#and now faramir has to be the last of his line in turn

[mummelthecryptid]

how long did it take after faramir woke up from his fever that they told him hed lost the last remaining part of his family. with someone whos so sick and was on deaths door not too long ago you typically wait to tell them bad news. how long was faramir wondering why his father wasnt visiting him in the houses of healing.

did he think denethor was just busy with managing the city, unaware that the position of steward had long passed onto his shoulders?

[torchwood-99]

The playing around with gendered narratives we see in Faramir and Eowyn's relationship fascinates me. I've already dwelled on how they almost swap roles in the virtues they possess, the plot points of their stories, and the dramatic climaxes of their arcs, but Tolkien really goes one step further with writing Faramir in a manner that is usually reserved for women, by turning him into "the love interest" after he meets Eowyn.

Before meeting Eowyn, one of Faramir's driving conflicts and dynamics is that with his father. It's a complex and difficult relationship based on love and antipathy, and it ends in the most devastating manner. Some significance is given to how Faramir will respond to the death of his father, as Gandalf gives instructions for him to be told soon his father is dead, but to wait a while before telling him how.

We never see Faramir's reaction to either piece of news. This crucial development is forgotten, without even a line expressing how he found out, or what he felt when he did.

After meeting Eowyn, Faramir character, his arc, his interiority, develops around her.

We see him try to get through to her, to make a connection with her, he fears the world ending because he doesn't want to lose her after finding her, he rejoices in the world being saved by kissing her brow. It all hinges on her. His happiness is complete when she gives him her love. His love was always on offer, the choice for them to be together hinged on her.

In contrast, Eowyn's pre-battle conflicts and dynamics carry on after meeting Faramir. Her despair, her feelings for Aragorn, her mourning Theoden, her need to find a cause for hope and a reason to keep on living now the war is done and death in battle is beyond her. Her friendship with Merry, her loyalty to Rohan; she has Faramir wait for her to return, because first she has duties to do in her home country. Faramir is a new thread in her narrative, and a significant one, but all the earlier threads in her narrative carry through, whereas it feels a bit like some of Faramir's narrative threads were snipped once Eowyn had entered the frame.

Now, we do know that factually Faramir was rebuilding Gondor, and that he became Steward and Prince of Ithilien afterwards, but we don't follow his thoughts and feelings and his struggles as he takes on this new role. As a person, as an individual, he has multiple purposes and priorities. He is still Faramir, who still loves his country and has dreams for how it will grow after the war. He doesn't lose his personhood. But as a character, his story is about Eowyn, and whether or not he gets her. It began with him meeting Eowyn. It followed him reaching out to Eowyn. It ended in Eowyn saying yes.

When Faramir takes a moment to talk about his future, when we get a personal, emotional look at how Faramir views his role and his ambitions, he makes it all about her. He will marry Eowyn, if she wills it. They will go to Ithilien and plant a garden there, if she wills it. And if they do, everything will be wonderful, if she is there.

Contrast to Eowyn talking about her future with Faramir, it's also all about her. How her mindset has changed, how her priorities have shifted, how she no longer wishes to die but wishes to heal, how she has finally found hope at last. The most Faramir gets in this speech is a coy little reference as to how Eowyn no longer wishes to be queen.

Their troth plighting centres Eowyn as well. Eomer justifies holding it at Theoden's funeral because of how much Theoden loved her. He says that the Steward asked for her hand and she granted it, "full willing". The troth plighting scene ends in a reconciliation between Aragorn and Eowyn. Faramir stays in Rohan for a while to be with Eowyn, and the last we see of Eowyn, it's in a scene focussing on her warriors at arms bond with Merry.

Eowyn and Faramir's stories, after the Battle of Pelennor, becomes Eowyn and Faramir's story. It's about them falling in love and coming together. However, in this story, it's not the bloke who is the Hero, and the woman who is the Love Interest. Here, Eowyn is the Hero, with multiple narrative threads and dynamics that need to be resolved, and Faramir is the Love Interest, whose narrative is entirely wrapped in whether or not he gets the girl.

[kylobith]

Long Live the King!

In honour of Bernard Hill (1944 - 2024)

Rays of light caress the grass on the mounds of the Barrowfield at the foot of the mighty hill of Edoras. They bathe the landscape and the mountainside in their glow, enlivening the colours of the earth and the last snows of the season. What ochre dirt usually lies under the canopy of the sky now glows bright gold, nearly rivalling the roof of Meduseld, perched up far above it on its throne of stone. The land comes alive in the hues of the realm’s colours, proudly displayed on flagpoles held by soldiers.

Gathered around the newest mound on the Barrowfield, they line up the path to the temporary entrance. Heads held high with their helms down to their brows, their teary eyes behold the sky as the etiquette demands of them. Before them, closer to the path, courtiers stand in reverence, their weeping disturbing the otherworldly stillness of the scenery. By the carved stone frame of the mount’s threshold, a group of women cry out an ancient chant as armoured pallbearers carry forth the wooden stretcher upon which rests their fallen king.

Upon a cushion of green velvet embroidered with gold rests his proud head, once bearing the crown of his elders. His blond hair cascades upon it like a halo highlighting the kindness of his heart. Oh, a heart bearing much burden, yet that retained much affection for his demanding court and realm, and never once turned away from his family. Not deliberately, that is.

Behind him, what remains of the royal family follows. All are clad in black mourning dress, except for Éomer, whose shoulders are covered by a fur-lined cloak passed down from his uncle. His hand holds that of his betrothed, with her Gondorian hair braided in a Rohirric fashion. Across his chest, with its polished hilt resting on the crook of his left elbow, Herugrim awaits to be laid to rest in turn.

Following her brother is Éowyn, clasping an embroidered handkerchief to her quivering lips, supported by her husband-to-be. She leans against his shoulder, her trembling hand clutching his until her knuckles turn paler than her tear-streaked cheeks. Seldom has she managed to utter a word since she arose earlier this morning, so deep her grief stirs within her.

The pallbearers come to a halt before the threshold and those who followed them come to stand on either side of the pathway. Éomer releases Lothíriel’s hand and bows before his beloved uncle. The women cease their chants yet continue to weep, softly enough to bring attention to the king’s nephew. Keeping a firm grip on the crimson leather, he unsheathes Herugrim and holds it up above him, letting the blade reflect the sun’s glow.

‘All hail Théoden King!’ he cries out with his brow furrowed and a gleam of determination twinkling in his mournful eye.

And all respond, with the banners held high in their backs.

‘All hail Théoden King!’

Éomer solemnly lowers the sword and places it upon his uncle’s chest, closing his cold hands, which once ruled with firm grace over Rohan, around the handle. His sister steps forward and receives a small bunch of simbelmynë carefully picked from Théodred’s barrow from a soldier. She kisses the flowers and tucks them into her uncle’s grip. With a last caress on his brow, the Lady of Rohan murmurs.

Another sob wracks through her and warm tears flood her delicate traits.

‘Be at peace, son of Rohan. Your children shall never forget you, nor your gentle heart. Oh, find your fathers and embrace our beloved Théodred in our stead!’

‘Farewell, uncle, farewell!’

As she stumbles back, she collides with her brother, whose hand rests upon her shoulder. They look upon Théoden in grief as the women resume their laments, whilst bystanders bow their heads.

Faramir observes Éowyn from the corner of his eye. His heart sinks at the thought of her suffering, and never has he felt so helpless. What can one man do in the face of mourning? What more can he do besides embrace her when she needs it and listen to her memories of her childhood? Not that he minds any of it, he would wear his arms thin from holding her if he could, drown his fingers from brushing away her tears, grow deaf from hearing her speak. And he would do it all over again in a heartbeat, a thousand times over, if given the chance!

But the sight of her slouched shoulders when he knows how proud they always are triggers a pain greater than the arrows that pierced his body. Yet patience is all he must show. Patience and compassion. These virtues he has never lacked, despite his misplaced humility when praised about them.

And so, he listens to the laments sung in words whose meaning evades him, his head bowed and his eyes fixed on the shieldmaiden and her brother. When the chants end, Théoden is brought inside the barrow, beheld for the last time by the orphaned children he once considered his. The tomb is closed, and the crowd soon disperses, retracing their steps towards the Golden Hall, where a banquet will be held to reminisce about the great deeds of the fallen king and honour their new monarch.

Faramir stands by the pathway, nodding politely at the soldiers, courtiers, and those he has come to meet in Ithilien and Minas Tirith. Lothíriel, his cousin, comes to place a kiss on his cheek, squeezing his arm with a brief smile, before walking away. Éomer bows his head at him and Faramir pats his shoulder in silent support, which the new king of Rohan accepts gladly by placing his hand over his future brother-in-law’s.

But Éowyn remains by the mound, her eyes fixed upon the stone now separating her from her uncle. He awaits her, keeping his distance at first to allow her to mourn in peace. As long minutes pass, he pinches his lips and draws nearer, not wanting to startle her.

‘I would have you smile again,’ her sweet voice rises before he even reaches her, ‘not grieve for those whose time has come.’

Éowyn peers over her shoulder, her eyes brimming with tears.

‘That is what he once told me. Before the battle, before he—'

She turns again, choking up on her words. Faramir’s arms encircle her and press her gently to his heart as he rests his chin on the top of her head.

‘He must have been a great man, for him to earn such devotion from you,’ he whispers.

‘Far beyond that.’

With a sniffle, she looks up at him, speaking in a firm tone which contrasts with the vulnerability in her eyes.

‘I intend to respect his word, Faramir. So, I beg you never to make me weep.’

Faramir tucks an untameable tress of her golden hair and offers her a tender smile.

‘Beloved Éowyn, I would never dream of it.’

Nestling her head underneath his chin again, she lets out a sigh of relief. A smile grows on his cheeks.

‘I fear that I have spoken a lie. I can think of three instances where your crying would be welcome. The first is if one of the most moving poems recited from my lips by the hearth in our home would stir you so that tears would grace your eyes. The second would be our wedding day. And the third, if I dare dream of it, is the day that you hold our future child for the first time.’

Éowyn grins against his neck and places a kiss in its crook.

‘How presumptuous of you to believe that I would show any emotion in such instances!’

‘Would you not?’ he asks, his eyes widening in surprise.

A chuckle escapes her and her hands cradle his face.

‘Of course, I will. And I am ready to bet that you would weep before I do in all three situations.’

Faramir laughs along and brushes his lips against hers for a moment. A single instant where there is no place for grief. When he pulls away, his thumb traces her cheekbone.

‘We must return to Meduseld. You are the one to present the cup to your brother.’

‘Very well. Go ahead, I will be right behind you.’

Faramir nods and begins to walk away, respecting her wishes. Éowyn turns to the barrow and comes forward to graze the stone mantel with her fingertips. She presses a kiss to it and takes a deep breath.

‘Farewell, uncle. Be at peace; I am smiling again.’

[rarepairnation]

elrond and elros and earendil [hamilton voice] and faramir! i must know about this!!!!!

oh man a concept that puts my brain cells in a claw machine… (@sweetshire asked about this one too so ria this is 4 u as well<3) i knew i was gonna be building to this scene the whole time from the moment faramir crossed the borders of rivendell and i hope i executed it well. i locked onto eldritch numenoreans as a concept so intensely and it’s just so important to me that not only are they obviously strange but they LOOK weird as fuck. like no that isn’t quite an elf but they’re DEFINITELY not some normal guy. so faramir sees elrond for the first time and he sees elros, preserved through time. and elrond sees faramir and he sees elros in his face and it breaks his fucking heart! :). and also faramir has dreamt of numenor all his life right. and elros was the first king of numenor...who followed the light of gil-estel the north star to find his promised land...and who carries that star...earendil his father.......YOU KNOW??? it makes me feel crazy. like that is a literal real connection that they all have.

the air seems to shimmer about him as he turns, the light radiating from his very skin, star-like even in the bright sunlight. faramir raises his head, prepares to meet the lord with all the reverence he knows. and then he sees his face, and all his breath leaves him in an instant. he knows this face. has known it all his life, as close to his as any kin. its carven gaze stares down from a hundred statues in minas tirith, and chief of them all the face of the steward, as it had been in faramir’s youth, now so distant of a memory. dark-haired, grey-eyed, noble and kind and true. the echo of a choice made thousands of years ago. elros tar-minyatur brought to life. “my lord elrond,” he says, through a mouth dry as the desert. drops to a knee, overcome. ever since he had stepped past the borders of this land he has walked through his most beloved legends, and yet his mind now cannot believe what he sees. here now is the scion of gil-estel, the one son of that star who will endure past the breaking of the world. and faramir is only the most distant of relations but in this moment he is as númenórean as he has ever been. time and space and the changing of the world separate him from the sons of eärendil, yet all this time he has followed in the footsteps of his greatest forebear, seeking starwards.

this is also very like…dont worry professor tolkien i saw that everyone you think is hot looks exactly like your wife. dont worry i ALSO think they’re hot. u can rest now.gif.

“we remember the first king of númenor, in gondor,” says faramir softly. “there are fewer, now, who know the old tales. but elros tar-minyatur will be last to be forgotten, ere the white city fall and the world end.” a gentle smile blooms across the lord elrond’s face. he does not weep, but in the lines of his face lies a sorrow so large and ancient that faramir can hardly conceive of it. “i do you no more honour than you deserve. i did not think to look to the stewards of gondor, to steward my brother’s memory. now i see that i have long been mistaken. the memory of númenor yet lives on in the men of the south.” “my lord,” is all faramir can think to say. he had not thought he would find so many reminders of home, so far from it, in this land where there truly are none like him. or so he had believed. he will never know tar-minyatur and yet something of that lord of legend lives on in him. when he looks far enough into the grey horizon, into times and futures that have not yet come to pass, there is a part of him that looks through those ancient eyes. the first king of númenor lives on in the streets of gondor, in the quiet of the standing silence, in the tales of the West passed first from his father to himself, and then from him to his men, weaving stories late into the night in the glow of the fire. yet of his brother he knows little, and he is nothing like he had imagined. he had expected distant, remote lordship, not untouchable like a statue but untouchable like a star. gil-estel, after all, shines cold and bright each night over ithilien. to be the immortal scion of the north star - it is a burden that could freeze any heart. yet in the scant time they have stood here, around the lord elrond’s feet, flowers have begun to grow.

its also like an Elrond Learning Moment. the blood of numenor is spent situation at the council in the book versus what i, PERSONALLY, know about the blood of numenor being alive and fucking well is always soooo....elrond i Love You but that was a pretty crazy thing to say. and now here he is realizing and acknowledging and reevaluating his biases. yeah this is my i am fixing something about canon moment. i just think elrond and faramir should Understand Each Other.

[echo-bleu]

Painted Stars

For the @all-of-arda-is-autistic event, I couldn't resist writing some autistic!Faramir. (3.3k, gen, Faramir&Boromir h/c/fluff set before canon). Here on AO3.

The head archivist catches Boromir’s eyes as he walks into the main room of the library. He raises an open hand, makes a fist, raises three fingers, then nods toward the archive rooms at the back. After so many years, they can communicate silently, and the archivists have developed an entire system of hand signs to avoid disturbing the readers.

In fact, it’s what Faramir used to enlarge the Rangers’ use of signs and whistles to stay hidden. Boromir smiles to himself at the memory of his brother, barely twenty and still a lieutenant, exposing that particular idea to the Rangers’ then captain. He shakes his head in amusement and thanks the archivist with a nod, before making his way to his brother’s favourite room to read in, the rotund at the back of the archives.

It is a beautiful place, it has to be said. The room is entirely round, with long vertical windows set between stone pillars, overlooking the bend of the Anduin south of the city. Tall shelves overflowing with books line the rest of the walls. The high ceiling follows the curve of the roof, painted in dark blue with tiny white stars like the night sky. It’s Faramir’s favourite place in the city, and Boromir wouldn’t begrudge him that, if only it wasn’t so far from everything.

He doesn’t even know how his brother made it here from the Houses of Healing, halfway around the sixth circle and up four flights of stairs. But when he has his mind set on something, even a still-healing broken leg won’t stop Faramir.

At least he waited until the Warden let him out of bed.

“I know you’ve been utterly bored, but you don’t need to compensate for the month you spent in bed in a single day,” he says to his brother’s back, bent over a thick tome.

He feels a hint of smugness when Faramir jumps, because this is the only place where he still can sneak up on his Ranger brother. “Boromir!”

Faramir tries to turn around and stand at the same time, and curses aloud when his bad foot hits the table’s leg.

Boromir jogs down the steps to the rotund proper and leans against Faramir’s table. “Don’t hurt yourself on my account.”

“Valar, Boromir, what are you doing here? Wasn’t the council meeting supposed to last all day?”

“It did,” Boromir points out. “It’s past twelfth bell.”

In the height of the summer, the sun sets much later, but it’s already close to Minduollin, and soon its shadow will fall over the city. Faramir looks outside in surprise. “Oh.”

“When was the last time you ate, or even looked up from your book?”

“Er…”

“You’ve been here for eight hours.”

“Do you have people spying on me?” Faramir asks, attempting to look annoyed, but he only looks tired. Now that he’s realized how long he’s been sitting here, it’s like the weight of exhaustion is suddenly settling on him. He rolls his shoulders and his neck pops.

“Only Head Archivist Gannon, and he’s just looking out for you. Fara, you need to better take care of yourself. Your leg isn’t healed yet.”

“I was sitting all day. I even propped it up.”

There is, indeed, a small cushioned stool set under the table. Boromir sighs. At least his brother hasn’t lost all sense.

“I���m pretty sure that when Nîlo said you could take short walks, he didn’t mean you could come all the way out here.”

Faramir winces. “I was reading that book you brought me yesterday about the court of Tar-Minyatur and the building of Armenelos, and it got the dates all wrong, I had to check proper sources.”

“And that took eight hours?”

“Well, that book over there,” Faramir gestures toward another heavy tome, bound in crumbling leather, “said something about Elros Tar-Minyatur that I’d never read before, so I had to check that, and then I got caught up in the history of Númenor.”

He gives Boromir a sheepish smile, and Boromir shakes his head. Losing himself in old lore is so typical of Faramir. He catches the end of a thread and won’t rest until he’s unravelled the entire tapestry, forgetting to eat or sleep or even look up from his books. Father and their arms-masters had to punish him many times for forgetting his duties when he was a child.

Nowadays Faramir no longer forgets his duties, and very rarely lets himself get pulled into research. His first experiences in Ithilien and now his captaincy have turned his preoccupations toward the war effort, and sometimes Boromir misses the eager and passionate, if not quite carefree, young man that he used to be. There’s something of that man back in Faramir’s gaze right now, for the first time in years.

Maybe the opportunity to rest and lie idle for a while, although brought about by suffering, has been a blessing in disguise for him. Ithilien and Gondor may need Faramir, but Boromir knows that battle is not where his heart sings. It’s here, in this room full of books, that he finds his happiness.

Faramir yawns widely. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s funny, nothing robs you of your energy quite like lying in bed for weeks on end. Should be the other way around.”

“Your body is trying its best to heal, and you’re not helping it along.”

“I just got tired of staring at the same four walls.”

Boromir snorts. “You never seem to tire of these walls,” he gestures at the room around him.

“Well, I don’t spend much time looking at them. Plus, you’ll have to admit that this ceiling is far more interesting than the one in the Houses of Healing.”

“So if I have the ceiling to your room in the Houses painted with stars, you’ll stay there next time?”

There is no point in pretending that there won’t be a next time. The Rangers are out there alone in Ithilien, desperately trying to hold a land swarming with orcs. Even if their training is among the best and Faramir is putting all his cunning to the service of preserving the lives of his men, it’s one of the most dangerous postings there is for a captain. He’s taken more injuries than even Boromir, who is well-known to be reckless in battle.

It’s an ongoing joke between them that there will soon be a room in the Houses of Healing solely reserved for him. They’ve made plans for the decoration, and Faramir, in his utter boredom in the last few weeks, went so far as to sketch it out.

“I want the constellations to be accurate,” Faramir says, the quirk of his mouth betraying his serious face.

“Deal. Now how about I help you back to bed? You think you can make it there under your own power?”

Faramir has to actually think about it, which is a clearer answer than his words. “Probably.”

“Right.” Boromir bends down to pick up the crutch Faramir stored behind his seat. “Up you get, then.”

Faramir’s limp, even with the help of the crutch, is so pronounced that Boromir wastes no time ducking under his brother’s free arm. Faramir makes a noise of protest, but he leans most of his weight on Boromir as they slowly take on the steps back to the main library.

The head archivist is bent over a scroll at his desk, with his daughter and assistant Inzilbêth beside him. They both look up at Boromir and Faramir’s passage. Inzi’s raised eyebrow is eloquent – do you need help? Boromir shakes his head minutely, unsure that Faramir has even noticed them. He’s breathing heavily, focused on controlling the weight he puts on his leg.

Boromir makes a mental note to have Nîlo, Inzi’s brother, ask her to visit Faramir in the coming days. She’s even more passionate about lore than he is, and she’s perhaps the only one who could keep him distracted enough to keep him in bed. But right now, getting his brother back to the Houses of Healing seems more urgent.

The trek is long and slow, and by the time they make it to Faramir’s room, Faramir has beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. He collapses on the bed and lets Boromir untie his boots for him and place a pillow under his leg.

“Thanks,” he mutters without opening his eyes.

Boromir unceremoniously plops down onto the chair beside the bed. He has nowhere better to be, and for once, the quiet of the Houses is welcoming rather than stifling. After a whole day spent in unproductive council meetings, Boromir could do with no one speaking to him for a while.

“Hey.”

Boromir looks up to find Nîlo leaning against the frame of the door he forgot to close. Correction: he could do with no one speaking to him except Fara and Nîlo.

“Hey yourself,” he smiles as Nîlo bends to kiss his forehead.

It’s as close a display of affection as they allow themselves in public – a reasonable greeting between friends, if somewhat more intimate than most. But Nîlo has actually closed the door behind him, so Boromir reaches up to cup his face and kiss his lips.

“How’s my patient?” Nîlo asks in a low voice, a slight blush creeping on his cheeks.

“Being unreasonable, as usual,” Boromir says. Faramir doesn’t even protest.

Nîlo shakes his head indulgently. He was Faramir’s friend first – his best and quite possibly only close friend. They’ve known each other their whole lives, always holed up together somewhere in the Archives whenever they were free of duties and studies. Boromir only got close to Nîlo when he caught a spear to the side last year while Faramir was stuck in Ithilien, and Nîlo acted as both his healer and his brother’s eyes and ears on Boromir’s recovery.

Acknowledging their mutual attraction and becoming lovers wasn’t an easy decision for either of them. Not only because Denethor would be furious, expecting his oldest son to take a wife and continue their line, but because it strained Nîlo’s relationship with Faramir considerably. But it’s been almost a year, their father has yet to find out, and Faramir is finally coming around to it.

“I’m fine,” Faramir groans, though he has yet to move or even open his eyes to greet his friend.

“Clearly,” Nîlo quips. He sits down on the bed beside Faramir, smoothing out his healer robes. “I’m going to touch your leg.”

Faramir just nods, and Nîlo starts massaging the abused muscles of his calf, staying away from the healing ankle. Boromir can see the lines of pain on his face gradually relax.

“What did you do to get this tense?” Nîlo asks casually. “Run to Osgiliath and back?”

“Archives,” Faramir mumbles.

“Did you get lost in the labyrinth?”

Faramir opens his eyes solely to roll them at his friend. “There is no labyrinth.”

Nîlo gives him a bright grin and looks up at Boromir. “Did we ever tell you about the time Inzi and I convinced Fara there was a labyrinth under the Archives?”

Boromir leans forward. “Now that I have to hear,” he says.

Faramir hides his face behind his hand.

“I think it was after you started at the Academy,” Nîlo starts. “Fara and Inzi were trying to translate an old account of the building of Minas Anor in Quenya and Fara mistranslated hwinyatië as maze instead of shortcut. So Inzi looked him in the eye and told him there was a labyrinth underneath the Archives that is known only to the archivists. I backed her play, of course, and Father just straight up refused to answer Fara’s questions. I think Fara spent the next two years looking for it.”

Faramir groans in embarrassment, while Boromir bursts in laughter. “You really thought there was a maze under there?”

“I was eight! Besides, there are secret passages all over the city, why not a maze?”

“Secret passages, huh? Do tell.”

Boromir is mostly joking – few of the passages are truly secret, just handed down by word of mouth in case of emergencies. It’s likely that Faramir knows more of them than he does, as he’s certainly spent more time as a child exploring the city. Denethor’s relative disinterest in him and his status as the second son, and the lack of their mother to keep an eye on him, allowed him a level of freedom that Boromir never had. It’s not something he particularly resents, but often a turn of phrase like that reminds him of how different their experience of growing up was.

“They’re secret,” Faramir deadpans. “You’re not supposed to know about them.”

“And you’re not supposed to know about the labyrinth,” Nîlo says, poking Faramir’s shin before letting go of his leg. “On that note, I need to finish my round before it gets fully dark. I’ll have food brought up for you both.”

Boromir thanks him and gallantly sees him out, their hands brushing as Nîlo opens the door. Finding time together hasn’t been easy, and it will be even less so when Boromir goes back to the garrison at Osgiliath. “Come over tonight,” Nîlo murmurs before he leaves.

“What?” Boromir growls at Faramir, when he turns to find his brother searching him with his gaze.

Faramir immediately looks away, fiddling with the edge of the blanket under him. “Nothing. Just be careful.”

“Always.”

Faramir doesn’t respond. They stay silent for a while, and the quiet no longer feels as welcoming. Boromir gets up again to let in the servant coming with their daymeal on a large tray, which is set down on the small table. Too tired to move, Faramir lets Boromir serve him a bowl of stew, simply propping himself on pillow against the headboard.

“So, tell me about Tar-Minyatur,” Boromir prompts as they dig in.

Getting Faramir started on history is the best way to negate the silence, and to get him to eat without picking at his food. Boromir nods in the right places, asking a question here or there to keep him going – he’s become something of an expert in listening with one ear and appearing to give his full attention. Faramir isn’t fooled, he knows, but he’s too happy to be allowed to talk about his passion to mind. He often says that it helps him order his thoughts, that although he loves actually sharing his passion – the way he does with Inzi, and sometimes even with Nîlo – he only really needs someone willing to listen.

There was a time when Denethor indulged him, or even encouraged him, but that stopped around the time Faramir started arms training and showed little inclination for the arts of war. Boromir has missed this, has missed seeing that light in his brother’s eyes, seeing his hands move and gesture almost of their own accord. Faramir so rarely lets go of the tight control he keeps on himself.

The story is quite fascinating, too, once Boromir actually gets pulled in. Half-elven twin brothers, sons of a literal star, kidnapped by the Fëanorians as children? Why didn’t Boromir get to read that in history lessons, instead of memorizing the dates of coronation and death of all the Númenorean kings? Faramir, though he regularly loses his thread in digressions, is so passionate in his storytelling that Boromir can almost picture the brothers, growing up in a war that started before their birth, pulled between two people and having to choose, and ultimately being separated – Elros the mighty Númenorean king, the first of the house that Boromir will one day keep watch for, and Elrond the elven healer, herald of the High King of Lindon.

What Boromir says, once Faramir hits a hull in his storytelling, is: “You’re lucky that Father didn’t have a mind to visit you today. You know what he thinks of you getting so engrossed in your reading that you forget to eat.”

What he means is: I’m glad to see that all that passion hasn’t yet been snuffed out of you by the war and your duties. But those are thoughts he will not voice, even to his brother, his best friend and closest confident. Not when Faramir is the one he worries about.

“He would no doubt decree that if I can walk to the Archives, I can make it to the Citadel, and stop visiting altogether,” Faramir says.

It might be better for all of our peace of mind, he does not add. His relationship with Denethor is difficult at best, these days. There are simply too many matters on which they do not see eye to eye.

“Well, I suspect you’ll rather be feeling the effects of your little escapade tomorrow, and won’t be eager to try again just yet.”

Faramir winces. “I don’t look forward to it.”

“I’ll see if Inzi can come and bring you some more books. And you might use the time to keep up with your correspondence, Uncle complained again that he hasn’t heard from you.”

“I wrote him two weeks ago!”

Boromir shrugs. “You know he worries.”

“I know. I’ll write to him. Hopefully by the time he and Lothíriel arrive I’ll be fully back on my feet.”

That might be overly optimistic, but Boromir doesn’t say it. Imrahil will make sure that Faramir doesn’t overdo it once he’s here, and no one will mention that his visit to Minas Tirith has been suspiciously timed right after Boromir’s departure back to the garrison.

“You can tell him about Tar-Minyatur, I’m sure he’ll know anecdotes about him that aren’t in the Archives.” Their uncle is every bit as learned as Faramir – or more, since he has the advantage of his years – and he always seems to pull knowledge out of nowhere.

“You know, we don’t have any record of the elves past the end of the Second Age, but Elrond Peredhel was there, fighting alongside Elendil. He might even still be alive.”

“Seems like a long time to live without a brother,” Boromir says.

Faramir shudders. “Six thousand years. Can you imagine?”

“Nay. I had five years before you were born, that was more than enough.” I hope I never have to live without you. I pray that this war won’t take you from me forever. He reaches out to ruffle Faramir’s hair, seeing the same thoughts mirrored in his eyes. “You might be a menace, but you’re my menace.”

Faramir bats his hand away. “Oh, I’m the menace, now, am I? Who was it again who raided Uncle’s wine cellar when he was thirteen, got so drunk he could barely walk straight, ended up running from the gate guards and slept it off in my bed?”

“Well I didn’t sleepwalk into the Archives, babble to Mithrandir about a dragon with a missing scale, and accidentally damage a five-hundred-year-old scroll!”

Faramir blushes, but his shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. “I miss being able to see you every day,” he says.

Boromir nods in agreement. It’s been more than a decade since he got his first post out of the city, but he still misses living in the same house, playing around the Citadel and reading together late into the night. “You have me for another week.”

“Let’s make the most of it, then.” He looks down at his leg and grimaces. “Well, you make the most of it while I sit here and watch.”

“You’re allowed short walks. If I can get out of those accursed meetings before dark and you haven’t overtaxed yourself, we can sit in the gardens, like we used to do with Mother.”

“I barely remember,” Faramir admits in a low voice, staring down again, fiddling with his sleeve.

Boromir clasps his shoulder until he looks up. “Then we make new memories. Together.”

“Together,” Faramir repeats.

Boromir bends over to kiss his brow, like he used to do when Faramir was little. He resolves to treasure every moment – with the way the war is going, who knows how many more of them they’ll have? Already they only seem to find time for each other when one of them is injured or ill, and it will only get worse.

Eru, please see him through this darkness unharmed and unbroken. I would do anything for him.

Comments and reblogs make my day!

[gnusnoteunuchs]

what beers different groups in middle-earth drink

Men of Gondor: none other Coors Banquet! Rich, satisfying, and widely palatable, no other brew is fitting for such a grand and storied society. Faramir, a sensitive soul, instead goes for Natty Boh, and Denethor has never forgiven him. Sad!

Men of Rohan: India Pale Ales, of course! You need those hops for your brewskis to last during long campaigns on horseback, far from the grand breweries of Edoras. Coincidentally, this means that Meduseld takes on an appearance not dissimilar from Portland, which doesn't seem far off the mark

the Men of the Mountain: Once the Men of the Mountain were an upstanding people, but they reneged, demurred, turned tail on a vow they could not afford to break. They linger on in a cursed half-life, their honor broken, forever spurned by Coors drinkers, and in this afflicted state they drink only O'Doul's non-alcoholic beer. a tragic tale indeed.

Elves: Wine. Mostly expensive. They can tell from the taste if it's from Napa, and if you try to serve them east coast American wine they'll kill you on the spot

Orcs and Goblins: MAD DOG 20/20 BABY LET'S FUCKING GO cmon you know i'm right. Once they were as Elves, but they were brought low, twisted into a strange, brutal new shape, their bodies fortified just as their wine is. Don't knock it, though; if you know where to look, they can serve up some mean fucking port.

Hobbits: Depends on where you look. Closer to the kingdoms of Men, you'll find various ciders, but delving deeper into the Shire, you find a variety of dubbels and tripels, the kind of Dutch and Belgian pale ales that make you wonder what the point of it all is, asking yourself why you drink that shlock they serve at your home pub when this exists.

Dwarves: Porters/stouts. Guinness is on the tame end for these hearty, earthen fucks. Dwarf beer is like drinking mud. You think you can handle a Dwarven coffee stout? Think again, shithead. Dwarf beer is the kind of shit that'll have you singing songs with "hiho" in them.

the line of Numenor: Asahi, the king of beers. Nothing else needs to be said.

Wizards: Modelo. When Saruman began to be warped by Sauron's influence, his noble mind bending to plans of domination, the implacable machinery and chemistry of empire, he became a whisky guy. Like one of those dudes who has the special rocks in his freezer so he can drink it cold without getting diluted

the Nazgul: Once they were great kings of Men. Once they lived, like you and I, and they tasted the fruit of the world and rejoiced as we do now. Once they danced under the stars, savored oats and meat and the water of the spring, and celebrated the good fortune of their existence, but no longer. All that is good has been leeched out of them, their joy, love, and pain all distilled away by the machinery of Sauron, and now they drink twisted, dark things, White Claw, Twisted Tea, Not Your Father's Root Beer, Four Loko, and worse.

[bretwalda-lamnguin]

#hey what the hell the idea of DENETHOR AND ECTHELION having had a REVERSE second best situation while turgon was alive is sooooo…… #of him being better thought of than ecthelion…i mean im SURE ecthelion felt threatened by that even before turgon died! #and then denethor Instantly validates all his concerns! and depending on how publicly his sidelining of denethor was. it kind of destined #him to be remembered by the pro-denethor contingent in gondor at the time as the father who should’ve stepped aside for the son #and yet clung to power…..There’s So Much Here. #i just think it would be sooooo fun if in the ecthelion-denethor:denethor-faramir parallel #denethor is smart enough to see the parallel that one duty outweighs the other but NOT emotionally intelligent enough to realize that maybe #faramir is coming from a similar place (or at least line of reasoning) as himself… #that he doesnt intend to do his father any wrong but to him he is making The Only choice that he possibly can#and honestly he’s probably doing his father a favour. its emphatically Not his fault that his father took it as an insult #its just. really delightful to me. ur so close and yet so far. ALTHOUGH maybe it doesn’t even matter #to him duty to gondor comes above all else. augh wait. the fact that in this interpretation he kind of UNINTENTIONALLY sacrifices his #relationships with both his father AND his younger son. for the sake of his duty to gondor. god. well that was a fun revelation for 10:12am #theres such a tasty opportunity for just some Major cognitive dissonance in how he processes all that! #i never took from you / asked of you anything that was not already mine to have. it is NOT my fault how you decided to take that #vs just like an enormous (self centred of course) regret. not ‘if i hadn’t done that’ but more of like. #i cant allow myself to regret what i did because i did what was right. but i wish i could’ve lived in a time when it wasn’t necessary

#MAN ONE MORE THING. and then i promise im done. i am literally still thinking about what you said last week about denethor and thorongil #that denethor either has to defeat thorongil or claim him for himself. AUGH THAT WAS CRAZY. #but my point is that i feel like ecthelion looks at the intensity of denethor’s rivalry with thorongil and thinks Well. #i think it is definitely partially engineered on ecthelion’s part but im going back and forth whether it was that the rivalry was born #completely out of their battle for ecthelion’s favour or if thorongil came in and he and denethor kind of See each other #in a numenorean2numenorean moment. and experience immediate self recognition in the other (DEROGATORY) and ecthelion looks at that and goes #hmm. an opportunity has arisen. idk both are fun #FASCINATING IMPLICATIONS RE: HIM NEVER TRYING TO TAKE ANYTHING HE DIDNT THINK HE HAD THE RIGHT TO HAVE!!!! #WOW. WOW…i mean just holy shit the idea of maybe the first time he’s allowing himself to want something (someone) out of not even Not Duty #but just Pure Fucking Spite. but also maybe at the same time being like. he (ecthelion)’s claimed something that should rightfully be mine. #now it’s my turn. see how he likes it when i take his favourite captain for MY own. god thats so messed up im fucking delighted #man this is like three essays compressed in here LOL i prob should’ve put it in a reblog but i wanted it to go through peer review first….

@afaramir's tags, I'm so glad you get this! It's the only way this works for me tbh, and the triangulation between Ecthelion-Aragorn-Denethor is so potentially interesting.

Ecthelion isn't evil or stupid, he knows full well that Denethor is powerful and cunning. I also do not get at all interpretations where Ecthelion thinks Denethor is weak, I don't like that with Faramir, with Denethor it's just incomprehensible.

Denethor was always clever, driven, eldritch and had a ruthless streak I think, and that scared Ecthelion.

I love what you said about Denethor being clever enough to see the parallel with himself and Faramir, but not emotionally intelligent enough to understand where Faramir is coming from! That's so tragic I love it.

Also yes Denethor and Aragorn are definitely rivals for their own sake as well! Denethor sees Aragorn as a mystery to be solved and a bomb he must diffuse before it goes off, but who in his hands could be a powerful weapon. Meanwhile Aragorn knows short term that if anyone blows his cover it will be Denethor, and long term only he can deny him the throne. But beyond the political dynamics of the trio there are all kinds of messy personal feelings, both love and hate that get in the way. Denethor claiming Aragorn out of spite is great.

I’ve said before that I find Denethor and Ecthelion’s relationship strange. Denethor is clearly very competent, very dutiful and very Númenorian. You’d think he’d be seen as the perfect heir to the Stewardship, and yet his relationship with Ecthelion seems abysmal. Ecthelion prefers Thorongil over him, despite them giving him basically the same counsel.

I think I’ve managed to wrangle a set of headcanons that make sense to me. Most of this is speculation, but hopefully in character.

Denethor saw himself as being destined to lead Gondor during a time of great need, and Sauron’s return to Mordor happens when he is in his early 20s. Turgon still lived, with Ecthelion as his heir. Denethor’s power and cunning were presumably obvious from a young age. Perhaps by this point he was already better thought of than Ecthelion by some.

Ecthelion seems to have been a competent leader, and certainly no fool. The appendices call him “a man of wisdom”, but this seems a far cry from Denethor’s description:

“a proud man, tall, valiant, and more kingly than any man that arisen in Gondor for many lives of men; and he was wise also, and far-sighted, and learned in lore.”

“A masterful lord, holding the rule of all things in his own hand.”

In this context, Ecthelion almost seems to be being damned with faint praise. Denethor was dutiful and did not take that which he did not see as his right. He made no claim on the throne. His use of the Palantir however shows great self-confidence, which along with his belief of being destined to lead Gondor and the old Húrinionath tradition of being led not by the most senior but most competent man of their family may have led to strife with Ecthelion.

I think shortly after Turgon’s death Denethor made Ecthelion an offer, to make Denethor joint or sole regent to rid himself of the troubles of ruling, similar to Romendacil II with his father and uncle. Ecthelion took this (understandably but wrongly) as Denethor threatening him and plotting a coup. This shatters their relationship and leads to Ecthelion’s close relationship with ‘Thorongil’. He’s the perfect answer to Denethor, removes any need for dependence on his son and is undoubtedly loyal (while also serving as a surrogate son). Thorongil is a perfect shield for Ecthelion, and Denethor’s rivalry with him keeps Ecthelion’s position safe.

This holds until Ecthelion begins to show his age. Unable to rule anymore, he’s forced to concede more power to Denethor, who now starts to take up the regency. Aragorn is backed into a corner in this potential powder keg and decides to take his victory at Umbar and quit while he’s ahead.

This also neatly parallels Denethor's own relationship with Faramir. Ecthelion believes Denethor is disloyal because his duty to Gondor outweighs his duty to his father. Denethor in turn sees Faramir as disloyal because his duty to his own moral code outweighs his duty both to his father and his country.

[icryyoumercy]

i really, really, really need fic where the daughter of eowyn & faramir, at the age of five or so, when first told the story of luthien, goes 'hey, we're of her line, this applies to us, i wanna be immortal now', and it /works/

and then she realises that oh no, this works for her and her siblings and her papa, but it doesn't apply to her mama, that's no good, that cannot be allowed, there has to be someone she can talk to, she's very nearly a queen's daughter after all

and eowyn and faramir are just looking at each other and shrugging and going 'of course, darling, but please put on proper outdoor clothing if you're going on a journey to complain to the gods', because that girl is too stubborn to argue with, but also she has the attention span of, well, a five year old, so she's bound to get distracted before even reaching the city walls

only for her to run into celeborn (maybe it's a diplomatic visit, maybe he's bored without his wife, maybe fate is having fun, who knows), who first listens to her because diplomacy, and then because he knows his wife would find this situation absolutely hilarious, and since clearly, whatever this is cannot possibly be in any way blamed on celeborn, he will enable this girl in her quest to acquire immortality for her mom to the best of his abilities

and eowyn and faramir shrug even more, but since celeborn manages to teach their daughter not only a lot of adventuring and fighting, but also things like manners and patience, they decide that it'll make for fun memories one day and just go with it

and the elves that remain in middle earth after elrond and galadriel sail aren't the eldest or wisest of their people, nor the most thoughtful or diplomatic, and here's one of the last great lords, with a tiny human child, plotting to go complain to the valar about... it really doesn't matter, this is going to be hilarious, and since it's all in the spirit of diplomacy and fairness and it's been the idea of someone who obviously isn't evil or corrupt or purely selfish or anything like that, surely no one can be punished for deciding to help

so of course they offer to lend their various and improbable or incompatible skills to the cause, and it is, in fact, great fun, because the child who started all this is utterly delighted to be meeting so many new people who know so many new things, and who are all fans of her idea and willing to make it happen, and if so many people are working towards it, i will have to succeed

eowyn and faramir, being proud and good parents, just add 'plotting to make mama immortal' to their daughter's daily activities, the same way they plan for riding or reading lessons, and greatly enjoy being told about various crafts and sciences as understood by a tiny child

and it just becomes this perfectly normal thing, the elves of ithilien, lead by a tiny human child, are working on a plan to get said child an audience with the valar in order to negotiate immortality for mama, and then return said child once again to her family

for the girl's tenth birthday, someone invites cirdan the shipwright, because at this point, everyone's knowledge and ability to plan and speculate and theorise and hypothesise has been exhausted, and the only thing that remains is to try it

and cirdan takes one look at this human child, and a slightly longer look at celeborn, and decides that there is nothing the valar could possibly do to him that would actually impress him in any way, shape, or form, and if there was ever any chance to prove that he is truly a master shipwright, this is it

so he builds the ship, adjusted for his vast experience, to everyone's delight and bafflement

it takes a while, as any good ship building does, but it sets sail before the girl turns fifteen, and eowyn and faramir look at each other, and shrug half-heartedly, and tell each other that when their firstborn son was that age, they sent him to rohan for the summer, to meet his family, and try his hand at being an Official Representative Of His People for the first time, with low stakes, among people who knew and liked him anyways, this was certainly at least vaguely similar

and if nothing else, cirdan and celeborn are both level-headed and reasonable and trustworthy, so this shall be fine, and they do not think about the fact that people do not return from valinor, not unless they're a heroic balrog slayer who is desperately needed to fight evil

the ship looks like a river ferry with a bad case of megalomania, as built by a NASA team who would have their work double- and triple checked by at least two further NASA teams, so this at least looks like it might just work, if everyone got utterly unreasonably lucky

and like half a year later, the girl returns, a number of new and very, very curious and excited elves in tow, with a signed note from the valar saying 'she can have immortality for anyone she damn well pleases, provided she never, ever, under any circumstances, ever, tries to ask us for it ever again'

and eowyn and faramir look at each other, and shrug and go 'that's our daughter' and smile as broadly as humanly possible

[philtstone]

and maybe #38 for the lotr characters of your choice (maybe in your summer camp/road trip/grad students AU if you feel so inclined?? But follow your ♥️)

#38 -- until you come back home i am absolutely inclined to write for that au because i just finished rewatching fellowship and wept a little (read a lot; its been A Week) at the last 40 minutes so my natural instinct was to write something belligerently, intrinsically ridiculous. here is the original fic to which emma is referring and i dont know necessarily how well the prompt was met but it's in there somewhere. thanks homie xxo you always got my back on this verse

Frodo has come to notice that Aragorn has a no-honking-the-van-horn-unless-it's-life-or-death policy, which becomes a point of contention amongst the party when they are trapped in a veritable angry-honk stand off with twenty other cars in a traffic-logged mountain road. Frodo observes this from his spot in the middle row of the van, squashed between Sam and Merry, while Gandalf harrumphs over their upside-down roadmap and everyone in the back -- by which Frodo very much means everyone -- continues to bicker. The volume of said bickering is only slightly better now than about twenty minutes ago, when they had Boromir on speaker phone.

"If the highway's blocked all the way from here to that big Rohan City Stadium --"

"This is the only road with actual pavement though."

"But if it's blocked --"

"Bloody global warming. This isn't natural, you know? This kind of rainstorm, in June?"

"Actually," says Legolas's voice, "it's hailing. This is a hail storm."

He says this as the torrentious patter of rain on the roof of the van above their heads turns somewhat more violent.

Eowyn groans and buries her face in her hands. Frodo supposes she's every right to groan, as her legs are squashed in between Gimli, who is continuing to decry the climate crisis, and Faramir's knapsack of snacks, which in his defense he is holding mostly atop his own person, but it's so large that it leans a bit onto Eowyn too. Sam is playing xs and os against himself by drawing invisible lines on his knee and Merry has his cheek squashed against his hand and keeps sighing loudly every five minutes. Pippin's fast asleep and snoring.

Up at the front of the car, Aragorn remains staring determinedly at nearly invisible the road -- the view from the windshield is Abstract Grey Haze -- Gandalf remains muttering over their map, and Arwen, who gets carsick when the weather is like this, remains morosely in the middle seat, her head resting quietly against the driver's shoulder.

The cacophony of honking cars continues around them, as does the storm. The road really is well and truly blocked. Frodo thinks a big tree might have knocked down onto it. And perhaps something about power lines.

Giving Sam a significant Look, he unclips his seatbelt and scoots up to peak between the drivers' seats. The stereo is playing Joni Mitchel at very low volume. Frodo wonders if perhaps it isn't Uncle Bilbo's old CD, donated righteously to the cause.

"What do they think they're achieving, honking the horns?" Frodo wonders aloud, as another obnoxious beep sounds.

"Satisfying their own frustrations," Aragorn offers, without much judgment. He taps his fingers against the wheel and adjusts the rearview mirror, which has a dried bundle of lavender hanging from it. He's pulled his hoodie over his hair to keep from getting cold, as the window has been cracked open for Arwen's sake. Yet another car horn screeches, quite close to them this time; Arwen grimaces and Aragorn's expression turns very slightly grim.

"Will we really have to go back?" Frodo asks, very quietly. Gimli keeps talking about the old highway tunnel his cousin built. But that's nearly a day's drive from here, still.

"Harrumph," is all Gandalf says, and turns the map over a third time; Frodo looks at Aragorn.

"There's a sign that says falling rocks ahead," he says, as quiet as Frodo had been. "I don't like the idea of that."

"Harrumph," says Gandalf again, more forcefully. He takes a puff of his e-cigarette. The windshield wipers squeak a bit on their next routine whub across.

Frodo sighs. Wriggling a little, he reaches into the front pocket of his t-shirt and pulls out the USB drive. This is an awful lot of misery just to potentially save the environment.

"What do you think, Frodo?" asks Aragorn. For the first time all afternoon he has taken his eyes off the road and is looking at Frodo.

On the one hand, Frodo thinks, if they go back, it will be at least another few days added to the number of days before they can go home. But if they stay here in this hail storm -- well. Road safety is very important, Frodo's always thought. He's sure Sam's gaffer would agree. He's not wholly sure Uncle Bilbo would agree, but then, he is not in the van.

Aragorn gives Gandalf a significant look -- of a different flavour from that which Frodo offered Sam earlier -- over the top of Arwen's head, when Frodo expresses this. Gandalf looks terribly aggrieved. But then he looks at Frodo and he says,

"Yes, alright."

With a hard yank their van swerves out of the lane and into the opposite one (there is a series of loud cries and intermingled oofs from the back) which is just soon enough to miss the fender bender behind them. They spray hail-water and nearly get clipped by a giant oncoming semi truck, but that collision's averted; with a decisive, sure palm, Aragorn slams the car horn, so long and loud that Pippin all but yelps awake.

Frodo scoots back over to Sam, and they begin playing xs and os together.

"Warmer weather, here we come!" Gimli declares happily from the back.

"Mosquitoes live in warm weather," Legolas supplies helpfully. "They're big carriers of West Nile this season."

As the worst of the storm is left behind them, Eowyn groans again.

[blackkatmagic]

Time travel boromir time travel boromir

He comes to with sunlight on his face and snow under his feet and the ring in his hand, and Boromir remembers.

There's a bone-deep jolt like the fall from a galloping horse, a sudden wrench in his chest like an arrow has been torn out, and Boromir staggers a step, the chain slipping like water through his fingers. Takes a breath, and the air is clear and thin and cold, utterly unlike the riverbank where he took his last breath. Convulsively, his hand goes tight around the ring’s chain, stopping its fall, and something whispers—

“Boromir!” Aragorn says, as sharp as knives, and Boromir lifts his eyes from shining gold in the mountain’s sunlight and finds that every last bit of sense has deserted him.

Aragorn is watching him, one hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, no trust in his gaze. Darkness, if anything, protectiveness, and at his side Frodo is staring, tense, frozen by more than Caradhras’s winter chill. They're both still, travel-worn but not pared down by grief, and their cloaks aren’t the fine grey of Lothlorien.

Aren’t yet, Boromir thinks, because he knows this place, this moment. The first step towards his failure, and then a long slide towards his own doom.

He opens his hand, ignores the whisper of temptation taken root within his soul. Looks up at Aragorn, and he shouldn’t have any memory of Amon Hen, still days ahead in their journey, but—

He remembers the eyes of the orc who killed him, drawing his bow for the last shot. Remembers Aragorn’s cry, and his fight, and the touch of his hand in the aftermath, his promise not to let the White Tower fall.

“I do not want it,” he says honestly, and takes a step, another, a third. Frodo looks up at him, grave and silent and full of fear, and something in Boromir’s chest aches like an open wound.

“I do not want it,” he says again, and holds out the ring, the cause of all of this, the doom of the men of Gondor far back in time. In that at least, Boromir thinks, he is no different from the rest. “Guard it well, Frodo.”

Quick, Frodo takes it, pulls the chain over his head, and Boromir looks up at Aragorn because there's nowhere else his eyes are drawn, even with the ring before him. Meets the eyes of the ranger, the lost king of Gondor, and thinks of those last words.

Our people, he had said, with the horn of Gondor still echoing through the trees of Amon Hen. Our people, in the very moment Boromir had lost all hope.

Not now. Not yet. Gondor isn't Aragorn’s at this moment, but—

Weeks and days before his failure. Weeks and days before the breaking of the Fellowship. Boromir can save them. Boromir can halt the fracturing, and save them from what is to come.

“It feels as though there is a storm on the wind,” he says, and slowly, carefully, Aragorn’s hand loosens around the hilt of his sword.

“Caradhras is our best path,” he says, low, as if he means something else entirely, but Boromir has no understanding of what.

“Saruman will try to block the way,” he says, but Aragorn looks unmoved.

“Gandalf will see us through,” he returns, and pushes onward, passing Boromir as he climbs the slope. Boromir turns to watch him go, throat tight, chest aching.

He remembers blue eyes, the weight of Aragorn’s hand on his cheek. He remembers his own death, and the comfort Aragorn gave, but there are still weeks before that moment, and a dozen tragedies, and Boromir doesn’t know how to cross the divide without them.

“Thank you,” Frodo says, quiet, and Boromir pulls his eyes away from the distant line of Aragorn’s back and manages a smile for him, even though something in his chest is hollowed out and aching.

“You are the ringbearer, Frodo,” he says. “The ring has led the men of Gondor to their doom before. I am wary of it.”

Frodo doesn’t answer, but looks up the slope, to where Merry and Pippin are clustered close around Legolas, light-footed as he is atop the snow. “You were telling Merry and Sam about it,” he says. “About the White Tower.”

Boromir closes his eyes, thinks of Faramir. Thinks of their father, and the weight of his attention, and the darkness that’s come to the White City. Of his own despair, the fading light as he lay on the riverbank, with the eyes of ancient statues watching his death. “Yes,” he says. “I hope to see it again, one day.”

Frodo smiles, just a little. “I would like to as well,” he says, and Boromir clasps his shoulder tight.

“You will,” he promises. “Gondor will welcome you with honors, Frodo.”

Then, deliberate, he steps away, following the rest of the Fellowship up the slope, and ignoring the careful, wary watchfulness as Aragorn waits for Frodo.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - March 25th

And here we are, at the last day of the Quest. (And the last consistent day of this blog-series. I may or may not make more posts later on, but I won’t be making a point of consistently covering each day, as many have no specific events.) It’s hard to know what to say here, because we all know the events so well that any summary can only seem bland, and there is little to add that has not already been said.

So I will note a few things I hadn’t noticed before. First, the change to a wind from the north is noted in three different places.

For the army of Gondor and Rohan: As morning came the wind began to stir again, but now it came from the North, and soon it freshened to a rising breeze.

For Frodo and Sam: The wind had fallen the day before as it shifted from the West, and now it came from the North and began to rise; and slowly the light of the unseen Sun filtered down into the shadows where the hobbits law.

And for Faramir and Eowyn in Minas Tirith: A wind that had sprung up in the night was now blowing keenly from the North, and it was rising.

These winds help to carry the Eagles of the Misty Mountains south fast enough for them to come to the Battle at the Black Gate, and then to rescue Frodo and Sam.

Second, the comparative briefness of the battle at the Black Gate - and the number of men of Rohan and Gondor who survive it, along with Pippin and Gimli and Legolas - is due to Sauron indulging in spite. He could easily have loosed his assault against them at dawn, or even during the night when they were camped near the Black Gate. But Sauron had a mind first to play these mice cruelly gefore he struck to kill; he uses up a substantial portion of the morning by sending the Mouth of Sauron to taunt them (with gratuitous use of contemptuous-thou) about Frodo’s supposed capture. Given the disparity in forces, if he hadn’t done so the army would likely have been destroyed before the Ring was, and even victory would have left both Gondor and Rohan kingless and heirless. As Gandalf says at Isengard, Often does hatred hurt itself!

Third, related to the above, everything is over fairly quickly - the Ring is destroyed before noon. Again returning to the battle at the Black Gate, there is just time fir the first assault from Mordor (including hill-trolls) to hit the front lines, for Pippin to kill a troll and save Beregond, and then he hears the cry of “The Eagles are coming!” And at that same moment Frodo puts on the Ring in Sammath Naur, and the Nazgul turn and fly for the mountain; and moments later the Ring is destroyed.

Finally, the fall of Sauron, from four perspectives. First, Sauron’s:

And far away, as Frodo put on the Ring and claimed it for his own, even in Sammath Naur the very heart of his realm, the Power in Barad-dûr was shaken, and the Tower trembled from its foundations to its proud and bitter crown. The Dark Lord was suddenly aware of him, and his Eye piercing all shadows looked across the plain to the door that he had made; and the magnitude of his own folly was revealed to him in a blinding flash, and all the devices of enemies were at last laid bare. Then his wrath blazed in a consuming flame, but his fear rose like a vast black smoke to choke him. For he knew his deadly peril and the thread upon which his doom now hung. From all his policies and webs of fear and treachery, from all his stratagems his mind shook free.

Second, Frodo and Sam:

A brief vision [Sam] had of swirling cloud, and in the midst of it towers and battlements, tall as hills, founded upon a mighty mountain-throne above immeasurable pits; great courts and dungeons, eyeless prisons sheer as cliffs, and gaping gates of steel and adamant: and then all passed. Towers fell and mountains slid; walls crumbled and melted, crashing down; vast spires of smoke and spouting steams went billowing up, up, until they toppled like an overwhelming wave, and its wild crest curled and came foaming down upon the land. [The imagery of the final destruction of Sauron recalling the diwnfall of Númenor feels very fitting to me.]

Third, the army of Gondor and Rohan. Gandalf calls them back from the tide of battle that has turned in their favour, and bids them stand and wait.

But Gandalf lifted up his arms and called once more with a clear voice.

“Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.”

And even as he spoke the earth rocked beneath their feet. Then rising swiftly up, far above the Towers of the Black Gate, high above the mountains, a vast soaring darkness spring into the sky, flickering with fire. The earth groaned and quaked. The Towers of the Teeth swayed, tottered, and fell down; the mighty rampart crumbled; the Black Gate was hurled in ruin; and from far away, now dim, now growing, now mounting to the clouds, there came a drumming rumble, a roar, and long echoing roll of ruinous noise.

“The realm of Sauron is ended!” said Gandalf. “The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest.”

And as the Captains gazed south to the Land of Mordor, it seemed to them that, black against the pall of cloud, there rose a huge shape of shadow, impenetrable, lightning-crowned, filling all the sky. Enormous it reared above the world, and stretched out towards them a vast threatening hand, terrible but impotent: for even as it leaned over them, a great wind took it, and it was all blown away, and passed; and then a hush fell.

And fourth, Faramir and Eowyn in Minas Tirith:

And it seemed to them as they stood upon the wall that the wind died, and the light failed, and the Sun was bleared, and all sounds in the City or in the lands about were hushed: neuther wind, nor voice, nor bird-call, nor rustle of leaf, nor their own breath could be heard; the very beating of their hearts was stilled. Time halted.

And as they stood so, their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it. And still they waited for they knew not what. Then presently it seemed to them that abive the rudges of the distant mountains another vast mountain of datkness rose, towering up like a wave that should engulf the world, and about it lightnings flickered; and then a tremor ran through the earth and they felt the walls of the City quiver. A sound like a sigh went up from all the lands about them; and their hearts beat suddenly again.

“It reminds me of Númenor,” said Faramir, and wondered to hear himself speak.

“Of Númenor?” said Eowyn.

“Yes,” said Faramir, “of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it.”

“Then you think that the Darkness is coming?” said Eowyn. “Darkness Unescapable?” And suddenly she drew close to him.

“No,” said Faramir, looking into her face. “It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Eowyn, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!” And he stooped and kissed her brow.

And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling in the air. And the Shadow departed, and the Sun was unveiled, and light leaped forth; and the waters of Anduin shone like silver, and in all the houses of the City men sang for the joy that welled up in their hearts from what source they could not tell.

[lesbiansforboromir]

Do you have any headcanons (who am I kidding, I'd bet actual money on you having them) about Denethor & Faramir's vague magical abilities? The Prof really gave me whiplash through mentioning but never elaborating on it. I think you mentioned this topic briefly in other posts but I don't remember one specifically about this (sorry if I'm wrong!) and wondered about your thoughts on that :)

Actually I don't have any hcs about this uwu.... I have canon facts tho! HAHA

That's a lie, I do have hcs about the canon facts as well but ANYWAY.

So Faramir's powers are described twice and, whilst I suppose you could view them as ambiguous, they seem clear to me.

So here Faramir reads Gollum's mind in order to determine if he is telling the truth or not. He describes the way he perceives another's mind too, with doors, rooms and darkness or light. Then of course there's this bit not a moment later-

'It is called Cirith Ungol.' Gollum hissed sharply and began muttering to himself. 'Is not that its name?' said Faramir turning to him. 'No!' said Gollum, and then he squealed, as if something had stabbed him. 'Yes, yes, we heard the name once. But what does the name matter to us? Master says he must get in. So we must try some way. There is no other way to try, no.'

So here Faramir makes good on his implicit threat in the previous paragraph, it was good that Gollum spoke the truth, because here is the consequence that Faramir can levee upon someone who doesn't. So this shows that Faramir can also manipulate minds as well as read them. It's quite blatant and unsubtle! As far as magic in tolkien goes.

Denethor's abilities however are... I would say subtler? He definitely still has them, but they are far more latent in his behaviour and presence, they don't seem to be so actively used like Faramir's are. Now, Gandalf associates these powers with being of westernesse, and seems to suggest that Faramir's abilities are descended from Denethor's, but as we've talked about Gandalf can be wrong and I actually think it would make more sense for them to come from Finduilas.

Let me explain, and I apologise because I can't be bothered to track down all the quotes but. So canonically, using the Palantiri for a great amount of time and with great skill will actually confer powers upon the user naturally. So Denethor goes to the top of the tower and 'listens' to the north and hears Theoden's approach! Even though they are days from arriving. He can also see into men's hearts and has a 'piercing gaze'. These sound somewhat like Faramir's? But again, they aren't as blatant.

And it's good to note that Aragorn does not have these powers. He is intuitive, but he cannot read minds, he is very attuned but he cannot hear, say, the Uruk Hai coming upon the fellowship. So despite being of equal lineage of Westernesse to Denethor, Aragorn does not possess obviously magical abilities. He also hasn't held a Palantir in all his life until he gets his hands on the Orthanc stone, an experience that 'ages him'. So I would say that it makes more sense for Denethor's powers to have come to him from using the Palantir so diligently, whereas Faramir's come from his mother.

Because elves actually have natural mind reading abilities! Osanwe (mind speech) used to be the elf's native language until Morgoth arrived. And whilst one could argue that some elven blood is in at least Elros' line, that is from so long ago now that it truly cannot have any noticeable effect on the dunadain now. Finduilas on the other hand can name her ancestor who married an elf and can trace her lineage right back to her. The Princes of Dol Amroth also live by an elven haven and the sea in general so the aspects of these powers were certainly encouraged.

I TALK A LOT MORE ABOUT MY HC ABOUT DOL AMROTHIAN SPOOKY ELF POWERS HERE

I think thats that, the last post goes into more detail about power specifics and how they work to some degree so!

[torchwood-99]

Princess Diaries AU Crack

Modern setting.

Ok so Theodwyn hated the royal life. The press, the lack of freedom, the rigid expectations, all made worse by the sexism she faced from the court and the public alike, made her drop the royal life at first chance by marrying against her parents' wishes to a divorced soldier, resulting in her dropping her title.

She becomes Mrs Theodwyn Aldburg, wife of Captain Eomund Aldburg, and they spend their married life travelling from army base to army base. Although the scandal is remembered, by the time Theodwyn is forty, barely anyone recognises her as the former princess of Rohan. When Theoden becomes king, he offers to reinstate her title, but she refuses as she likes the private life.

Eomer and Eowyn do get to know Theoden and Theodred, but only in private, domestic settings, and Theodwyn insists they aren't told about their royal heritage until they're adults, especially Eowyn, who she wants to shield from the experiences she went through.

Eomer is told when he's eighteen, but agrees to keep it from Eowyn. Having lived their lives on army bases, they're fully enmeshed in that world, and both of them plan to go into the army, Eomer following their father's footsteps, and Eowyn as an airforce search and rescue medic. So when Eomer finds out he's technically royalty, it's weird, but it's so removed from real life that it doesn't overwhelm him.

Then the year Eowyn turns sixteen, Eomund and Theodred both die on campaign. Theodwyn, who has always struggled with her mental health, doesn't die but goes off the rails and disappears (she's later found living in a commune in Lossenarch), leaving Eomer Theoden's heir, and Eowyn under Theoden's guardianship.

Now Eomer has had his heart set on following his father's footsteps, but after Theodred's loss and due to the lack of heirs, parliament want to keep him from serving on the front lines or doing anything too dangerous. Cue a big blow up, and Eomer, desperate to honour his father's legacy, agrees to forfeit his right to the throne.

This leaves Eowyn, semi-orphaned, abandoned by her mother, the last heir to the throne of Rohan. As she is not yet eighteen, she falls under Theoden's guardianship, and cannot legally renounce her claim to the throne until she is an adult, leaving her the heir by default.

The only other heirs are distant cousins who for various reasons Theoden and Parliament do not want on the throne, (being unsuitable for the throne personality wise, or having lived all their lives in Gondor).

Cue Princess Diaries plot, with former tomboy army brat having to adjust to life in the palace, living under the media spotlight, being groomed for leadership, all the while trying to decide if she wants to renounce her claim on reaching the age of majority, or becoming Rohan's first ruling queen.

*If we want to bring in a teen romance, Faramir Steward is the son of the Gondorian Ambassador, who has lived his life around royalty and know all about protocol, offers/is enlisted in helping Eowyn adjust to the royal lifestyle.

[anghraine]

Consolidating (...at considerable length) some of the ideas from the Denethor+Faramir vs most Silm Elves discussion:

A. The basic issue is this: Tolkien depicts or references Denethor’s and Faramir’s special Númenórean abilities (non-exhaustively listed here and discussed here) virtually every time either one of them appears. And some of these abilities seem like they would have been awfully useful to the Elves of the Silmarillion, but for some reason, weren’t actually used by them.

The most notable has to do with lies and deception. Gandalf says it is difficult to deceive Denethor and “dangerous” to try—a statement backed up by Faramir’s interactions with Gollum in TTT, when Gollum squealed in pain when he tried to lie to Faramir, and was unable to wholly prevent Faramir from seeing information “in his mind.” It is clear in the Silm, however, that a good number of Elves can be deceived without setting off similar abilities, with a few exceptions like Galadriel.

So I’ve been wondering why that is, based mostly on LOTR.

B. There is, of course, the potential meta-reason that some of these specific abilities would probably break the plot of the Silmarillion, which is packed full of Elves, while nearly full-throttle Númenóreans like Faramir and Denethor are quite rare in LOTR, only show up infrequently apart from Aragorn, and are thus much less disruptive to the narrative as a whole. But that doesn’t explain anything in-story.

Various ideas came up in the general discussion, but I think they can be roughly divided into two types:

1. Most Elves don’t use these abilities because they choose not to, or

2. Most Elves don’t use these abilities because they don’t have them.

Under #1, it’s possible that Elves prefer not to use these kinds of powers for their own Elvish reasons. It may be that many of them simply don’t care for intrusive telepathy and similar abilities. It may be that there are taboos and protocols around it that fade by the Third Age, especially the later Third Age, but are very much in effect earlier on.

But the underlying assumption here is that they could have used the same abilities if they had chosen to do so, but are not (by and large). One of the questions that arises here is if all abilities of this kind have to be deliberately ‘activated’ to work, or if they naturally just happen and will only stop if controlled or repressed. If it’s the latter case and there are actual methods of control, it may be that Denethor and Faramir never fully turn off their abilities because they don’t know how. Who was going to tell them?

The Faramir-Gollum scenes might support this. Faramir is certainly trying to extract information from Gollum, but it doesn’t seem at all probable that he would deliberately inflict pain on him. It’s possible that some of this is just part of his being as far as he knows. 

Meanwhile, there are also several possibilities involving #2. I think this one is, on the face of it, more difficult to accept (not-quite-full Númenóreans with greater powers than many Elves? bzuh?). But there are probably some ways it could work.

The first is relatively simple. It’s clear that Elves (like Númenóreans!) have different ranges and clusters of ability. An Elf being very powerful doesn’t mean they can do ALL THE THINGS. It means they’re very powerful at the things that they do (which might be many!). And there are some abilities that are very widespread, and some that seem to be less so. It may be that deception detection in particular is something that’s fairly uncommon among Elves as a strong ability. It’s not 100% assured that any given Elf has all the abilities of any given Númenórean.

The second possibility is a little more complicated. LOTR and Middle-earth generally (but esp LOTR) don’t operate on a hard magic system with clearly-defined rules. Galadriel points this out, and that the hobbits aren’t really distinguishing Elvish “magic” from Sauron’s “magic,” but they are in reality very different things. Elvish abilities are byproducts of their inner selves. Even outside of LOTR, Fëanor’s abilities (for instance) are inextricably tied up with his fiery spirit. The link between spirit or will or disposition and outwards ability is much stronger with Elves than with the other peoples of Middle-earth. 

So it would still be the case that Elves aren’t doing some of these because they can’t—but it wouldn’t be a matter of power or arbitrary talent, but because of their underlying characteristics. It may be that things like what we see Denethor and Faramir doing require a temperament that most Elves don’t have (but Galadriel does, lol). 

In that case, I would then wonder if Denethor’s and Faramir’s abilities are outgrowths of their dispositions. Their abilities seem to revolve around gathering information and commanding others; they’re described as “commanding” and they love information, so it makes sense that that’s how their abilities would manifest. Then again, it may be that Númenórean powers, though similar to some Elvish ones in outcome, operate differently.

Tolkien comes up with several ideas for where Númenórean specialness comes from in general. In some places, it was Númenor itself that changed them, and their decay in Middle-earth comes mainly from the loss of Númenor. In some places, their gifts have to do with their mode of living and thinking. In some places, it seems to be entirely hereditary; things run in particular families (like the kingly healing of Elendil’s heirs) and are reinforced by ~pure blood (um). And sometimes it seems like their gifts are, at least in part, literal gifts from the Valar which are gradually being withdrawn by the end of the Third Age. Or some combination thereof.

Regardless, the ancestors of the Dúnedain did not come by their abilities naturally. Either directly or indirectly, their size, their lifespans, their craftsmanship, their mental abilities, and more were given to them by other powers. Perhaps Elvish powers were the template for Númenórean powers, but it doesn’t work the same because Númenórean powers are ultimately coming from a divine source. That might even be why Denethor and Faramir are associated with wizards (i.e. Maiar) much more than Elves, which is pretty astonishing on the face of it. I mean:

“Ah well, sir,” said Sam, “you [Faramir] said my master had an elvish air; and that was good and true. But I can say this: you have an air too, sir, that reminds me of, of—well, Gandalf, of wizards.”

He [Denethor] turned his dark eyes on Gandalf, and now Pippin saw a likeness between the two, and he felt the strain between them, almost as if he saw a line of smouldering fire drawn from eye to eye.

???????????????????????????

The first quote is particularly interesting because it contrasts Faramir’s wizardliness with Frodo’s elvishness, as if those things are not quite the same, though Faramir is also briefly associated with Elves later on.

There’s also the issue of Elros; it seems extremely probable that most Númenóreans are descended from Elros at this point (in fact, multiple times over). The Stewards are explicitly so in multiple drafts of the Appendices. While it’s so remote that it wouldn’t make a difference in most cases, maybe part of what goes on with Númenóreans is that some of them inherit a fraction of Elros’s abilities, which ultimately derive from Elves, Edain, and a Maia. Maybe all these Númenórean-??wizardly??? types cropping up in time to fight Sauron is a sort of last hurrah for Melian’s blood among the Dúnedain, and what we see in Denethor and Faramir is the share they got. 

Or not!

Anyway, this is a lot, and it’s not like the possibilities are even mutually exclusive, so maybe two or more are all operating at once, to make things even more complicated. Or maybe something altogether different is. But I think this is everything that’s come up so far wrt the (inverted?) disparity between Númenóreans and most Elves. 

[rarepairnation]

i've gotten so mad about the tomato scene to such an irrational level that i've actually come all the way around the other side and decided that in a vacuum removed completely from the rest of the film denethor portrayal, that i can make it good. now i know i sound crazy but i promise i haven't been replaced with a pod person just hear me out for a moment. i just think that it COULD be the image of a father who cannot bear to think about the fact that he has lost one son already and must now send the other back out onto the field because there is no other captain who could even halfway hold the line. it isn't, but it could be. i think what i really mean is that i think adding a scene in that specific location in the narrative, structured around some of the same motifs, could add a lot to the denethor despair arc (that doesn't even exist in the film, but that is neither here nor there).

think of it as a precursor to "i have sent my son out unthanked unblessed onto the field of battle and now here he lies with poison in his veins." like it acts kind of as a midpoint between point A, them parting with harsh words/"then faramir's restraint gave way"/faramir forcing denethor into ordering him to his very possible doom and denethor not having any other choice but to do it, and point C, when faramir returns wounded/dying and he completely crumbles. where he is perhaps regretting the harshness of his words, regretting the things he has done, but in this moment he cannot allow himself to feel any of that regret at all because he has done what he needed to and that was the only choice he possible could have made, as the steward, and he has ever been only the steward with his sons. he sits here with his bread and cheese (and, fine, tomatoes) and eats because it is what he is meant to do. he is the lord of gondor; he is the one person who is indispensable to gondor (and his son(s), no matter how harsh it is, are not) and it is his duty to go on while they fight and so what else can he do but. have the afternoon meal.

and pippin is here, too, and he asks him for a song. please make it so that i do not need to think about the thing i have just done. and pippin sings edge of night, because pippin loves denethor, too, and he wants him to realize that faramir also loves him, and would not do this if he didn't love him, at least as gondor, if not as his father. he doesn't let him not think about it, but perhaps it is a plea for him to recognize the sacrifice faramir is making, and to reconcile with him, if he still can. and it could also be an honouring of his despair. that he wishes things could be different, but if they are not, at least pippin will sing of it, so that it can be remembered. he understood poor denethor a bit better or something.

and as he sings it's interspersed with scenes, rather than faramir riding towards certain doom and sacrifice, of him fighting, and winning, until he no longer can. home is behind, the world ahead - him at the rearguard of the retreating company, minas tirith so far away, fighting like hell to see at least some of his men all the way home. and there are many paths to tread - denethor, eating, but we can tell the food is the very last thing on his mind, we can tell all his mind is bent towards the retreat, that if he could carry faramir through this himself he could. through shadow, to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight - faramir turning his horse to ride back towards the nazgul even as we see the rest of the company scatter, until he faces at last a foe he cannot surmount. mist and shadow, cloud and shade - and we see that maybe denethor knows somewhere in himself what his son faces; it is the fortitude of his mind, after all, and his mastery of his horse, and the blood of numenor, that let him even think of challenging the nazgul. all shall fade - and the black breath takes him at last. all shall fade.

i think i want it to be able to be read as a condemnation of leading from the rear/sacrificing your own son for a battle you would not fight/even of just being unwilling to confront the reality of the consequences of your decisions. the very real consequences of valuing duty over love. to act as a setup for when he himself has that realization, and the way in which it breaks him. without being a complete villainization of the choices he made. this all is under the assumption of literally everything else going along with book canon denethor and faramir and inserting this into all of that. What If It Were In Character.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Hello! So, I mean, this might be out of the blue, ambiguous and crazy to answer (but it's something I think about a lot, and you touched upon it in a previous ask and would love your further perspective on!) but let's say, at the end of The Return of The King, Grima lived! What do you personally think his journey and path would look like from there?

Grima asks are never out of the blue - I always want them <3 Thank you so much for asking!!

--

man ok - well Grima at the end of ROTK is in a really dark place. Frodo, Gandalf et al first run into Grima and Saruman on the road near the misty mountains as the make their slow return journey from Gondor. 

As they (Frodo, Merry, Pippin, Gandalf) came out again into the open country at sundown they overtook an old man leaning on a staff, and he was clothed in rags of grey or dirty white, and at his heels went another beggar, slouching and whining. 

[...]

‘Get up you idiot!’ he (Saruman) shouted to the other beggar, who had sat down on the ground; and he struck him with his staff. ‘Turn about! If these fine folk are going our way, then we will take another. Get on, or I’ll give you no crust for your supper!’ 

The beggar turned and slouched past whimpering: ‘Poor old Grima! Poor old Grima! Always beaten and cursed. How I hate him! I wish I could leave him!’ 

‘Then leave him!’ said Gandalf. 

a man who has never been in an abusive situation in his life, clearly. 

‘One thief deserves another,’ said Saruman (to Merry), and turned his back on Merry, and kicked Wormtongue, and went away towards the wood. 

Great guy, Saruman. 

And the famous scouring of the Shire bit that everyone on here misremembers when it comes to Grima’s whole situation: 

But Frodo said: (...) But I will not have him (Saruman) slain. It is useless to meet revenge with revenge: it will heal nothing. Go Saruman, by the speediest way!’ 

‘Worm! Worm!’ Saruman called; and out of a nearby hut came Wormtongue, crawling, almost like a dog. ‘To the road again, Worm!’ Said Saruman. ‘These fine fellows and lordlings are turning us adrift again. Come along!’ 

[Saruman tries to stab Frodo as he leaves and Sam gets ready to shank a bitch. Frodo stops him saying: ‘...He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope that he may find it.’ ...]

He (Saruman) walked away, and the hobbits made a lane for him to pass; but their knuckles whitened as they gripped on their weapons. Wormtongue hesitated, and then followed his master. 

‘Wormtongue!’ called Frodo. ‘You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can rest and food here a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways.’ 

Wormtongue halted and looked back at him, half prepared to stay. Saruman turned. ‘No evil?’ he cackled. ‘Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding? You know, don’t you Worm? Will you tell them?’ 

Wormtongue cowered down and whimpered: ‘No, no!’

‘Then I will,’ said Saruman. ‘Worm killed your chief, poor little fellow, your nice little Boss. Didn’t you, Worm? Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe. Buried him, I hope; though Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me.’ 

A look of wild hate came into Wormtongue’s red eyes. ‘You told me to; you made me do it,’ he hissed. 

Saruman laughed. ‘You do what Sharkey says, always, don’t you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow!’ He kicked Wormtongue in the face as he grovelled, and turned and made off. But at that something snapped: suddenly Wormtongue rose up, drawing a hidden knife, and then with a snarl like a dog he sprang on Saruman’s back, jerked his head back, cut his throat, and with a yell ran off down the lane. Before Frodo could recover or speak a word, three hobbit-bows twanged and Wormtongue fell dead. 

A sad end to a very sad life. 

-

So that’s the canon ending, obviously. A very neat, pat ending where all the baddies are dead, everyone who is broken will disappear into an asylum and/or die take a boat to the grey havens and life will move on. 

How nice. 

-

Alright, now for the speculation! My favourite thing. 

Assuming Grima lived, god knows what his journey afterwards would look like. He’s mentally (and physically) in a bad way after having been physically (and emotionally) abused and starved by Saruman for the last year/two years. Saruman may have lost his powers, but he’s still terrifying force to be reckoned with. I don’t know how much Grima would be capable of on his own in terms of survival. 

That said, Grima’s made it this far. He’s clearly got something in him that’s keeping him alive. Something in him wants to live. It might not know how to go about doing that, but it’s there, and that’s important. 

So he’s stabbed Saruman, A+ work. The hobbits don’t shoot him. The question is then: does he take up Frodo’s offer or does his fuck off into the wilderness. 

I can see him going either direction, honestly. But I suspect, given that he’s starving and in a bad way physically, I suspect he’d stay for a time. Now, considering what’s happened to him in the general vicinity of Bagend, I’m not sure how long Grima will stay, but I do think he’d rest there for a short while. Get a proper meal or two in him. Take a bath. That sort of thing. 

From there he could go to somewhere like Bree or Dale, take up a new name/new life and try and move on, as much as a person can in a world that has absolutely no support networks for people who have gone through bad shit. 

If he stayed for a longer period with Frodo? I could see Sam putting him to work. 

‘I need someone to help me garden.’ 

‘...I know about horses?’

‘Plants are easier, trust me.’ 

‘....Are they though?’ 

Considering the fact that Grima has been dehumanized (Worm; like a dog; cur) and treated as worthless/unworthy by one of the more powerful beings in Middle Earth - and one who was once Great! Who was once wise and wonderful! I suspect he’s going to have a difficult time accepting kindness? 

Frodo, of course, would be generous and understanding, because it’s Frodo and that’s the measure of man he is. Truly one of the nicest and most forgiving and tender people in the series. 

Aragorn said of Grima that if he walked out of Orthanc alive it would be too good for him. 

(Everyone is a lot meaner in the books. Funnier, yes, but also meaner. Then there’s the weird Faramir moment where he’s all up on that “Numenorian Blood Quantum Is Important” nonsense (tell that to your brother who has no blood of the Westernese in him...) There’s a lot of Oooof moments). 

Frodo, though, Frodo is one of the genuinely kind and loving people who would never think such cruel things about anyone. 

But back to Grima, I think the line Gillian Flynn wrote about how when you’re weaned on poison, it makes kindness seem like a cruelty is very relevant here. The first step to healing is allowing yourself to admit that you deserve to be healed, that you deserve love. That’s a very hard thing to allow, to acknowledge is something you are worthy of having. 

And so it would be difficult, for him, to accept kindness and gentleness from Frodo, or anyone else. But if he was doing something to “earn” it, that might make it more palatable. 

Which is a shame, since if there is anyone who understands the power and allure of the dark lord/Saruman etc. and how that can mess you up and contort you into someone you don’t recognize anymore, it’s Frodo.

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Would Grima go back to Rohan? I don’t think so. Unless there were some wild, unexpected circumstances that brought him there, I truly don’t see him returning home. He’s torched that bridge pretty successfully - at least, I’m sure that’s how he sees it. 

Now if he did. If something Bat Shit happened - and he went back. It would be wild and very emotional.  

A Rider of Rohan, lost in the shire: I’m looking for a Mr Baggins? I understand he might know where Gandalf is? We sort of need some magic help in Rohan. 

Hobbit: Turn left at the end of the lane, go past Grubby Harold’s llama farm, stop at the intersection with the red sign, take the third exit of the roundabout, turn right, turn left, turn left again, take the second switch back up the hill, at the crest of the hill, take the path that turns left at the big tree that someone carved Fuck Lobelia into and that should get you close. 

Rider: 

Rider: Right. 

Rider eventually shows up, Grima’s out front updating Sam on some shit that Pansy Fielding said to Fardulf Braceblower, an ongoing war that has existed since the Dawn of Time. Sam is like “Please never stop telling me all the gossip, I live for this shit.”

Frodo: How did you hear about this? 

Grima: I might have set up an informant’s network but it’s solely to trawl for entertaining gossip.  

Rider approaches: Oh dear gods. 

Grima: 

Grima: Go get fucked, Gundahar. 

Sam: Friend? 

Grima & Gundahar: No. 

Anyway. The rider tells Frodo that he’s after Gandalf because XYZ is happening in Rohan and Eomer-king is annoyed and “wants it dealt with, preferably yesterday”. Grima knows what’s up because you know, resident Spook Master also he was spending a lot of time around a lore-filled Wizard. Might as well get something for the years of mistreatment. 

Gundahar: He’s not coming back to Rohan. 

Frodo: We’re going on a road trip, Sam. Let’s get packed. 

Sam: I’m so ready for this. 

Grima: But I’m not going back to Rohan. 

Gundahar: He’s not coming back to Rohan. 

Frodo: Too late, he’s coming with us. Neither of us can be left alone for too long or we go weird in the head. 

Merry: Oh we’re going to Rohan? Well, as a member of the royal court I’m coming. 

Gundahar: .... How is this happening? 

Grima: Hobbits, they move in herds. 

Pippin: WAIT FOR ME! 

Gandalf is UPSET that he has to travel with Grima. Grima says it’s mutual. He doesn’t like wizards. Especially wizards in white. He gets weird about hoarding food when Gandalf is around. 

Grima then has to visit Theoden’s grave and have a lot of emotions about everything and it’s a Lot.

I don’t think he’d stay, though. Either he’d go back with Frodo or he might go on to Gondor or out east or something. Travel for a while. 

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I’ve gone off on some tangents here. Ahem. 

But in general, I see his journey going in one of two directions: one where he fucks off after murdering Saruman and takes up a life somewhere else like Bree, or wherever, probably drinks too much and is miserable until he dies. 

The other is where he accepts Frodo’s offer and either just chills in the Shire being the resident gossip-monger and mischief maker (Frodo: NO MISCHIEF. Grima: we can make a little mischief .., as a treat?) or he accepts the offer, stays for a while to get back on his feet and shake off some of the darkness, then goes off to travel around. Maybe he settles somewhere, maybe he doesn’t. Regardless if he stays or goes, it is a better ending to his life than he probably hoped for or expected. 

And it shows the power and importance of kindness and love. Healing only happens if there is love and gentleness. And it’s terrifying - of course it is - but it’s so necessary. 

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Ok I am so sorry for my dissertation on Grima. I love talking about him so much.  

Thank you!! <3 <3