#and theodwyn

[sleazyjanet]

éowyn best character

[emilybeemartin]

I've been drawing just, so many dudes, so here are some Ladies of Gondor and Shieldmaidens of Rohan! Sometimes you just have to design a bunch of ren-faire gowns and accessories, you know?

First, Eowyn, the best excuse to draw split skirts. Her star-embroidered gloves were a gift from Faramir, but it wasn't until I drew Finduilas below that I realized her pendant was probably also a gift from him as well.

Lothiriel! I referenced her pose from my fave, @adorkastock. I don't have many headcanons about Lothiriel but I imagine she's the only person who can make Eomer trip over his own feet.

Theodwyn, Eowyn and Eomer's mother! Maybe she was born with a clubbed foot. We don't know. Tolkien only tells us she was pretty. A big thank-you to @hurricanek8art, @fruitbatvampiresociety, and @arrowpunk for giving me great feedback on her cane, including wrapping the base in leather and adding a skirt hike to her belt to keep her hem up.

Elfhild, Theoden's wife and Theodred's mother! No big headcanons here, either, but I think she'd bring Theoden a lot of joy and purpose and thus a lot of grief and aimlessness when she died.

And finally, Finduilas. There's the pendant Faramir gave Eowyn, and oh, her cape clasp looks familiar.

Tolkien gives us a few extra sentences about Finduilas, and so we know she had a difficult time in Minas Tirith. He writes that she was gentle and beautiful, but that "she withered in the guarded city... the shadow in the east filled her with horror, and she turned her eyes ever south to the sea that she missed." He also says Denethor "loved her, in his fashion," which I read as, "guy couldn't healthily express an emotion if it was written out for him." I imagine Finduilas was lonely and isolated, and, in pregnancy, afraid of the world she was bringing her babies into.

But maybe things weren't all bad! Maybe before she got too ill, she brought her boys to the seashore, where Faramir would babble and splash and Boromir would run all over creation and bring her treasures.

[merilles]

LotR Ladies Pt.2 💍✨

[torchwood-99]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[velvet4510]

Don’t know if anyone else has pointed this out, but 7 different women in Tolkien’s legendarium died of grief for the men they loved: Lúthien, Glóredhel, Rían, and Arwen explicitly, and Andreth, Nimrodel, and Théodwyn by implication.

Also, though she didn’t die, Melian abandoned Middle-earth when Doriath needed her most, out of grief for Thingol. And though it is not explicitly grief, Mithrellas abandoned her family as well.

Not sure if that’s romantic or sexist of good old Tolkien.

I’ve praised his well-written strong female characters, and I still do and always will … but I admit this particular aspect feels problematic.

Lúthien is an exception, of course, as she went to the Halls of Mandos with the intent of saving Beren, rather than actually giving up. (And she’s always a badass in everything she does, dead or alive.) Also Andreth was old anyway when Aegnor died, so her passing could’ve easily been the effects of old age worsened by grief.

But this isn’t the case for any of the other aforementioned women. They each give up on their entire lives because of the absence of one man. This wouldn’t feel so problematic if it also happened to male characters as a result of romantic love. But the only male character who died of grief is Brego, who was mourning his son, not a lover. Perhaps Daeron may have died from his pain over Lúthien, but this is never explicitly written.

Idk … does anyone else have thoughts about this?

[mummelthecryptid]

The royal line of Rohan on inherited mental illness

[celeluwhenfics]

Here’s one for thoughts now, later or never, depending on how you feel about it…

Got any headcanons or opinions about the 3 sisters of Théoden who weren’t Théodwyn??? What they were like, where they were during the events that we’re all familiar with, what their relationship with Théoden was like, etc.? It’s bonkers to me that we know they exist and that he preferred Théodwyn to the other sisters but that’s. literally. it!

Omg what a good question! Thank you for leading my thoughts in that direction. There is SO MUCH to unpack there, and even more to imagine, because as you said Tolkien left us a lot of room there (euphemism of the month). I will allow myself to add Morwen Steelsheen to this reflection, because I think it makes sense to link her to her daughters, and similar questions arise around her character.

But I’m a scientist, so let’s think about this rationally and stay organized. I will answer in four parts (I’m not sorry about it)

1. What the canon actually says 2. What are the possibilities, what must be ruled out and why 3. Why I will NOT be going there with my current WIP pHORSEuasion 4. Freeform headcanons I still have on this matter!

Part 1: Deep dive in the canon

Most of what we know about Thengel’s family comes from a couple paragraphs in Appendix A. I have laid out this information in a timeline, with the following assumptions, which can be contested, but that’s what I chose to work from: -Only one child is born per year -There are no twins in the family -The first child of a couple is born at earliest one year after their wedding -Ages given assume a birthday on January 1st. If the actual birthday happens after the event in the calendar year, the character would technically be one year “younger”

2905: Thengel born in Rohan 2922: Morwen born in Gondor 2943: Thengel (age 38) and Morwen (age 21) marry in Gondor Between 2944 and 2947: First daughter born in Gondor 2948: Théoden born in Gondor Between 2949 and 2953: Second daughter born in Gondor 2953: Thengel (age 48) becomes king of Rohan Between 2953 and 2962: Third daughter born in Rohan 2963: Théodwyn is born in Rohan. She is described as “a child of his (Thengel's) age” (Thengel is then 58 and Morwen is 41). 2977 or before: Théoden (age 29 or less) and Elfhild (age unknown) marry in Rohan 2978: Théodred born in Rohan. Elfhild (age unknown) dies 2980: Thengel (age 75) dies. Théoden (age 32) becomes king of Rohan 2989: Théodwyn (age 26) and Éomund (age unknown) marry in Rohan 2991: Éomer born in Rohan 2995: Éowyn born in Rohan 3002: Éomund (age unknown) and Théodwyn (age 39) die. Éomer is then 11 and Éowyn is 7 3017: Éomer becomes Third Marshal (age 26) 3019: Théodred (age 41) and Théoden (age 71) die. Éomer (age 28) becomes king of Rohan. Éowyn (age 24) and Faramir (age 36) marry in Rohan 3020 or later: Elboron, son of Éowyn and Faramir, born in Gondor. 3021: Éomer (age 30) and Lothiriel (age 22) marry Early Fourth Age: Elfwine, son of Lothiriel and Éomer, born in Rohan. Fourth Age 63: Éomer (age 91) dies Fourth Age 82: Faramir (age 120) dies

Therefore, we have at the start of the War of the Ring, let’s say in January 3019: Definitely alive: -Théoden -Théodred -Éomer -Éowyn

Possibly alive (no canonical death): -Morwen (age 97, but she is of Dunedain descent, so a long life is possible) -Her three eldest daughters, with ages between 75 (if the eldest was born right after their parents' wedding, in 2944) and 57 (if the third daughter was born right before Théodwyn, in 2962)

A few extra notes on the canon

One thing that I had not fully realized before, is that Théodred is born and Elfhild dies when Théoden is not yet king. Therefore: -Thengel technically met Théodred (he was 2 years old when his grandfather died) -Elfhild, although Théoden's wife, was never queen of Rohan -When Lothiriel becomes queen, Rohan has not had a queen since Morwen, 41 years earlier, at the death of Thengel in 2980 -Théodwyn was only 15, or going on 15, at that time. (I know that I have read somewhere the headcanon that she cared for Théodred from his birth, which is valid and possible, however in my opinion her age makes it doubtful that she would have been the main carer and parental figure.) -Théoden ascends to the throne whilst bearing not only the immediate grief of his father, but also the relatively recent (2 years) loss of his wife.

Of Théodwyn, we know that she was “the fairest” and “her brother loved her dearly”. After her husband was killed, she “took sick and died to the great grief of the king”. Théoden then “took [her children] into his house, calling them son and daughter”.

And we learn a little about Morwen when Éowyn is described: “Éowyn was slender and tall, with a grace and pride that came to her out of the South from Morwen of Lossarnach, whom the Rohirrim had called Steelsheen.” (I must say that I am questioning this past perfect “had called”. It sounds like Morwen is not there anymore, otherwise past simple “called” would have been used. But then, it is hard to pinpoint when in time the narrator is placing themselves in this passage. If referring to Éowyn’s early adult life, it would be a clue in the direction that Morwen is not alive anymore by the War of the Ring, or at least that she is not in Rohan anymore. If referring to an undefined point at the moment of writing in the Fourth Age, it means nothing at all. But we’re now at the level of microscopic details from the text!)

Part 2/4 coming eventually in a reblog!

[maironsbigboobs]

@lotrladiessource ➡ LOTR LADIES WEEK DAY FOUR: WOMEN (part 2/2)

[dalleyan]

Elfwine Chronicles (new LoTR stories, Set Sail posted, 10-23-24)

Theomund eagerly learns a new skill  (Family, Childish Behavior, Humor)

(Jul, 15 IV)

Erchirion ran a hand through his hair, noting that it was almost dry.  Just in time to go back out into the rain, he thought ruefully.  A summer storm had blown in off the water and usually that made for lazy days when most folks tried to stay warm and dry indoors.  But he had agreed to go over the shipping ledgers with his father, so, after delaying for more than an hour hoping it would ease, he had finally ventured forth.  His cloak had kept his clothing relatively dry, but he had never much cared for anything covering his head, and thus arrived with sopping hair.  A towel had removed the worst of it, but he had not been in the castle long enough for it to completely dry.

His step faltered as he passed the dining room, and he backed up, having caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.  It was Lothiriel’s youngest son, Theomund, sitting at the table and scowling out at the storm through the glass doors that opened onto the patio.  His chin rested on his arms as his legs kicked idly, but there was annoyance in his entire bearing.

Entering, he slipped into a chair next to the boy, asking, “Is something the matter, little one?”

The child glanced briefly at him before turning back to the rain slashing at the glass and muttering, “It is raining and I cannot go to the shore!”  Before Erchirion could respond to this, he added grumpily, “Why does it matter if it is raining?  I get wet in the water anyway!”

Erchirion chuckled at this logic, which he could not entirely refute, but explained, “That is certainly true, and if it were that simple, it would not matter.  But in storms like this the sea becomes very dangerous.  The waves are much larger and they can come in suddenly and sweep you off your feet.  Even strong swimmers have sometimes drowned in such wild waves.”  He rose and held out a hand.  “Come with me.”

Curious, Theomund slid off his chair and took his uncle’s hand to be led down the hall to a room that had windows overlooking the shoreline.  Erchirion pushed the door open slightly so they could better see out, and pointed to where the waves were crashing heavily on the beach.  “See?  It would not be very pleasant to be down there just now.  Better to wait until things are calmer and it is safe again.”

The child seemed to understand, but was still obviously disappointed.  Erchirion thought a moment and then asked, “Would you like me to show you the game I used to play on days such as this, when I was just a lad?”

continue reading on AO3:

               (https://archiveofourown.org/works/59405857/chapters/153075436)

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Favourite Female Tolkien Character Poll - Round 1, Match 27

Morwen Steelsheen

The mother of Théoden, and of two daughters (one older than him and one younger). She was from Lossarnach in Gondor, and was seventeen years younger than her husband Thengel.

Éowyn was slender and tall, with a grace and pride that came to her out of the South from Morwen of Lossarnach, whom the Rohirrim had called Steelsheen.

Théodwyn

The youngest daughter of Morwen Steelsheen and Thengel, Théodwyn was the mother of Éomer and Éowyn; she died of illness when they were children, not long after her husband Éomund was killed in battle.

[hobbitwrangler]

I had high expectations for this fic and somehow it completely surpassed them. I loved the portrayal of Théodwyn's character and her complex relationship with Éomund. Every line hits so strongly and the portrayal of the raw anger and resentment tied up in her grief is some of the best I've ever read. This fic tore my heart out and did it with style, I love it.

🥀 Unwary 🥀

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She will take it, but not yet.

Bring the children, she rasps out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Dividers by the wonderful @quillofspirit !)

[idkaguyorsomething]

Best companion does not necessarily mean they have to get along with the Doctor the most, challenging each other in interesting ways could also count.

Explain in the tags who you voted for, with which incarnation, and why!

[torchwood-99]

Eowyn's Pre-Canon Life

Inspired by @emyn-arnens post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[visionsthatdance]

i got to 114 before I caught myself writing Imrahil down twice, which is a damned shame because I had a ways to go

I do also think a reasonable case can and should be made for some unnamed characters- IE "The Master of Lake-town" from the Hobbit or "The Lord of the Nazgûl", tho I went with the Witch-King title bc it's the closest we have to a name

I also included Bill the Pony, Old Man Willow, and Fatty Lumpkin bc they are characters To Me

Bonus internet points will be awarded to anyone who actually tries this exercise before voting.

Assume you need to get the spelling at least somewhat close, and if a character has multiple names, only one counts. Also, if a character doesn't have a canonical name, I'm sorry, but "that guy's wife" doesn't count.

For reference, if you can name the 9 members of the Fellowship, the eponymous Hobbit and his 13 dwarf buddies, 3 prominent women, and the guy who runs the Rivendell B&B, that's 27 characters right there. And you probably also know the name of a dragon.

For further reference, Tolkien Gateway has 637 (!!) pages dedicated to Third Age characters. (Don't click that link until you've voted, of course)

Edit: Your humble pollmaker gave this a try, and got as far as 73 before deciding she was too tired to keep trying to remember dwarf and Silm names. If you also want to share (and don't mind people being incredulous at your having forgot ____), pastebin allows you to paste text and share it for free. :)

[mummelthecryptid]

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