omad? give us all the **delicious** deetz!

ohhhhh my goodness LUMAX FEELS!! truly i make myself cry thinking about this too.

so it goes like this -- after lucas breaks up with travis, the mentioned boyfriend in the jargyle, he reacquaints himself with a woman named bianca, who was in his architecture program at northwestern but was dating another guy for the duration of her collegiate career and some years after. they fall in love, get married, and have three rambunctious, whip smart daughters -- estelle, renee, and the youngest, maxine! truly lucas' lot in life to be surrounded by powerful women, as it started with having erica as a little sister.

max settles down with claire, who is mentioned in three weddings and will be mentioned again in the jargyle, and decides at 39 that despite everything, her disability and her age and whatever the doctor is yelling at her about, she's gonna have a kid, since claire has pretty severe pcos and pregnancy would be even more complicated for her. will is the dad, with his partner timothy's enthusiastic blessing, and she has a boy -- lucas william (after will, not after billy) mayfield-weaver.

as for your second point, food is ALSO my love language -- a favorite activity of mine, with friends and lovers, is sharing a meal, whether at a restaurant or cooked! prepared for a novel, many apologies in advance:

@sparklyslug and i have discussed, with great delight, steve and eddie's respective cooking skills. for steve, he can make a few things really well and is kind of a predictable cook; my headcanon for him is not that he's terrific or terrible like the fandom skews toward but a secret third thing, which is that he's pretty decent but primarily cooks to save money. sparkly has posited (and i wholeheartedly agree) that eddie's cooking lives in the poverty meal swag space with some really bizarre skills that he picked up from working in hospitality in san francisco -- he frequently fucks up basic stuff but, in sparkly's words, can do truly insane things with a knife.

neither of them are particularly into fine dining, with steve having lasting cringe and negative feelings from his posh upbringing to eddie feeling Some Type Of Way in these places for "forest hills' finest" reasons. their favorite place is the bar down the street from eddie's garage mentioned in "if you want him..." amazing bar pies.

a lil jargyle bit -- argyle and jonathan primarily work in kitchens before settling in bellingham, as it's in demand and they both take forever getting their undergraduate degrees, so they're both good cooks. (in addition to living with argyle full time since age 18, working in los angeles kitchens is why jonathan speaks spanish fairly well for a white boy from indiana.) argyle gets it from irma and, like her, really enjoys it, but he's just as content to eat plain fruit and cheese for a meal and call it a day. jonathan, as mentioned in the jargyle, dislikes cooking on principle, but he loves to bake and is great at that. despite posturing like a guy who takes his coffee black, he has an enormous sweet tooth.

[mimilind]

A Yuletide Reunion in the Shire

Summary: In an alternate universe where the whole Fellowship – and Sméagol – survive and find happiness, Yuletide is coming up and Frodo invites them to a reunion in the Shire.

Pairings: Boromir x Nellas (less known Tolkien elf), Sméagol and Lol-Nani-Ogg (Drúedain OC), Legolas x Kat (human OC from modern Earth).

Word count: 3060 words

Note: This was originally written as a bonus chapter for my long fic Cat of the Fellowship but can be read standalone since it contains no spoilers (except that everyone lives – which it already says in the tags). If you want to know how they all survived you can read the fic. :)

Tags: Christmas fluff, Fellowship reunion, friendship, everyone lives AU, fix-it, some making out, pregnancy (only mentioned).

Image Credits: Old Christmas cards by Jenny Nyström

❈❈❈

A Yuletide Reunion in the Shire

In a jingle of bells, they arrived in Hobbiton shortly before Yule. Nellas and her husband’s sleigh was the most fancy one; it was of black wood with gold lanterns and comfortable seats covered in rabbit fur, and drawn by a pair of headstrong chestnut stallions she had named Fred and George after a tale from her friend Kat's world. They had bought the sleigh in Rohan when the chilly winter rain they started out in changed to a heavy snowfall and made it impossible for their carriage to go further.

Beside them traveled Kat, Legolas and Gimli in a simple sleigh pulled by the horse Arod, then came Aragorn and Arwen’s royal one (but still less fancy), and last in line followed the smallest one where only the noses of Lol-Nani-Ogg and Sméagol peeked out through thick furs and blankets. The sleighs were flanked by two war horses and their riders; the rangers Éowyn and Faramir.

The horses trotted along the main road through a sprinkle of fluffy snowflakes, breaths forming clouds in the frosty air. 

“How lovely,” Kat exclaimed. “It looks like a Christmas card.”

“A what?” Boromir’s voice formed a cloud as well. 

He was very handsome in a fur clad hood, eyes bright and cheeks pink from the chill. Nellas resisted an urge to cover his face with kisses while telling him over and over again how much she loved him. She was learning the fine art of self-control and figured she had become rather good at it the past year.

“It is a kind of letter but with a picture. In my world we would send them to each other this time of year and they looked just like this.” She indicated their surroundings with a gloved hand: the trees shrouded in white; a robin chirping in a branch; a group of hobbit children dressed in bright coats, scarves and hats laughing and playing in the deep snow.

“It is beautiful,” said Arwen. “Such a lovely town.”

The houses in Hobbiton were dome shaped with round doors and windows, and the largest, nicest one was situated on a hill. They tied the horses outside and opened the garden gate.

A hobbit had been clearing a path from the door to the road, now he looked up with a huge grin. “Oh!” He tossed the shovel aside and hurried down to greet them. “My goodness, you came. The whole Fellowship will be reunited at last!”

“Of course we came.” Boromir squatted so he could hug him. 

“When you wrote about your wedding we just had to meet your wife and congratulate you belatedly,” Faramir added, squatting next to his brother.

“Well met, Samwise Gamgee,” said Aragorn, bowing elegantly.

“Strider! Uh, I mean, King Elessar! We didn’t dare hope you would be able to leave your responsibilities at court.”

He grinned. “To you, it will always be Strider, dear Sam. And I left Minas Tirith in the capable hands of my vice-steward. After all, I am king here as well and it is good to travel through one’s realm every once in a while.”

“Come, come, let's get you all inside. Mister Frodo will be thrilled, and my Rosie too, I’m sure. How was the journey?”

“Long.” Arwen yawned.

“Cold,” said Lol-Nani-Ogg from the depths of her hood.

“Fun,” Kat objected. “I love to see real winter again! In Ithilien it mostly rains this time of year.”

Frodo must have heard their voices, for the round door crashed open. “You came!” He nearly slipped down the stairs in his eagerness to join them. “You all came!”

A somewhat chaotic reunion ensued, with many hard hugs and happy exclamations of ‘long time, no see!’, ‘you look well!’, ‘has it really been more than a year already?’, and when they finally went inside there was another bustle as they crowded in the hallway, heads low under the hobbit sized ceiling while their outer garments and luggage were taken care of and rooms assigned.

At last everything was sorted and the guests urged to get changed and rest after their journey while the hosts prepared a festive meal. 

Nellas curiously entered Boromir’s and her room. It was small and snug, with thick curtains, an open fireplace and a human sized bed that must have been bought specially for the occasion. The quilt on the bed was made of strips of fabric in many different colors sewn together, forming an abstract pattern.

“Shall we try the bed?” she suggested.

Boromir smiled. “Good idea.” Stretching out on his back, he bounced on it experimentally. “Mmm, soft. A nap is just what I need.”

She frowned. “I did not mean sleeping.”

“No? What did you mean then?”

“I meant–”

His hearty laughter interrupted her and she jumped on top of him, straddling his broad chest. “You knew what I meant from the beginning,” she accused.

“Aye.” His eyes sparkled with mirth.

“You are always teasing me.” She tried to tickle him as punishment but failed because of how easily he caught her hands and held them.

“Always.”

“Lucky for you I love you anyway.” 

“I do not deserve it.” Still with her hands caught between his, he flipped her on her back and locked her arms above the head. “Now, were we going to try the bed?” 

“Yes, please.” She closed her eyes expectantly as he cupped her face and covered her lips with his. 

The kiss was intense from the beginning; Boromir’s emotions were always near the surface, especially his desire. As their lips moved together, he pressed himself against her with untamed passion while his large hands roamed her curves.

She reciprocated by stroking his shoulders, feeling hard muscle under the rough wool, and wished he would take his tunic off so she could revel in the sight of his bare chest.

Leaving her lips, he began a trail of needy kisses down her neck. His breath was cool against her heated skin, making her heart race and her body ache with want. 

He reached her neckline and opened the first button. “I like this dress,” he mumbled huskily. There were buttons all the way to the hem.

“I… chose it… with you in mind…” she replied breathlessly as he popped them open one by one. “But now it is… your… turn… to undress.”

He pulled off his tunic and shirt in one swift motion. “My pleasure.”

She looked at him with admiration. “No. My pleasure.”

❈❈❈

Sméagol regarded the bountiful table suspiciously. “It is all cooked,” he whispered to his wife.

“I can see that, and don’t you dare be rude about it.” She gave his cheek a quick peck, taking the edge off the words. 

The fat hobbit came over, carrying a plate laden with some whitish, fluffy mess. “I made mashed taters for you.”

Lol-Nani-Ogg gave Sméagol a warning look. “Smell good and look good,” she said in broken Westron. She had never bothered to learn that language entirely since they mostly kept to themselves, and at home they spoke Drúedain.

Sméagol forced a polite smile. “Yess, very nice.”

The hobbit had noticed his wry face and his grin became broad. “I’m only teasing you. Look, here is Rosie with your fish – raw and wriggling, just the way you like it.”

Sméagol regarded the plate of glistening trouts hungrily, relieved and pleasantly surprised. Turning back to the fat… no, to Sam, he said with warmth: “Thank you. We lovess fish.”

Sam patted his back. “Don’t mention it.”

More guests were filing in now, the taller ones bending their heads to pass through the doorway. Luckily the room was spacious and the table large.

Last of all entered Merry and Pippin, neighbors of Master Frodo. Sméagol didn’t know them very well, but they had been in the Fellowship too and seemed quite popular with the others for they caused a loud and hearty round of greetings.

When at last they were done and everyone was seated there was still one empty chair. The nice king looked at it, eyes brightening expectantly. “Is that for…?”

Frodo beamed at him. “Yes, indeed.”

The door opened a final time and a bearded old man walked in, hitting his head first in the door beam and then in the chandelier. “Why, your house keeps getting smaller, Frodo!” he grumbled.

‘Gandalf!’ exclaimed everyone – except for the elves, who exclaimed ‘Mithrandir!’. So typical of their kind, always wanting to be different.

The wizard’s arrival meant more greetings. Sméagol glanced at the fish plate, stomach growling. Was it never time to eat? He was starting to regret accepting Master Frodo’s invitation. Only to think, he could have been nicely tucked in at home with his wife, having all the rice-and-raw-fish cakes he could eat and perhaps taking a stroll by the river in search of birds’ eggs, but instead he was here among strangers, ravenous and feeling out of place.

Frodo rose, calling forth silence by tapping his glass with a knife. “I bid you welcome to Bag End and to this reunion. I am overwhelmed and happy all of you made it here! It feels just like when the Fellowship was formed, but even better now with the addition of so many new friends. But, no more talking; you must be starving, so without further ado: let us eat!”

Finally! Sméagol sent the master a grateful look and grabbed a slippery trout, sinking his sharp teeth into the tender meat.

The meal became more pleasant than Sméagol had anticipated; the food and drink soon revived him, and the others took turns talking about their adventures so nobody seemed to mind his silence. Part of their tales were quite interesting too, particularly the one concerning the master and Sam. Apparently the evil wizard Saruman had escaped from his tower after the war and settled here in Bag End, from where he did plenty of mischief in the country before Frodo and his friends returned. But they fought him bravely, leading hundreds of hobbits to battle and finally driving him out. In the end Saruman’s own servant sliced his throat before he too was killed, and that had been the end of what was now known as the Scouring of the Shire.

This had happened a month or so before Yule the previous year, and during spring the hobbits had worked hard to rebuild everything and restore the broken land. Sam had spread dirt that was a gift from the elf queen Galadriel, and thanks to its elven magic this year’s harvest had been the most bountiful ever in the history of the Shire.

“And part of that is what you are eating now,” he said, indicating his beloved mash.

“The potatoes are really quite good, love,” whispered Lol-Nani-Ogg. “You should try them.”

Tentatively Sméagol took a small spoon. The white fluff melted on his tongue and to his surprise the mellow flavor was really pleasant, with a perfect balance of salt and butter. 

He sneaked a look across the table. Sure enough Sam was watching him with a decidedly smug smirk.

“Not too bad,” Sméagol grudgingly admitted. “But we likess fish better.”

“We do,” agreed his wife, flashing him one of her radiant smiles that always filled his chest with happy flutters. He would never understand what she saw in him, but he was not complaining. Though he knew he didn’t deserve it, the Creator had blessed him in his old age and made him a very lucky man.

When everyone had eaten their fill they moved the chairs closer to the fire and as evening fell they continued talking. Sam served mulled wine and Kat – Legolas’ strange wife who used to be a cat – told them a Yule tale about a child in her world that was the son of the Creator, and something about a stable and a star.

“... and later he was killed as punishment for our crimes. So now everyone has been forgiven for all the bad we ever did, or will do in the future.”

“We are not from your world,” said Boromir. He looked a bit sad about that. 

“I think it works in Middle-earth too. That the worlds have the same Creator.”

He smiled wistfully. “I would argue there are many who do not deserve pardon.” He didn’t say it, but Sméagol got the impression he was talking about himself.

“Nobody deserves it,” she agreed. “But we get it anyway.”

“I believe you,” said Boromir’s brother.

“And I,” said Lol-Nani-Ogg unexpectedly.

Sméagol felt his throat grow a little too tight as the face of his dead best friend floated up before his inner eye. 

Forgiveness… could he really have that?

“Let’s tell riddles now,” said Pippin cheerfully, breaking the serious moment. “I can begin. When young I’m sweet in the sun, when middle-aged I make you gay and when old I’m valued more than ever. Who am I?” He winked and sipped his mulled wine.

“Peregrin Took, your timing is awful,” the wizard muttered, but not unfriendly.

The rest of the evening went by quickly and Sméagol could not recall many times he had enjoyed himself more. When he went to bed that night he reflected that he no longer regretted coming; he had almost forgotten how great it felt to have friends. 

Exhausted after the eventful day, he dozed off with his wife in his arms and slept better than he had in years.

❈❈❈

A cold heap of snow hit Kat squarely in the shoulder. Darn elf; archers shouldn’t be allowed in snowball fights. His aim was uncanny. 

“Twenty-two,” called Legolas’ smugly across the field.

“We’re still one ahead of you, lad,” shouted Gimli back at him, dodging as another ball was hurled his way. The dwarf used his own, special tactic; he preferred to catch his opponent and wrestle them down so he could pour fistfuls of snow directly in their face.

“Over here!” Éowyn waved for Kat to come down into a trench Boromir was making. She had nearly as good an aim as Legolas so she was a useful ally, and Boromir’s brute strength came in handy for the digging part.

Soon Team Éowyn had an effective battle machine going: Kat was speed-rolling hard balls, Boromir provided her with snow for building material and Éowyn launched a continuous barrage on the enemy so fast her gloves became a blur. At the other side, Legolas, Aragorn, Faramir and Nellas were forced to huddle in their snow fort, unable to fight back in the relentless bombardment.

This was Gimli’s cue. Sneakily he advanced on them from behind and pounced on Legolas. “Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven…”

It would have ended with victory for Team Éowyn if not the hobbit team had unexpectedly chosen that moment to attack. Everyone had forgotten about them because they had spent so long digging snow tunnels rather than engaging in the war.

“For the Shire!” they yelled in one voice, jumping up from the ground in several places at once. Between themselves, Frodo, Sam, Rosie, Merry and Pippin easily bested the surprised enemy leaders and had soon poured so much snow down their clothes they became chilled to the bone.

“I yield,” said Boromir between chattering teeth. 

“Me too,” said Aragorn.

“I count forty hits for the Shire,” said Merry. 

“Only thirty-five for us.” Gimli shook icicles from his beard.

“Victory!” yelled Pippin, making a funny little dance. “Well done, team.”

Legolas left his protective fort and stretched out a damp, gloved hand to Kat. “Peace?”

“Just a moment…” She swiftly produced the snowball she had kept hidden behind her back and threw it squarely in his chest. “There. Even!”

“Sneaky.” He caught her in a wet hug and kissed her with cold lips. 

“Come everyone, let's go in and have a second breakfast,” said Frodo. “I prepared chicken soup before we went out; it should be ready now.”

When they hustled inside, they found Gandalf, Arwen, Sméagol and Lol-Nani-Ogg comfortably drinking tea by the fire. 

The wizard gave the disheveled, shivering warriors a disapproving look. “Fools.”

“Foolissh, indeed,” Sméagol huffed. “We doesn’t like ssnow.” 

After a change of clothes and with her belly full of hot soup, Kat joined the group by the fireplace, taking a seat in Legolas’ lap to save chairs. 

Her heart felt full as well; full of warmth and love, and completely devoid of the stress she remembered from every Christmas in her old world. Here nobody bothered about costly presents or advanced home decorations. She could simply be. Just enjoy the peaceful silence, the pleasant company and her husband’s warm, comforting arms holding her close. It was all she needed.

Kat rested her head against Legolas’ chest, listening to his calm heartbeat and the occasional crackle from the fire. Her limbs were pleasantly tired after the morning’s snowball fight. 

After a while her eyes landed on Rosie Cotton. Sam’s wife was a charming hobbit lady, pretty and cheerful, and had entertained the others with an endless supply of riddles yesterday. But didn’t her stomach look slightly swollen? Under the thick winter clothes it was hard to see clearly.

She sent a silent thought to Legolas via the renewed mental connection they had discovered on the wedding night: Don’t you think Rosie looks a bit on the heavy side? Bellywise, I mean.

Aye, they are expecting. Sam told me yesterday.

And you didn’t tell me? she scolded.

I was busy.

Kat had to grin at that; the previous night had been rather intense. The crackling fire, warm colors and low ceiling in their cozy room had kindled romantic feelings.

She thought more about that night, eyes still lingering on Rosie’s discreet bump. As usual they had taken measures to prevent a such, but maybe… 

I suppose it’s a good time to have a baby now that there is peace in the world, she thought tentatively.

Legolas' arms tightened around her and he buried his nose in her hair, breathing in her scent. Aye, it is a good time.

I have suddenly become a bit tired. She faked a yawn. Time for an afternoon nap?

Good idea. He gave her forehead a soft peck.

Shortly thereafter they left together, hand in hand, to share another moment of sweet love and hot passion – this time without precautions.

❈❈❈

A/N:

Happy holidays! This is a standalone bonus chapter for my long fic Cat of the Fellowship. Welcome to read the full story on AO3 or FFN if you like. :)