#battle of the morannon

[autistook]

March 25th - Battle of the Morannon

[tathrin]

6... on a falling tear and 38... because they're running out of time （＾ω＾）

Oh how lovely and tragic, very nice choices! Thank you very much for the ask. I'll split them up into two separate posts because I'm incapable of ever writing anything succinct though, sigh! Prompt taken from this; anyone can feel free to send other numbers in at any time, I don’t care how long it’s been. (Just maybe add some context to your ask if it’s been like a month or more since I posted this, because otherwise I won’t know what to do with the random number in my inbox lmao).

#38....because they’re running out of time. [mood music anyone?]

“Never thought I’d die as a diversion,” Gimli muttered, watching as Sauron’s army poured out of the Black Gates and surrounded the two small hills on which Aragorn had arrayed their forces.

Gimli could not count the teeming numbers of the enemy that stood before him—they were too many, too foul—but Legolas had the keen eyes of the elves, and he had told Gimli that their force of six thousand was outnumbered at least ten-to-one. They were not all orcs, either, which would have been bad enough; for surely each troll should be counted six or seven times at least.

The hills would help, Gimli thought numbly, at least a little; the incline would grant the defenders an advantage over the enemy that would have to scramble to climb up at them, and the slag pools of fetid Mordor that surrounded the low hillocks would be another impediment—but it would not be enough.

They had known it would not be enough even before they set out for the Black Gates, and they had all of them come anyway. Gimli did not regret his choice to follow his friends into doom, no; but that did not make the moment of the end any less bitter. And that moment was almost here, now; they were running out of time.

The enemy paused at the feet of the hills, hissing and cursing and some of them even spitting, and Gimli spun his axe to stretch his shoulders in anticipation of the battle to come.

He stood near the front, with Aragorn and Legolas and most of the mightiest of their fighters, where the attack would surely be the thickest. He eyed one lumbering troll that was pushing its way through the milling ranks of orcs, an ugly line of drool hanging off one side of its jaw where broken teeth distorted its already ugly grin into something macabre and ghoulish.

“Gimli,” Legolas said, standing so close beside him, his voice light with echoes of distant birdsong, and Gimli could feel himself smiling in instinctive response even as his heart twisted in sorrow at the thought of what was soon to come for them both. “Gimli,” Legolas said, “may I—I would ask a very great favor of you, my friend, if you would indulge me, please.”

“Of course,” Gimli said immediately. He turned to look up at the elf beside him, standing like a slender ray of sunlight in that bleak land, and tried to hide his breaking heart behind his smile. He could not imagine what sort of favor Legolas might ask at this late juncture—or if he could, then it was a favor that need not be spoken aloud, for Gimli had already vowed to himself that he would not allow the enemy to take this elf alive for torment when the battle ended and their defeat enfolded them.

“Anything, Legolas, you know that.”

Legolas gave a strange, half-choked laugh, and pressed his free hand to his face as though smother some strong feeling; with his other, of course, he held the mighty bow of the Galadhrim that the Lady had given him, and Gimli’s heart gave another pang at the thought of three golden strands tucked away safely behind white walls far away, waiting for a dwarf who would never return to reclaim them—but then Legolas moved, and Gimli’s eyes were drawn instead to tight golden braids that swayed before him as the slender Wood-elf suddenly swayed like a falling sapling and bent down close to Gimli’s face.

He caught Gimli’s bearded cheek with his hand and turned the dwarf’s face up to meet him, and then—oh, and then Legolas was kissing him and Gimli’s mind seemed to dissolve in a blaze of starlight. His whole world narrowed down to those smooth lips pressed so tight and hungry to his own; those long fingers twined so gently through his beard to cup his chin in their narrow palm; the brush of heavy golden braids against Gimli’s shoulders as Legolas bent low over him...

Belatedly, Gimli realized that he had reached up to press his hand to the elf’s face as well; he only noticed when the pad of his thumb brushed against the tip of one long pointed ear and Legolas’s breath hitched in both their mouths.

The drew apart, Legolas swaying back upright with a last lingering flutter of his fingers against Gimli’s beard before he pulled away. Gimli’s jaw worked soundlessly around words that would not come,his wide eyes fixed so fervently on the beautiful, beardless face before him that he almost forgot the stink of the orcs and the jeers of their ugly voices in his ears.

“Forgive me the liberty, I pray,” Legolas rasped. His mithril-bright eyes shimmered with unshed tears, in that moment looking suddenly so like the pool of the Mirrormere that Gimli almost felt as though he had been transported somehow back to the hills outside Khazad-dûm, and this desperate death at the doors of Mordor made into naught but a terrible dream.

But the creeping tendrils of fear that marked the approach of the Nazgûl was no dream; nor were the thundering steps of the trolls as they began to scale the hills, nor the shouts of the orcs as they struggled to follow. In moments, the enemy would be upon them. There was so much Gimli wanted, needed, to say; but they were running out of time.

“There is—there is nothing to forgive, Legolas,” he managed to croak.

“I am relieved to hear it,” Legolas replied. “For I could not bear to die without ever kissing you, Gimli.”

Gimli reached up for those golden braids and bright eyes again. “Legolas—!”

Legolas flashed him a brief, bright, heartbroken smile, and then turned away to face the enemy as the orcs rushed towards them. Gimli raised his axe more out of habit than intention and stepped up beside the elf. “Legolas...” he tried again, but his head was reeling and he could not find the words he wished to craft; they all slipped through his mental fingers, like he was trying to scoop cave-cold water with naught but his bare hands.

Then the first troll reached them, bellowing as it knocked three soldiers of Gondor off their feet to tumble down the hill towards the waiting blades of the orcs below. Gimli growled and gripped his axe, and then suddenly Legolas was scaling the troll, blasted fool of an elf that he was!

“Legolas!” Gimli shouted again, and raced to follow him into the fight.

The troll was too slow to catch the nimble elf, but its attempts to do so blunted its attention to the axe in Gimli’s hand as he hacked at its knees. The creature roared belatedly in anger, even as thick blood wept down its legs. It reached down to try and swat Gimli away, and Legolas scampered across its shoulders and drove his long knife in deep into the troll’s eye. Even that was not enough to kill the beast, but when two Rohirrim came up with long spears the troll was too woozy with pain and blood-loss to bat the weapons away from its throat.

It went down with a thud and a cry of rage rose from the orcs in response. Legolas skipped away from the body and landed on the ground again at Gimli’s side. Shaking with fear, anger, and adrenaline, Gimli caught him by the wrist and gave the elf a shake. “Don’t do that again!” he shouted. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

Legolas laughed, fey and unfettered, his merriment as sharp and keen as his arrows. He slashed his knife through the throat of a climbing orc and twisted easily away from the resulting spray of black blood. “Gimli, we are all going to die here,” he said, wiping the blade clean on the skirt of his tunic before sheathing it and drawing his bow once more. “Put aside your fears, my dear; we have moved beyond that now. All that is left to us is to make our deaths worthy of those that came before us, and to sell our lives dearly enough that we might hope to buy enough time for others to save all those who may come after from this Shadow.”

His arrows flew true, burying themselves in throats and eyes and black-blooded hearts even as he looked back at the dwarf more often than he did at the oncoming orcs. In Legolas’s eyes, Gimli could see the glimmer of all the years together they would never have; could see the crumbling eternity of an immortal life cut short and the unscalable chasm that lay forever between the fates of elves and dwarves, sundering them from one another for all time even unto the breaking of the world.

This, he realized, was all the time they were ever going to have.

Tears stung his eyes, hot and bitter. It was not enough. It would never, ever be enough—and it did not matter, because there was no more to be had.

Gimli shook his head, swallowing down the urge to weep; he had to focus on the orcs. There were too many coming up the sides of the hill now, too fierce; it was all Gimli could do to swing his axe in time to block their blows and cut them down. It was all he could do to keep close to Legolas’s side, the elf now reduced to fighting with nothing but his long white knife. There were maybe half a handful of arrows in his quiver yet, but even elvish speed was insufficient to allow for proper archery at sight a tight distance in this tumult.

Oh, why had Gimli not seen to it that his elf was better armed before they rode off to this final battle? Legolas was deadly with that little knife, yes, but oh it seemed so short in his long fingers. Why had Gimli not sought the armories of Gondor, and borrowed some mightier blade for his friend? Why had he not sought the forges, and made him one to suit his lanky frame?

He was such a fool. What had he been wasting his time on instead, when he could have—should have—been seeing to Legolas’s safety?

When he could have been kissing him?

Gimli growled, and swung his axe harder, and watched one burly uruk go down gurgling and clutching at its guts. Gimli swung again, and its head toppled free and he could turn to the next enemy, the next threat. Beside him, Legolas whirled and slashed in a flurry of golden braids and a black-blooded blade. He lunged over Gimli’s head to slit the throat of an orc that was angling a spear towards Gimli’s ribs as Gimli kicked-out low and took the feet out from under another orc that had managed to get a grimy hand around one of those bright braids.

“Away from him!” Gimli bellowed, and the orc feel back squealing over the stump of its arm. Gimli stepped closer to the elf—his elf—and they ended up fighting back-to-back, or back-to-shoulders at least; their disparate heights should have made them terrible battle-partners, but it was so easy to fall into a rhythm with Legolas, a balancing of their skills and statures. Legolas spun high with his short knife and Gimli swung low with his broad axe, and the enemy gave way before them.

But more came, replacing those that fell. Always more came, and the fight went on. Gimli could feel his limbs tiring, his bones aching from the weight of his blade and the blows that had glanced off his mail. A dozen small cuts he could not remember taking bled sluggishly, adding a dull sheen of red to the viscous black liquid that splattered his armor and his skin.

More came, and the Nazgûl followed, and all around them men shrieked and cowered beneath that mindless fear. Gimli fought on, so numb with grief that he barely startled at the cry that the eagles had come. That felt unreal, like something out of some other story; one that had a better ending than theirs. Despair rolled thick across the Host of the West and even Gimli, stout-hearted dwarf that he was, faltered for a moment before it—

And then Legolas laughed.

There was nothing merry in that sound, and the only brightness was the sharp brightness of a pale blade flashing out of the shadows of tall black trees. It was a laugh full of teeth, and claws, and all the dark and dangerous things that lurk within a wood. It was the sort of laugh that would send wise folk fleeing for strong walls and sturdy doors; the sort of laugh that might send children shivering to hide under their beds and wait for dawn. It was the laugh of a wild thing, untamed and dangerous, and it rang out light and sharp-edged above the gutteral shouts and screams of the orcs and the roaring bellows of the trolls.

Legolas laughed, and Gimli smiled to hear it. He lifted his head high against the weight of Mordor’s bleak despair and raised his axe high once more. Legolas was right; there was no longer any cause for fear. They had faced the end already, and the end was here; there was no sense cowering before it. Better to stand tall, and die fighting proud and unbowed, defying the power of the Dark Lord to the last.

And then—and then, on the other side of fear, after all hope seemed so long lost it was little more than a memory, everything changed.

The Nazguûl fled; the army crumbled; the towers fell.

Sauron was destroyed. And they had lived.

They lived.

Gimli could hardly process it. He turned to Legolas, still at his side, the both of them weary and blood-stained and heartsick from the tangled mingling of hope and despair, and he opened his mouth to speak—but no words came out.

He saw all their tomorrows flow suddenly back into Legolas’s bright eyes and the elf swayed, as though the sudden lifting of the Shadow had left him unsteady on his light feet. Gimli caught his hand and held him steady.

“Legolas—” Gimli began.

“Tomorrow,” Legolas interrupted him with a smile. “Let us help the wounded now, Gimli; we will talk on other things tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Gimli said, rolling the taste of the word around in his mouth; rolling the feel of it around in his mind. “Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow. To think that there will be such a thing!” He laughed from bewildered joy and squeezed his elf’s hand once, tightly, before letting go and turning back to the grim battlefield. “Tomorrow. We will talk on all things then.”

Legolas bent and pressed a light kiss to Gimli’s cheek. “Tomorrow,” he said again, the word heavy with promise, and then they walked off together into the carnage of hopes renewed and deaths well-fought.

“Tomorrow,” Gimli murmured once more to himself, and there on the bloodstained soil of the Black Land, he smiled.

[rannadylin]

Bat-signaling the Eagles with the Phial of Galadriel! 100% the best game ever.

[dunadaan]

I’ve had Créa for almost 10 years and I’m thinking about how I almost never let her live until like. 2020 LOL. I spent six years killing her off bc I couldn’t conceive a happy ending for her and now I’m like nah she gets to live and be happy

[silmarillion-ways-to-die]

If Gandalf instead of Aragorn had been in charge at the Battle of the Black Gate:

Orc: Excuse me, oh Dark Lord?

Sauron: What is it???

Orc: There's someone to see you at the Morannon.

Sauron: Is it the Armies of the Free Peoples of the West, bringing me my One Ring?

Orc: No, Lord. It's two dwarves. They say they've come for tea.

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

While we’re all marking the battle at the Morannon and the destruction of the ring today, let us not forget that March 25 is ALSO the day that Borondir, the messenger of Cirion, first reached Eorl and his people back in T.A. 2510 to ask for the help of the Éothéod in driving invaders out of Gondor.

Of course, when Gondor called for aid, (proto) Rohan answered, and we eventually got the Oath of Eorl and the founding of Rohan and the start of 500 years of steadfast allies and friends. So this is a momentous day for all of Middle Earth, but especially for the Rohirrim and, as a huge Rohan partisan, I will be celebrating it as such.

[whiskawaybelf]

Dol Amroth and their Swan Knights will never not be funny to me. Because yes, swans are elegant, of course the famously noble, very Numenorean family would have that as their banner. You know what swans also are? Territorial and absolutely feral if you approach their home and nesting site. (Mute swans are particularly vicious, many swans are just aggressively defensive, mute swans are actively dicks.)

I love the idea of of Imrahil and his family meeting important people and they're so put together and regal, and then you see them in battle and they are... so scary. I love a Lothiriel who seems so smooth and demure and then will absolutely punch the throat of anyone who touches her without permission, no hesitation, you should have known better than to the touch the Princess of Dol Amroth. I love this family of beautiful noble people who defend their home so viciously that they can bring the most troops of the principalities. What? Like it's hard? A family that will not hesitate to cut you but they'll also be the symbol for nobility and honour, with a Prince that even elves know is a pretty impressive person.

Give me the family of Dol Amroth who are loving and calculated and cold and deeply efficient at dealing with threats. Ones who surprise their enemies by being three steps ahead at all times, but 'Elphir could not have done this, he is so noble,' yeah buddy, but you hoarded grain during a siege so I hope you have fun in the Dol Amroth prisons until after Morannon when we can be bothered to deal with you.

Turncoats? Hard to turn a coat without any of the correct information and each and every one of your sources rounded up before you can warn them.

Slimy advisors? Eaten for dinner, Denethor; sad but we planned for this, Mordor and certain death? Sure, not a part of the plan but our knights are renowned for their battle prowess, let's go and tear Sauron a new one.

Give me noble, coldly efficient, wildly territorial and very slightly feral Dol Amarothians. I beg you. Make their swan a symbol of their absolutely unhinged defense of their beautiful, elegant home.

(But like wild oceans and massive mountains? I have a whole post about how this also gives us insight into Imrahil and his kids, or like, my version of them. Water and stone, commanding oceans and navigating massive peaks. The children of Dol Amroth grow up walking uphill both ways, their knees are scarred and bloody from slipping down sharp mountain paths and they are honed to their lands.)

[velvet4510]

The scene at the Grey Havens has so much unsaid. Sam does not detail everything that they all said to each other before the ship departed. While I don’t hate the total silence depicted in the films, it’s much more likely and realistic that the hobbits and Gandalf did have much to say to each other, which Sam chose to keep private and out of the record.

I headcanon that Pippin must’ve needed a moment to say goodbye to Gandalf, too. He really grew closest to Gandalf out of all the hobbits besides Frodo. A sizable chunk of the story focuses on the two of them in Gondor. While Pippin often annoys Gandalf throughout the story, it is clear that there is always affection there. Then it was their teamwork that saved Faramir. Gandalf especially must’ve really admired Pippin for his bravery and maturity during the siege and the Morannon battle.

I imagine while Frodo was hugging Merry goodbye, and Sam stood aside crying, Pippin asked if Gandalf really had to go, prompting Gandalf to confirm his time really was over. (Billy Boyd says a moment similar to this was filmed for but cut from the movie.)

Then Pippin lowered his head in tears. Gandalf touched Pippin’s chin, gently raised it to allow their eyes to meet, and tenderly said with a smile, “Farewell, fool of a Took.” And Pippin couldn’t help but smile at that.

[tolkienosaurus]

Only the deeds written here count, Frodo not included because he would sweep.

[emmanuellececchi]

For the Christmas ask game: 8, 11

Characters: Your gleomenn OCs! (It can either be just Tirwald's family or include Baldred, Leofic, Cenric) You choose!

Thanks for playing!

That took some time, but here we are. But it became more headcanons about them. Also available on AO3

Cenric White Eye

Cenric is an old glèomann. He has this aura of gravitas about him that makes people instantly respect him. In his time, glèomenn were always honoured guests at the Yuletide celebrations. They were served food and drink at the same table as their hosts, often high lords and kings in Cenric's case. But while they were honoured, they were also expected to perform: sing, tell stories.

And because of this exchange, no glèomann true to his name would ask for payment or accept gifts. It was tradition.

Cenric would arrive just before the feast began, sit down at the main table, eat and drink a little and then regale the people with his songs. Then, depending on the hours, he would have some more fun. If his host didn't want more songs and stories.

When asked, his favourite memory was celebrating in Meduseld in front of the royal family, the newly arrived Thengel, his wife and children. It had been his greatest honour and joy, and he had kept that memory alive in his heart until his last days.

Cenric had a sweet tooth. Honey cakes and spiced biscuits were his favourite treats during the festivities.

~~~

Tirwald Firebrand

Tirwald has never cooked a meal in his life. And camp food is not cooking, his companions will tell you to avoid his oat cakes. 

His travels with Wise Frumgar have taught him that glèomenn were honoured guests, and so he has the same expectation now. But he knows better than to expect the same from a peasant or a lord. And unlike others, Tirwald is not concerned with the status of his host. He will do the same for both.

All he wants is for everything to be ready when he arrives, and to have access to good food and drink throughout the evening.

He can often be seen in conversation with his hosts. Tirwald takes great pride in talking to anyone and everyone. It is important for him to learn from the people what is going on in the country, but also to get to know better those for whom he will be singing. He is far less formal than Cenric in this regard.

In keeping with tradition, Tirwald sings and tells tales of Rohan's past heroes. He asks not only his hosts what they would like to hear, but also the people. He is always generous, even singing things he does not really like. Unlike Cenric, and while he will say no to money, Tirwald will accept gifts. When she was alive, he gave them to his wife and later to his daughter and granddaughter.

This is the time of year when he travels the most. It was very rare for him to spend the holidays with his family. But in recent years, due to the situation in Rohan, Tirwald has had a few opportunities to spend the holidays with his daughter and granddaughter. This may be his fondest memory, though he will not admit it aloud.

Later, long after the Battle of Morannon and his healing, Tirwald joined Eowyn's court in Ithilien. Though his voice is gone, he still plays very well on the new talharpa he has been given. There he will play at the White Lady's request during the celebrations. He still does not cook, but in the days leading up to the festivities he loves to help with the decorations, making garlands, putting up mistletoe and other greenery. He is often told that he has a good eye, but in truth all he does is make sure everything looks as Lady Eowyn wants it.

Tirwald's favourite recipes are small birds roasted with lard. The more lard, the better. Then he will use a piece of fresh bread to sauce the juices from his plate. There is nothing better for him.

~~~

Baldred Three Fingers

Baldred grew up in a family where everyone had to take part in the preparation of the festivities. Yule was the time when the whole family came together and there was much to be done: cleaning, washing, decorating, putting the dishes on the table. And Baldred had learnt the importance of doing his part at an early age.

Even after he became a glèomann, he didn't lose this habit. Though he understood that his participation was his art, Baldred had never stopped helping, as much as his hosts would allow, of course.

Much later, when he had finally settled into his new life with his wife, Baldred resumed his habit of helping wherever he was needed. On the other hand, his wife, who likes to control how things are done, does not ask much of him. That, and she just loves dotting him.

As for the feasts themselves, Baldred is no longer the one who sings and tells stories. He has given up his wandering life as a glèomann and can now enjoy a time of peace and quiet with his family. But at the end of the night, when all is said and done, he will sing for his beloved: Cynewyn and their adopted children.

Baldred is not a heavy drinker, but a warm cup of mulled wine will make him a happy man.

~~~

Lèofric of the Golden Voice

For Lèofric, his participation in the festivities is a very simple one: he is there to give his hosts the gift of his voice and talent, and that is enough. Lèofric has always been very confident in himself and his ability to charm people. Besides, with his gentle tone and good looks, most people will not even think of asking for his help. Or feel guilty for even thinking about it.

While he, like many of the glèomenn, expects people to receive him as an honoured guest, he also expects payment. There is a price to be paid for the grace of his presence. For this reason, Lèofric was often seen in the presence of the nobility during his years as a glèomann. This is what he loves, to be recognised, to see the admiration in everyone's eyes.

After the fall of Grimà and the end of the war, Lèofric's trail was lost. Some said he had been seen travelling towards Harad. Others said he met his end on the road. The only one who really knows will probably take this secret to his grave.

~~~

Mildwyn Raven hair

Mildwyn had loved Yule for as long as she could remember. Strangely, though her grandfather had often been absent, it was the celebration she most associated with him. Perhaps it was because the rare times he had been there, his songs and stories, his rich voice as he held her, had shaped her memories.

Without knowing it, Tirwald had given her the desire to become a glèomann. Well, glèowif. It had been the joy she had felt and wanted to share. It was the beauty of those moments, the magic her grandfather had created with his instrument and his voice. She wanted to do the same.

Because she is now famous, for her art and as the first glèowif of her generation, most people do not ask her for help. And because she is the true granddaughter of Tirwald, she appreciates this change in her status.

Like Lèofric, she knows the value of her voice and her looks. She might use them during the year, to obtain favors and gifts. But as Yule is a sacred moment for her, she chooses to be generous when invited to a celebration, like her grandfather did before her.

Mildwyn has had the opportunity to travel to Minas Tirith, Itilien, Dol Amroth and many other places long beyond the reach of a glèomann. During her travels she developed a taste for seafood, especially prawns and lobsters.

[themoonlily]

weird Éothiriel AU:

Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos all die either in the Battle of Pelennor fields or in the Battle of Morannon. (A great tragedy, obviously.)

In this version Elphir does not have an heir (Alphros).

Lothíriel at this time is already betrothed to marry the heir of Rohan (which recently was Théodred but is now Éomer).

There is too great political pressure for the union of Rohan and Dol Amroth and Éomer and Lothíriel take an instant liking to one another, so the marriage goes through even though Lothíriel is now Imrahil's sole heir and is sorely needed at home.

Éomer and Lothíriel are married and they have a brief happy time together in Rohan as king and queen.

Imrahil is so devastated by his loss that he gives up power, setting Lothíriel up as a regent.

Difficulties arise as Éomer and Lothíriel attempt to balance their duties between his kingdom and her fiefdom.

Thanks to Aragorn's passage through the Paths of the Dead, the road is now open, allowing swifter travel between Rohan and Dol Amroth - and Éomer and Lothíriel travelling between their two realms.

Political intrigue about Éomer being the princely consort in Dol Amroth, and Lothíriel being the royal consort in Rohan.

Also political intrigue about the fact that the father of future Princes of Dol Amroth is not pure-blooded Númenórean (despite the fact his grandmother is Morwen Steelsheen).

The friendship that is build upon horsemanship of the two realms.

Eventually Rohan and Dol Amroth become an insane powerhouse in Middle-earth, creating the greatest cavalry that ever existed.

[a-lonely-dunedain]

“It was nice not sleeping alone” or “do you want to keep the light on?” for Ethedis and Corunir?

Ok finally getting around to this! Going with the first option here :3 I think this made a nice warmup after not writing in like, months probably. Gosh I feel so rusty…. Anyway! Here’s Ethedis, local exhausted party healer, finally getting A Break post Morannon (and Corunir doing what Corunir does best and being Worried about Eth)

Ethedis was sad to find that she had grown accustomed to sleeping alone.

The time since her departure from the Grey Company had been a blur to her, an anxious, desperate, and terribly lonely blur. Amidst it all she did not notice— or at least tried not to notice— the ache in her heart at Corunir and the rest of her friends' absence. But it was still there, always most noticeable in the quiet of the night when she had little else to distract her.

She made new friends in that time of course, Horn, Nona, Corudan… (who she prays are alright, wherever they are) but even they could not stop the gnawing pain in her heart, the fear that the world was ending and neither her best friend nor her beloved would be at her side for it.

Thankfully, despite her fears, she was reunited with Tossdir and Corunir before what seemed to be the end of all things. The battle of the Pelenor passed, and somehow, though it still seems hard to believe, the Morannon passed also. It was over, the war was won.

She was gravely injured near the end of the fighting, though she barely remembers it (perhaps that is for the best), and Corunir has hardly left her side since then. He almost seemed afraid to, scared that if he left her for even a moment she would be torn away from him again, as had happened so many times before. Ethedis hated to see him so worried, and she especially hated to be the cause of it, but also couldn’t help but be grateful for his constant doting. It would be a while yet before the healers released her, so the company was much needed.

It’s late into the night now, her room is lit only in shades of silvery blue and grey in the moonlight shining through her open window, she guesses she should be sleeping instead of lying awake reflecting. Her eyes fall to Corunir beside her, his head buried in his arms atop her blankets, breathing deep and slow. He'd fallen asleep like that a little while ago, the same as he had every night since coming to the Houses of Healing. She gently places her hand on his arm, just needing to feel that he’s there, he’s alive. The touch doesn't wake him, despite the fact that he’s normally a rather light sleeper. He must be exhausted.

Part of her wishes he would go sleep in a proper bed for his own sake, he probably hasn’t had a good night’s rest in months, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to leave. Truth be told, she needed him there, probably more than he realized.

She had grown used to being the one caring for others, always worrying about keeping her friends from falling into despair or even just keeping them alive, giving little thought to herself. She was getting used to sleeping alone, to being alone.

It’s different now though, the warmth of his arm under her hand confirmed it. She isn’t alone anymore, Corunir is here and understands her struggles better than anyone. He’s here and it would take nothing short of an intervention from the Valar to tear him away from her again. He and the other healers will see to it that she is well taken care of, and for the first time in almost a year she finds she has very little to be worried about; and the few things she does have to worry about do not seem so daunting as long as he’s here.

She breathes a deep, contented sigh, her eyelids are starting to feel heavy. It isn’t long before they slip closed and she joins Corunir in much needed slumber, secure in the knowledge that they will still be together when she awakes.

It was nice not sleeping alone.

[n0tamused]

✦Êlinsaer Peredhel. Pt.1

LOTR Universe OC

A/N: Decided to split this this into two parts so it's a bit easier to read :) I hope you all enjoy!

pt.2 - here

__________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

┊ ⋆ ┊   .   ┊   ┊

┊    ┊⋆ ┊

┊    ┊  ☪.                  

✧. ┊  ⋆˚         

⋆ ★

╭──────────.★..─╮

 Content:

1.Appearance

2.Personality

3.Backstory

3.1. Kingdoms rise and fall

3.2. The Hobbit

3.3. War of the Ring

3.4. The breaking ofthe Fellowship

3.5. Battle of Morannon

4. After the War of the Ring

Trivia

╰─..★.──────────╯

1. Appearance

Taking after her mother, "Êlinsaer" possesses the same dark brown hair and her facial features of high cheekbones, full brows and almond shaped, heavy lidded eyes. Her eyes are brown with flecks of green.She has taken after her father in regards to height and the manner in which she carries herself, her strides brisk and holding an air of elegance; she is tall, standing at 5’9(176cm) and sporting a fit and lean build with long, strong legs. Her skin is dotted with beauty marks with the most prominent ones being underneath her eye and  next to her lips, as well as on her hands and wrists. 

She has a penchant for dressing in neutral and darker colors, usually seen dressing in a black and hoodless cloak pinned in place by a golden lily brooch (later on by a leaf of Lòrien as well), dark gray tunic with a bark colored corset which resembles scales like the underbelly of a dragon, dark green pants, archer gloves, arm bracers and knee high boots. She dresses warmly but lightly and with her clothes allowing so, she is able to be quick and free on her feet. She bears scars from past travels, but none of those are able to be seen, other than the ones on her hands. She often wears rings, silver and gold both, preferring artistic styles of oddly shaped rings in comparison to simple bands. Her favourite ring is a silver ring, the top shaped in a golden crescent moon holding a pale stone.

Her hair reaches down past the middle of her back and she styles it in half-up half-down styles which keep the hair out of her face. She has taken to styling and cutting her hair on occasion so her hair is not even and holds shorter layers towards the front, as well as a set of longer bangs. Through her hair gray hairs are able to be seen in rather prominent streaks. Later in her life, her hair would go completely silver-blonde.

════════════════════════════

2.Personality

Êlinsaer is a quiet, introspective individual who values her solitude over social interaction, though she is not timid by any means and is very open minded to the world around her. She prefers to remain reserved, keeping her thoughts and emotions largely to herself. Despite this, she possesses a strong sense of justice and a will to act on that feeling. Her moral compass is often complicated by her willingness to use rather morally gray tactics when necessary, which makes her a somewhat unpredictable character.  Though her demeanor is usually measured and concise, she can be fierce in defending innocence and will resort to more direct, even aggressive, methods when all diplomacy fails. In a similar regard she is protective over the ones she deems vulnerable or whom she sees as close to her. Her communication style tends to be brief and to the point, and more often than not she is quite soft spoken, which sometimes makes interacting with strangers a challenge for her. 

Her willingness to act can be faced with many hesitations and setbacks as she is often plagued by the risk of descending into the same madness her ancestors did as well as the fear of her father capturing her again, and the same moments of hesitation can also push her into solitude if she happens to be around someone. She is hard to anger but also slow to trust. 

Êlinsaer possessed a great deal of love for reading, information both set in reality and in fiction and she’d often stay much longer in places that hosted open libraries. Despite her own sets of troubles, she attempts to do what good she can in the world. She is very much a lost, lonely, frightened soul who seeks to find what matters most to her in the world.

════════════════════════════

3.Background

3.1. Kingdoms rise and fall

Êlinsaer comes from the people of the mountain that flew a banner with a golden lily and a winged serpent over it on a blue field. Her father was an elf who gave up his blade and turned to the work of a ship maker in Mithlond. She grew up with two other siblings, both of whom were younger than her. There was a pair of twins that unfortunately passed away in infancy. As their mother had already been old at the time, her pregnancies caused a set of health issues that worsened in her later years and which required much care and treatment, which her children had provided to the best of their efforts.

Êlinsaer’s father, a self-fashioned ‘lord’, Esgali never seemed to fully grasp the swift passage of a human life and often lingered at his workstation for lengthy periods of time, time that Marguel, his wife, nor his children did not have. Elven lore was still a distant subject to the people of the mountain and the gift of death was much more familiar to them. Two of Esgali’s children chose mortality, forsaking it in order to live out their lives like all the people of the mountains, along with their mother. Êlinsaer was the only of the three living children that had not yet deciding, believing it was her duty to choose immortality if it would be in the best interest of the family, especially in the case of one of her siblings choosing that path, for she did not want to leave them alone to the world. The twisted passing of his father had left a bleeding mark on Esgali and with the combination of circumstances the dark forces of the land poisoned him and his mind. He was not the same elf Marguel knew when next he returned to the mountains. He had praised her for her work as they walked up the familiar path, commenting on her writing as well as her sturdy hand when it came to work around the village. 

He had taken Êlinsaer up above the clouds, to the highest castle of the highest mountain peak, retelling stories of the times when he was still a elfling in the world where the sun and moon had just been born. The conversation spiraled as he touched upon the subject of her decision, and faced with her denial to choose the path of immortality, choosing the human life, Esgali had exercised all powers he knew for evil and cursed her to immortality. Afterwards, he took his own daughter from the mountains and into a town by the lake where, for the next decade or so, he’d keep her and teach her all things elven in a frail attempt at justifying his doings and redeeming himself. The more time stretched on, the more apparent it became that his tie to the evil forces was becoming stronger. The years felt too long and Êlinsaer never embraced her new circumstances, although she learned what she could and sharpened both her wit and her blades. She had become fearful of elves and others and when the opportunity arose, she fled on horseback back to the mountains that raised her. 

Her mother had already passed away by then and her siblings looked older, their hair starting to gray and their faces were wrinkly. In belief that she willingly chose to leave them to their own devices, they did not accept her back into the family. Êlinsaer remained in the village, watching over them until they passed away as well, ensuring they were buried next to their mother, before vanishing into the vast world.

For the next odd 600 years, she travelled the world without a stop, not risking a permanent residency due to the fear her father was forever looking for her. Once or twice, while she remained in the village, she had protected it against Esgali’s shadow, and once against Esgali in the flesh who had wished to sway her into joining him again. She had taken up a habit of settling in forests that neighboured villages and rising cities, foraging and hunting and using the knowledge her father had taught her to endure the ages.

════════════════════════════

╭─────────╮

“I am what I am. I would tell you what you want to know if 

I could, for you have been kind to me.”

╰─────────╯

3.2. The Hobbit 

She’d often pass by Bree in the time of spring and late autumn, resting there for a few nights and sometimes a bit longer than that if she found something to occupy her. She had become an enigma where she let herself step into social interactions, and the hobbits of Bree took the most interest in her as she had shown more of an inclination at taking their side. She was quite gentle and forever patient with them, often helping them with the tasks too strenuous for their short frames and sometimes she’d exchange her labour for a meal or some thread and needle. In the long years she made around Middle-Earth and the amount of  times she passed through Bree, she has been the unfortunate witness to too many funerals. Despite the rough and quiet exterior she displays, she always harboured deep feelings for the world around her; she felt it her duty to remember all of those who helped her or whom she helped, or the ones that history would otherwise forget. 

During the start of Bilbo Baggins’ adventure to Erebor with his company of dwarves, Êlinsaer had assisted in their safe passage towards Rivendell, although she had refused to enter Rivendell herself and turned back before Gandalf could convince her otherwise.  Afterwards she caught up to the dwarves after they left Rivendell, wishing them good fortune and gifting Bilbo Baggins and Bofur with a bronze scale each as a token of her appreciation and well wishes. 

Êlinsaer had paid much more attention to Bilbo after his adventure had concluded, sympathizing with him over the losses he endured and all which he faced. Be it pity or the simple need to show kindness, she’d stop by his residence whenever she passed by Bree, bringing tokens from her travels and telling Bilbo of what she had seen since the last time they'd talked.

During her many visits with him, she had taken a habit of feeding the birds in the nearby forests around the Shire, some of which nested low to the ground in the hollows of trees. As gifts to her, in return for her taking time to tend to them, a raven had begun to bring forth shiny things to her as gifts: coins, shiny stones, rings. She was quite fond of these gifts, wearing the rings and making jewelry out of the stones. 

════════════════════════════

╭─────────╮

“You cannot beat tin into iron, but that does

 not make it useless”

╰─────────╯

3.3. War of the Ring

Consequently, she was one of the many guests invited to Bilbo’s 111th birthday party. She had shown up, but remained watching from afar after mingling shortly with the other guests and after talking to Frodo shortly.

After Bilbo had vanished with the assistance of the ring, Êlinsaer lingered for a while longer, before she herself had disappeared into the night. She had visited him in a rush alongside Gandalf, where the ring was revealed to them both. She dared not touch the ring or come near it, going as far as to not even enter the room in which it was being held in. Afterwards, a conversation between Gandalf and her followed in the halls of Bilbo’s home in a language he did not understand, and after that Êlinsaer left. She felt distressed at best and had debated on whether she should ever come back to the Shire. The Ring had unsettled her, and the decline of Bilbo was right under her nose. She could smell the darkness but had always pushed it aside, scrapping it up to the fact that mortal beings changed much quicker and more often than immortal beings. Gandalf would seek her out later, delivering a letter from Bilbo addressed to her. She did not respond nor go back to the Shire.

It was only years later that she’d return with Gandalf to visit Frodo. She had come on top of her big black mare with a chipped ear, as quiet and elegant as her. Frodo was now the owner of the One Ring and while she feared to come near it, she hated it too much to let it be in the world for longer than it should. And such a heavy fate of its destruction, held in the hands of such a small creature, felt too unjust for her to turn a blind eye too. Guilt for not responding to Bilbo also weighed heavy on her. 

So, she had promised both Frodo and Gandalf to travel with Frodo and help him get the Ring destroyed. The following weeks she had lingered in the Shire, helping Frodo with his preparations to leave, acting notably more hasty than usual for her character and she made it a point to tell Frodo to ‘make up his mind’ and go if he planned to, although she never did so unkindly.

They’d quickly set out, along with the gardened hobbit, Samwise Gamgee and by Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck. Êlinsaer had taken it upon herself to ensure their safe passage and was the path finder, although she rode some way ahead of them as to not draw any unwanted attention to the hobbits, she still remained very close and knew to scare the hobbits with her sudden and soundless appearances when she came to check up on them. 

Once the Black riders had fallen down onto them, Êlinsaer had taken up the role of a diversion, giving enough time for the hobbits to make it out. Yet it was the elves and their song that chased away the Black Rider, as well as Êlinsaer, for she had little love for them. She had listened from afar and tailed them from an even larger distance, staying out of sight and out of earshot. It was only when they went down to Mr. Maggot that she had shown herself again, taking the group of hobbits by fright when they saw the big dark horse approach. 

She was tired by then, but looked relieved that they found their way down here. She was already acquainted with Mr. Maggot and his dogs, having helped him in the past when the dogs were still puppies chasing butterflies in the fields. For a short while she lingered outside with the dogs before joining them for dinner inside. Mr. Maggot commented on how little she ate for a woman her size. Afterward she went ahead of the wagon meant to carry them to Ferry lane, going far up ahead and without light in, straining her ears for any sound. She was the one that ran into Merry and led him back to the wagon to regroup. 

Afterwards she went on her own way again once they came onto the river, as her mare was quite afraid of the water and she did not want to force her across. She promised to find them quickly once she found a safer crossing for her horse. She was gone for a long time, but returned with the Black riders, as they gave up their pursuit of her after Frodo donned the Ring at the Prancing pony and gathered their attention. Êlinsaer had looked tirelessly for the hobbits afterwards, and caught up to them in the wilderness, now accompanied by Strider.  The interaction between Êlinsaer and Strider did not start off on the right foot(although they knew each other through Gandalf’s letters and words), with Êlinsaer leading the conversation with veiled dislike and distrust of his goals. Just as their conversation seemed to be steering in the wrong direction, both of them reached an agreement and they continued their travels.

From then, she was adamant on keeping the hobbits in her eyesight, never straying too far off or letting them go too far; Aragorn and her had worked together to keep the hobbits safe.

Along with Strider, she joined in to fight back against the Nazgûl once more when they attacked. Êlinsaer had shown fair skill with her blade, and cool headedness upon witnessing Frodo’s wound. She had gone pale in the face, but there was a steely look in her eyes, and her arms were steady as they assessed the wound and did what she could while Aragorn had ventured off in haste search of athelas. Glorfindel was a sight she welcomed and dreaded all at once. Unlike her usual scoutings during their travels, she now never strayed out of sight to look at the paths ahead, keeping close to the hobbits. She seldom spoke to him unless she had to and asked only a few questions from which she drew her opinion of him. On one occasion he had calmed her horse down when she grew anxious, which seemed to better Êlinsaer’s view of him. 

  While it greatly worried her to let Frodo ride alone to Rivendell upon Asfaloth, she stayed behind to lead the rest of the hobbits and protect them, while also hoping to postpone her own arrival at the elven city.

Êlinsaer had entered Rivendell with her head bowed down, eyes downcast at the ground. Pippin had commented on her hands fidgeting with the rings on her fingers in a lighthearted manner, in hopes to lighten her spirits. 

If there was a corner she could remain undisturbed, she’d be there, preferably somewhere high where she could look down upon the others and see where they were. She had met up with Bilbo in Rivendell again, expressing her relief to see an old, yet familiar face and she spent much time in his company as well, speaking to him about his health, his book and what he planned to do. It relieved her to find out Frodo was saved by Elrond-Halfelven, and she found it in herself to speak to him privately, lest she lost her mind in ‘a place crawling with elves’. It was a brief conversation that left much more to be desired, but it also left Êlinsaer with a little more peace in her heart. 

Rivendell was where she first met Arwen, however briefly that may have been. At the Council, Êlinsaer had been one of the last to join, having remained quiet throughout the entire meeting, observing the others even once the great deal of commotion began. It was only after Frodo had quieted the crowd by saying that he’s taking on the task of bringing the Ring to Mordor that she made her opinion heard, holding subtle scorn, although the individuals that the words were directed at seemed to miss the point entirely. She had judged the forming Fellowship, but soon pledged her own skill and wisdom to Frodo and his task, for the duty of the Ring was too heavy, even when shouldered by two or five, even when shouldered by ten. 

It seemed as if Êlinsaer was the first to leave Rivendell after everyone came to see them off. She knew none of them and felt it unnecessary to linger for too long, too strong in her learned ways to vanish, but as the situation called for a behavior of a more considerate guest, she showed her gratitude to lord Elrond and Glorfindel, the latter who had gifted her with a new saddle blanket, before the Fellowship set out. What Êlinsaer did not wish to acknowledge is that the Ring was calling to her, whispering into her ear, promising a better world in her thin dreams - she only needed to reach it, take it, prove her father, and his father before him, wrong. It was what led to many low-boil disagreements between her and Boromir, Êlinsaer often than not standing between him and Frodo and giving him scolding looks were he to approach too close and too quiet. 

While Legolas held the rear, Êlinsaer kept watch to the front as they travelled, and often would go far out and find easier paths for them.

Êlinsaer had to leave her horse behind before they ventured into the mines of Moria. She unsaddled her mare and let her go, only keeping the green saddle blanket for herself. The tunnels seemed to spark both intrigue and caution in Êlinsaer, and she had slipped into many conversations with Gimli about dwarvish ways. As her own people had been neighbors with the dwarves that mined the Blue Mountains in the distant past, she was no stranger to their craft. 

The darkness was something she was swift to adapt to, and were it not for the Fellowship and her own better judgement, she would have ventured on ahead much quicker, despite her fear of the dark and narrow passages. The conversations she had with the dwarf had helped in distracting her from the presence of the Ring, and while the darkness and the closing walls and tunnels around them seemed to push the otherwise extroverted members of the Fellowship into themselves, it had the contrary effect on Êlinsaer. She spoke some more than she usually would, making a few and in between mentions of how she enjoyed the tunnels, but missed the open skies overhead. There were off mentions of dragons, as she’d tell some old stories to the Hobbits when they were resting. Frodo had noticed she would also spin the rings on her fingers and toy with them whenever they sat down to rest. 

During the attack of the cave Orcs, Êlinsaer had caught herself thinking oddly and acting on the wrong thoughts. She did not fight to save herself, or the Hobbits, or the Men or elf or dwarf - but the Ring. It was at the front of her mind all the while, and it terrified her once she realized. In the spur of the moment and as the realization came to dawn onto her, she received injuries to her leg and chest. It did not stop her, but the pain served as a whiplash.  Seeing Frodo after his almost fatal blow from the Orc captain felt like she had betrayed him and she began growing distant, falling into a sullen silence once again; she no longer came near Frodo as much and preferred to remain at a distance.

Gandalf’s death fell hard on the whole Fellowship; yet Êlinsaer and Gimli had attempted to cheer up the hobbits by showing them the view around, with Êlinsaer offering a few words of comfort. 

During their trek to Lothlórien, Êlinsaer began showing signs of weariness, much more than before; her strength was further exhausted by fending off a Shadow that went to attack them. Her sword pierced the shadow and it crawled away, screeching and contorting.

 When they were granted the hospitality of the elves she fell into a deep slumber from which she didn’t wake from for two days and two nights. Her dreams were full of the future, or what might come to pass.

❝ In her dreams the sky was bleeding and flaming rocks cascaded unto the shadowy figures around her. They scrambled and crawled from her, fleeing and climbing over one another. Her beast snarled and let out a howl so melodious and so terrible that it made the muddy clouds flee from where they stood, letting the light stream in like a rain of thousand lances. There were ants beneath her, and her beast carried her down to the ground at once on silvery wings, but the sunbathed fields turned a coppery-red from blood. And the faces on the bodies were that of Frodo, Boromir, Aragorn, sweet Pippin and Sam and Merry, Legolas and Gimli and Bilbo. So many more familiar faces dotted the lands, pale and wide eyes staring at her. And when she looked down she was bathed all in red, and a golden Ring gleamed on her finger.❞

After she woke, she was hard to convince to accept the help of the elven healers, and was slow to accept the company of the members of the Fellowship. She had taken off all her rings and put them away in a pouch. It was Pippin she spoke to first, as the hobbit had been quite adamant on reaching her as he was too worried, as he claimed. Êlinsaer was quick to heal from her injuries, but the sullen silence and distance still prevailed around her, and she found herself wondering about the Fellowship and her role in it. 

 If it was a risk for her to be there, she’d much rather leave it while there was still a chance and go back to destroy the Shadow’s root, and as much she expressed to Aragorn and Boromir one late afternoon. Both took a time to reply, Boromir especially as he had felt the gnawing at his innermost feelings concerning the Ring. At the end of their discussion, they agreed that she should come with them, as Frodo could still use as many familiar faces for support as he could. She did not confide in them about her dreams, nor did she reveal too much about the temptation of the Ring. 

(Movie difference: Êlinsaer would stay behind in Lothlórien, where she’d speak with Lady Galadriel, while still nursing herself to health. Her horse would come and find her in the days following, and then Êlinsaer would have set out to Rivendell to speak with Lord Elrond, holding a great role in advocating for the elves to send their forces to Helm’s Deep. She’d arrive at Helm’s Deep with the elven troops.)

════════════════════════════

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[inkedmoth]

Finally after several months worth of sporadic work, Rhosynel is completed!!

It's taken three attempts to draw her accurately, but I'm SO happy with how she's turned out. All her outfits, the details, the lil Ilmara!! All of it's come together surprisingly easily after I got the majority of her art done!

The last two sheets are for the AUs I've come up with so far, who knows if I'll think of any more. I mean I probably will, my brain is far too easy to distract with a "what if" situation 😅

BUT FOR NOW! SHE IS DONE!

Curious about anything? Send me an ask or ask here!!

Copying all her written information below the cut so you don't have to strain your eyes to read these!

On Swift Wings (OG Story)

Name: Rhosynel

Age: 35

Height: 5'10"

Gender: Female

Race: Human

Occupation/s: Messenger - Ex-Ranger of Ithilien

Birthplace: Edoras, Rohan

Current Home: Minas Tirith, Gondor

Languages: Westron, Rohirric, Sindarin (poor)

Personality: With the tendency to act first and think second, Rhosynel is considered to be impulsive and reckless, and while this isn't far from the truth, it’s not the full story. Highly protective of her loved ones and those she cares about, Rhosynel doesn't hesitate to put herself in harm’s way to ensure their safety, this has earned her numerous scars over the years, all of which she wears like badges of honour. All except one. Plagued with guilt over her inability to save Rainion, this burden has pushed her further and further in a bid to make up for past mistakes, tipping her protectiveness into recklessness.

Brief History: Born in Edoras to Rhysnuar and Tholcred, Rhosynel is the second born, with an older sister Rhymenel. Her upbringing was full of freedom to explore, learning to ride, and how to survive in the wilds, a skill that’s served her well in later years. After moving to Minas Tirith at 13, she spent some time assisting her mother in the stables, or her father with the falcons, but once turning 18, she applied for the Rangers and was successful enough to be enlisted.

For the next six years she worked alongside other Rangers of Ithilien under the command of Captain Faramir, but after her romantic partner Rainion was killed by a Nazgul and Rhosynel was badly injured in the same attack, she retired from their services. On Captain Faramir’s advice, she was recruited by the Messengers to run missives across the length and breadth of Middle Earth, a role she’s remained within for ten years, up until tasked to deliver a fateful message to Bree, and a Ranger known as Strider…

Scars:

Warg arm bite - Earned during her time in the Rangers, Rhosynel put herself between a charging Warg and Captain Faramir.

Self-defence arm - General scarring from various fights.

Back scar - Nazgul fight & Rainion's death, this one pains her the most, both physically and mentally. She still blames herself for his death.

Calf cut - Sword to the leg from brigians on route to Dale with her mentor, Malion was brought down and Rhosynel refused to flee.

Collarbone - When attempting to deliver a missive to the Elven King of Mirkwood from King Bard of Dale, Rhosynel was used as bait by patrolling elves, and a nasty fight ensued. She saved an elf at the cost of her collarbone being broken, but she thinks it was worth it as she was repayed with Ilmara.

Brow scar - Nazgul backhand at Weathertop protecting Hobbits.

Hip cut (top) - Arrow graze at Amon Hen protecting Boromir.

Hip cut (bottom) - Door latch cut at Edoras protecting Éowyn.

Upper arm cresent - Uruk-Hai blade during the battle at the Hornburg.

Thigh arrow - Orc ambush on route to Morannon.

Shoulder arrow - Battle of Morannon.

Ilmara Information

Age: 5

Wingspan: 4'3"

Gender: Female

Race: Limroval Hawk*

Occupation: Messenger Bird

Birthplace: Mirkwood

Keeper: Rhosynel

About: Ilmara is a breed of hawk from Mirkwood known as Limroval’s, these hawks are rumoured to either be descendants of the Great Eagles or a gift from Manwë. They’ve been bred over centuries to be highly intelligent hunters, able to navigate the twisted tangles of Mirkwood in battle and for transporting messages between settlements. They have no speech capability, but are able to understand instructions and are especially skilled at locating individuals. Ilmara is specifically a Limroval of the Goshawk variety, but other species have been bred for various tasks.

Rhosynel saved a Limroval Keeper’s life and was rewarded with Ilmara (albeit after a lot of convincing and coaxing), Rhosynel adores her and would do anything to protect Ilmara.

Notes: Ilmara is present in all AU's one way or another.

*Limrovals are a self-made lore and not canon compliant.

Wings of Fate (Falconer AU)

Story Variation: Exploring the idea of Rhosynel never becoming a Ranger, this AU has several marked differences. Firstly, Rainion her ex-partner, and best friend, survives the nazgul attack but is injured badly enough that he has to retire. Secondly, Rhosynel never becomes a messenger, resulting in her never owning Gwaedal her horse or Ilmara the messenger hawk. And thirdly, Rhosynel's family was killed by a ballista strike during the siege of Minas Tirith, leaving Rhosynel and Rainion being forced to steal and pickpocket to survive.

However all three of these changes still lead her to encountering Boromir almost a year after the War of the Ring (How he survived Amon Hen is anyone's guess!), and being offered her father's old job of the Citadel's Royal Falconer.

Scars:

Arm Scars - Crushed by rubble during the siege of Minas Tirith.

Throat Nick - Stab happy guard attempting to arrest her after pickpocketing Captain Boromir.

Thigh Cut - Orc sword when protecting [REDACTED]

Note: This is the only AU (so far) where Rhosynel lacks her back scar, and also means that Rainion lives.

Broken Wings (Ranger AU)

Story Variation: Exploring the idea of Rhosynel never leaving the Rangers after Rainion's death, this AU is somewhat darker than her original story, as the grief that plagues her after Rainion's death is slowly tearing her apart. However after the successful holding of Osgiliath, she picks up on Captain Faramir's worries, and after discussing his fears she's (gently) bullied into accompanying Boromir during his search for Imladris. Not that she knows what that is.

This AU is primarily focused on their travels from Minas Tirith, to dealing with the political upheaval within Edoras, then on west past the Misty Mountains and the ordeals that come with searching for a settlement of elves hidden both by a valley and potentially magic. It does, however, have the unexpected side effect of Rhosynel becoming closer to Captain Boromir…

Scars:

Warg arm bite - Earned during her time in the Rangers, Rhosynel put herself between a charging Warg and Captain Faramir.

Self-defence arm - General scarring from various fights.

Back scar - Nazgul fight & Rainion's death, this one pains her the most, both physically and mentally. She still blames herself for his death.

Cheek Scratches - A one armed orc clawed at her face and narrowly missed her eyes.

Throat Cut - From a Dunlending who was loyal to Gríma.

Curious about anything? Send me an ask or ask here!!

[nothinghereisworking]

‘Orcs Are People' Fic Collection

Of Melkor and the Creation of Orcs

Rated: G Category: Gen Characters: Iluvatar, Melkor Wordcount: 650

To Melkor among the Ainur had been given the greatest gifts of power and knowledge, and he had a share in all the gifts of his brethren. He had gone often alone into the void places seeking the Imperishable Flame; for desire grew hot within him to bring into Being things of his own, and it seemed to him that Ilúvatar took no thought for the Void, and he was impatient of its emptiness…

…for Aulë was most like [Melkor] in thought and in powers; The Silmarillion - JRR Tolkien

Stimp Stamp Mud Shluck

Rated: G Category: Gen Characters: Original Orc Characters Wordcount: 913

In a valley among the foothills of the mountains, below the springs of Thalos, [Finrod] saw lights in the evening, and far off he heard the sound of song. … At first he feared that a raid of Orcs had passed the leaguer of the North,… for the singers used a tongue that he had not heard before, neither that of Dwarves nor of Orcs.

The Silmarillion - JRR Tolkien

Inspired by @papayanna ‘s post here - Orcs sang!

No Dreams In Darkness

Rated: T (Some gruesome content) Category: Gen Characters: Original Orc Character Wordcount:  2,354

An Orc of Morgoth - just one of the many masses that were bred for war and slaughter.  But what happens when an idea of self beyond that of slave begins to form?

_____________________________________________________________

‘Orcs are People’ Other People’s Fics

A Thoughtful Orc by MirienSilowende @miriensilowende

Rated: G Category: Gen Characters:  Original Orc Character(s) Wordcount:   545

Lugrub was one of the few Orcs who survived the Battle outside Morannon when the Evil Eye of Sauron fell in TA 3019. He fled the battle, planning to strike out on his own.

The Sea of Nurnen is the only inland sea in Mordor, and it was fertile enough to produce crops. Sauron kept slaves in the fields there. Later Aragorn would give the land to the inhabitants as their own when he freed the slaves.

This was a short written for the April Tolkien Challenge and the prompt was Orc.

Death of an Orc by Himring @hhimring

Rated: T Category: Gen Characters: Maglor, Original Orc Character(s) Wordcount:  1,233

Sometime in the Fourth Age, Maglor, wandering along the shore, comes across a dying orc. This leads him to question some of his beliefs and reconsider earlier experiences.

And Now For Something Completely Different... by Grundy @grundyscribbling

Rated: Adult Characters: Original Orc Character(s), Elladan, Elrohir Wordcount: 6,283

The world changed when Sauron fell. Orcs have to adapt to survive, and the elves may have to try new things too.

[autistook]

If you could spare one LotR character from their canonical death, who would it be, and why? How would you have them contribute to the rest of the story if they survived?

I would love to answer Boromir, but I feel like his death is important for the whole story. It really shows how cruel the world is and how powerful the Ring is.

If we ignore the Ring impacting him, Boromir would have defended Minas Tirith wonderfully and probably have died there instead of Théoden or something along those lines.

I think Théoden is my second choice. His death was very important to the story as well, but I would have loved to see him and the way his ruling would have happened after the Ring was destroyed.

I feel like Théoden would have done a lot in the Battle of the Morannon.

Idk, tough question 😭 Balin's death was in vain as well.