#denethor sucks

[histrionic-dragon]

My inner 12-year-old just transcended this plane.

Incorrect Lord of the Rings Quotes

[the-hobbits-to-isengard]

Faramir: Helpful grammar tip: "farther" is for physical distance, "further" is for metaphorical distance, and "father" is for emotional distance!

[friendship-ditch]

Whumptober Day 21 - Forgotten (Alt.)

Platonic Faramir x Fem!Reader ✼

Summary: Denethor sends Faramir to the stables, telling him he may not return home until told so. Faramir eventually realizes his father forgot him.

Warnings/Notes: Horrible parenting from Denethor, sad Faramir, borderline hypothermia? (I want to put Faramir in my pocket and wrap him in heated blankets and give him cookies)

Word Count: 2178

  “You’re going to go into the stables and work until you learn to behave. You’re not allowed to return until I come get you. Understood?”

  Faramir replayed his fathers words in his head, shivering at the foul tone he was able to conjure even in his mind. It didn’t take much work, almost everything his father said to him nowadays was in that tone.

  Denethor acted like his son had murdered a man in cold blood. He always did. If a flower died in the hallway vases, it was his fault, he should’ve noticed and alerted the staff. If Borormir woke up tired, Faramir must’ve kept him up. If Faramir was sick, he was weak and he should do better.

  All he’d done this time was misplace one scroll, pushing a meeting back ten minutes. The scroll was one of ancient Gondorian history he’d been reading and forgotten his father would need it. By the time he found it and brought it to the meeting Denethor’s hands nearly reached for his throat instead of the paper.

  The meeting was rather quick and uneventful. 

  Faramir tried to sneak away when it was finished but Denethor found him and cornered him before he could get far. That’s where he banished him to the stables and forbade his reentry.

  This wasn’t a problem. Faramir found solace in the stables and the animals housed within its walls, but they were doing renovations so one half was exposed to the chilly air. He was sent there to freeze.

  Faramir entered the stables in simply a tunic and some trousers, unprepared for the cold weather that awaited. The stables weren’t as cold as ice but they certainly weren’t warm.

  He wandered through the rows until he came upon his horse.

  The creature nickered in greeting. It approached the stall door and hung its head over the edge, grunting as Faramir stroked his nose. Aside from Boromir, his horse was probably one of his closest friends, or at least one not capable of expressing judgment towards him.

  “You’re underdressed, captain.”

  Faramir whipped his head around hearing your voice. He looked through the halls of the stable before noticing you standing at the corner. You were wrapped in robes and thick clothing to deter the chill in the air. He had missed the memo completely, though it wasn’t exactly his fault. Still, the longer he stood, the heavier the cold began to seep into his bones.

  “I… was not expecting there to still be renovations.” Faramir clasped his hands behind his back and straightened up. You were a stable hand, not a good friend, he didn’t want to burden your shoulders with the weight of his problems. He also just… didn’t want to admit he was kicked out for some time, half out of fear that if he confirmed it in words, he would never be allowed to return. “Nor was I expecting the chill.”

  “It is an unusually cold season.” You nodded in agreement. You studied the man in front of you for a moment, how his eyes darted anywhere but your face and fingers, now in front of his torso, clasped together and bounced nervously.

  Faramir’s horse whinnied and you both looked over at it.

  “Are you going for a ride?” You asked, leaning into the shovel you’d been lugging around. Your pants were dirty up to the knees, gloves worn and darkened from work. 

  “No, no… I’m just visiting. Getting out of the house for a while.”

  “Ah.”

  Faramir visibly relaxed when you didn’t try to contradict him. His shoulders lowered and he pulled his hands apart. “What are you doing?”

  “Mucking the stalls. Half of the other stablehands are out sick so the work is piling up.” You shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I’ll leave you be, Captain Faramir. I’ve got another 22 stalls.” 

  He watched quietly for a moment as you raised your hand in mock salute and then turned. His mind was rushing in debate. Yes, he could easily just spend the rest of the afternoon in his horse's stall, doodling or something, but he wanted something to make the time go by faster.

  “Do you need assistance?”

  “Is that an offer?” You stopped in your tracks.

  “If you would like it to be.”

  With a silent but relieved sigh, you turned to face him with a grin. You went into the storage room and returned with another shovel and rake inside of a wheelbarrow. 

  Faramir followed you like a lost puppy until you dropped him off at one of the many stalls in need of a decent mucking. You showed him the basics–which he already knew but didn’t bother stopping you–then patted his arm. 

  “Good luck, Stable Boy. I’ll be across from you if you need help.” You flashed him another grin and then left for the stall you were working on. Faramir mirrored your expression, though his was slightly more nervous.

  The work was hard and strenuous, to the point you were both sweating when you finished, but it was oddly rewarding too, as well as the perfect way to pass a few hours.

  You finished long before he did as this was your job and you were a master, so you ended up helping him with the last few stalls. When you finished you each downed a lot of water and then sat down on a nearby hay bale.

  “You do this every day?” Faramir asked incredulously. He wiped the remnant sweat off his forehead and leaned back against the wall. Not even the years of soldier training he had endured as a boy were like this.

  “Sometimes twice.”

  “You lie.”

  “I do not.” You laughed. He narrowed his eyes in disbelief. Your elbow nudged his side, earning a fake groan and drawing a giggle from your lips. “I’m serious!”

  “You must be a wizard. I could not do this every day… you have superhuman strength.”

  The both of you laughed this time.

  You stayed and hung out with Faramir until well in the evening. He gladly helped you with the remaining chores around the stables, cutting your work time in half and making it a fun experience overall.

  Finally around 6:00, you slipped out of your work boots and hung your shovel.

  “Dinner is always ready at 6:00, I should head home.” You said, slipping your jacket back on and buttoning it in preparation for the cold.

  Faramir looked crestfallen at your words and you hesitated. 

  “Would you like to come with me? We’re having a warm stew.” You offered.

  His expression softened a little but he shook his head. “No. Thank you for the offer, but I best be heading home myself.” There was something about his tone that put you off but you knew better than to try and argue with him right now. 

  You smiled and nodded. “Thank you for your help, Faramir.” You’d dropped the Captain title long ago. “You saved me a lot of work.”

  “Thank you for having me. It was a wonderful distrac–opportunity.” Faramir awkwardly held his hand out. You gave it a firm shake and then dipped your head.

  The two of you exchanged goodbyes and you returned to your warm home. Faramir did not. For he no longer had a warm home to return to, at least, not at the moment.

  He wandered the stables for a while, greeting every horse and exploring places he hadn’t touched since childhood. Eventually he grew weary and cold and found an old horse blanket. He sat on a bench in front of his horse's stall and bundled up as best as he could.

  The hope his father would arrive soon was beginning to dwindle as reality set in heavy on his shoulders. Faramir was too terrified to say it out loud but finally the words escaped his lips without meaning, but teary.

  “I’ve been forgotten…”

  By the time you went back to the stables it was around 8:30 and absolutely freezing. In one hand you carried a spare blanket and coat, and in the other was a bowl of stew, steam clinging to the chilly night air.

  You entered the stable and looked around. Silently, you prayed that Faramir had gone home, but your heart told you differently. 

  And your heart sank when you finally found him, curled up into a freezing little ball in the corner of his horse's stall, just barely rocking back and forth.

  His head jolted up at the sound of your footsteps, eyes wide with hope and skin pale with cold. When he realized the visitor was not his father, he shrunk. And when he realized it was you, he shrunk even further.

  “I did not wish for you to see me this way.” Faramir’s lips were nearly frozen, voice hitching with the occasional shiver. He eyed you warily. 

  “I knew you were lying.” You unfolded the jacket and held it out for him.

  Faramir stared at you like you were an angel, then as if you were playing a trick. There was a hint of embarrassment and guilt that crossed his eyes as well. You shouldn’t have to do this for him… Then the cold won over and he took the jacket, burrowing himself into its warmth.

  You wrapped the blanket around him when he settled back down. “I brought you some food.” You kneeled down in front of him and held the bowl out. It wasn’t burning hot anymore but it was still rather warm.

  If his eyes weren’t frozen, Faramir probably would have burst into tears. He stared at the food with an expression of uncertainty like he hadn’t eaten in ages. But in the end he took the bowl and began wolfing it down without complaint. The warm stew immediately sank into his stomach with a warmth he’d forgotten.

  You settled beside him on the ground and waited until he finished most of the stew. Then you spoke.

  “Why are you really here?” You asked softly.

  Faramir took one last spoonful of the soup and then set the bowl aside. His shoulders heaved with a heavy sigh and his chin dropped to his chest.

  “My father… banished me from home. It was only supposed to be for a few hours, a punishment of sorts for a foolish mistake.” His voice grew softer, more pain-filled. “I think he forgot about me.”

  If your heart wasn’t already in pieces, now it had shattered.

  “I knew he was awful… but I didn’t expect this.” For a split second you seriously wondered if he could’ve frozen to death out here. Maybe not to death… but he’d certainly come away with some type of hypothermia or frostbite.

  Faramir flinched in surprise as you grabbed his arm, but then relaxed. Your touch was warm. You were warm. He couldn’t help but press into your side in an attempt to soak up any warmth he could.

  You adjusted a little so he could lean better into you, then you sighed heavily. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Still… What kind of father leaves their son to freeze? What kind of father forgets him?”

  Hurt flashed over Faramir’s face and he lowered his gaze. “Mine… I suppose.”

  You gave him a sad sort of smile and sighed once more. 

  The two of you sat in a gentle silence for a while. Faramir tried desperately to warm up while you riddled your mind for any solution. Then you found one.

  “Your father… he only said you could not return home, right? Not that you couldn’t leave the stables?”

  Faramir thought back. No, his father hadn’t exactly restricted him to the stables… you were right. He nodded in agreement.

  “Come home with me.” You spoke as though you were a fool for not thinking of this beforehand. “You can rest on our couch by the fire. We have plenty of blankets, and more stew if you’d like. And it’s warm.”

  “I couldn’t possibly impose.” Faramir weakly protested though deep down the idea sounded heavenly. All he wanted was something slightly more comfortable than the cold hay. Even the floor of your house sounded nice, as long as it was warm.

  “Nonsense.” You stood up and tugged his arm. Faramir had no time to argue as he was pulled to his feet, legs aching and frozen. You readjusted the blanket over his shoulders. “You’ll freeze to death out here. Please, Faramir, come with me.”

  Your puppy eyes and promises of comfort began to win him over. Faramir bit his lip and lowered his gaze. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  He hesitated one last time, then felt the last of the fight draining from his body as a weary smile spread across his face. “...okay.”

  You took his arm, held it tight, then slowly helped him out of the stall. It took a few moments for his legs to warm up and work properly again. Once they did, you quietly took him out of the stables and brought him home, a place where he’d be warm, comfortable, and remembered.

[emyn-arnens]

Everyone in Gondor, especially Minas Tirith: 😍✨🥰Faramir🥰✨😍

Denethor: they should invent a Faramir that doesn’t SUCK

At least Faramir has Eowyn 😩 (although she friendzones him immediately. RIP)

[anghraine]

I love how, in the book, Denethor, Boromir, and Faramir all have reservations about Aragorn initially, but the specific ways they have them also reflect their own personalities and ways of thinking.

Denethor's position: the heirs of Isildur do not have a claim to the crown under Gondorian legal precedent, which I represent as Steward of the House of Anárion. They also kind of suck in general and have nothing to offer Gondor to back up their sketchy birthright.

Boromir's position: okay, so you're heir of Isildur, and therefore of Elendil, I get it, that's cool and all, but do you have Elendil's muscles? Because what we need are great warriors who will help my people fight the war for our existence.

Faramir's position: yes, it would be nice to have a king again, if said king was noble and not a dumbass like so many of the previous kings were. But we're not going to hand the kingdom over to any rando who strolls in with a sword. We'll need actual proof he should be king.

[minaturefics]

Once More (With Feeling)

Prompt: Faramir invites an old friend back to Minas Tirith

A/N: It's a little different, just slightly, to how I usually write. It's a rollercoaster, and it's long, so get yourself a hot beverage and prepare yourself for 6k words worth of brainrot.

Faramir x Reader

Fem reader

No content warnings

6.2k words

---

You paced the lavish sitting room, throwing irritated looks at all the doors. Faramir was a busy man, you knew, but he had always been punctual. With a groan you sank into the cushioned bench and stared out of the tall, pointed windows.

Minas Tirith had changed since you were last in the city as a girl. Gone was the heavy atmosphere, the distant encroaching darkness on the horizon, The Dead Tree, its gnarled branches cold and bare, the darkened halls, haunted by Denethor’s bitterness.

The city had thrived under the new king’s rule and the new steward’s management. The white stone glowed in the sunlight, vines grew across walls and flowers blossomed in window boxes, there was chatter in the streets and laughter in the halls.

It was no mystery then, why Faramir wrote to invite you back into the city, now renewed and reborn. No, the mystery was why he wrote to you at all. 

You had only known him for a year, more than ten years ago. Just two young teenagers, bickering with each other over readings while the tutor tried to calm the both of you. He had been a scrawny thing then, growing taller, but not broader. Not quite a man, like his brother was growing into, not quite a boy, like the other children in the Citadel. His hair too, had been at an awkward length, shaggy around his ears, falling about his forehead and into his grey eyes.

But while Boromir might have been the bolder of the two back then, when it came to academics, Faramir was just as eager. He had been relentless in his pursuit of knowledge, hounding the tutors and dogging the librarians, and, more than once, your spirited debates with him had drawn a small crowd of curious onlookers in the Citadel. There was even a time where you had to race him to the library to get your hands on some coveted book before he did.

But perhaps, the most infuriating thing about him was his kindness. 

How he would smile softly after an intellectual argument, as though consoling you, if you had lost, or congratulating you, if you had won. How he would share his notes with you if you had missed lessons, or gift you with chocolate in return for a peek at your own writings. How he would walk you back to your rooms after classes, showing you shortcuts and asking about your day. 

How he had offered you his handkerchief and wiped your tears away the night before you left the city with your uncle. 

Your heart clenched and you blinked yourself back into the sitting room. 

There were voices in the corridor now, and hurried footsteps. You stood and straightened yourself, smoothing the creases in your dress and schooling your features into something neutral. 

The door swung open and a man walked in.

He was tall and broad with the build of an archer, with steady legs and strong arms. His light brown hair fell in gentle waves to his shoulder, and his beard was short and well-trimmed. You took in his sharp jaw, his pink lips, his face, handsome, noble, familiar somehow.

His grey eyes sparkled in the late afternoon light and a jolt shot through you. 

Faramir. 

You stared at him and his barely-there smile grew.

“You’re late,” you blurted. 

His eyes widened in shock before he shook his head and chuckled. “And I was told you arrived early.” His voice was low and rich, inviting and warm.

Faramir. This man was Faramir. Solid, handsome, real. 

“You have my apologies,” he continued. “There was a meeting that ran over. I did not intend for you to wait so long for me.”

“It’s no matter, I was just admiring the city. A lot has changed.” You turned away from him, scolding your racing heart and chastising your rapidly flushing cheeks. You sucked in a breath and straightened your spine. It was just Faramir. 

He came to join you by the window and you kept your eyes fixed on the plains beyond the buildings. “Your letter surprised me,” you said. “I hardly thought I ever crossed your mind.”

A laugh escaped from him, short and sharp. “You’re still the same.”

Your head snapped towards him and you narrowed your eyes. His easy, unfazed demeanour rankled something in you. “It is quite a slight, being told one hasn’t changed in so many years.”

Did he still see you as that awkward, graceless girl? Someone who had not filled out her dresses yet, who made ill-timed comments in conversations, who battled with her skin, her hair, her sharpening mind and her rapidly fading childhood.

He blinked at you, jaw agape. “I did not mean… I simply meant…” He laughed again and gave you a rueful smile. “Forgive me. What I should have said, I suppose, is that I am glad to see you again.”

That strange, foolish feeling was rising in you, like you were fourteen again and you had said the wrong thing at the dinner table. You fought the urge to cross your arms and you nodded slowly. “I am glad to… to be back. Thank you for your generous invitation.”

The words felt strange in your mouth. So formal and distant. Polite. You gestured woodenly at the view. “My uncle would have been pleased at how well the country is doing.”

“I am sorry to hear about your uncle.”

“It has been a few years now.” You hazarded a look at him. His eyes had melted into something soft. You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I am sorry about your father and,” your breath hitched, “and Boromir.”

“Yes,” he said, voice low. “It has been quiet in the Steward’s House of late.”

Your chest constricted and you wanted to reach out, to lay a hand on his arm, to say, I too have been left alone by all who loved me.

He cleared his throat and nodded at the door. “Has anyone shown you to your rooms yet? I thought that the one on the second floor, that faces east, would be best. But if you’d prefer your old room, I’m certain we can —”

“No.” You swallowed and flashed him a smile, burying the discomfiting feeling. “I mean… No, thank you. I’m sure what you have prepared will be suitable.”

A bell tower somewhere chimed the hour and he grimaced. “I’m sorry but I have another meeting, the last of the day, in a few minutes. Would you be happy to join me for dinner? It would not be anything formal. We could even dine outside, if the fine weather holds. There is so much I wish to discuss with you.”

It was jarring to hear those words coming from Faramir’s lips. Invitations to dinner were something said between two adults, not adolescents.

But you were no longer fourteen, and Faramir was a man now. A friend.

A stranger. 

“Yes, dinner outside would be lovely,” you said. “I look forward to it.”

He broke out into a wide smile. “I shall send someone to show you to your rooms, and please, if there is anything you should require, just ask.”

“Of course, thank you.”

He reached out and took your hand, large fingers enveloping your own, and gave it a light squeeze. “I shall see you in a few hours.”

He withdrew with a smile and closed the door behind him. 

You stared at your hand for a moment, heat rising to your cheeks, before scowling and scrubbing it against your dress. 

-

The evening breeze swept through the open doors and the candles on the table flickered. The temperature had dropped with the sunset, and in the end Faramir had settled for dining in one of the rooms that opened up to a courtyard. Trees rustled and crickets chirped and music from another part of the Citadel drifted over the walls. The warmth from the lit fire licked at his back and he belatedly wondered if he should have offered you the warmer seat instead. 

Faramir caught his eyes wandering from some vague spot behind you to your face again. You were focused on the last bit of roasted meat on your plate, cutting it into dainty pieces before lifting it to your lips. He let his eyes trail over your hair, braided and pinned, to the softness of your cheek, the angle of your jaw. 

When he had seen you that afternoon he could scarcely believe his eyes. He did not expect you to stay the same, of course, and yet… the sight of you, grown, beautiful and striking, made his pulse jump. 

Where was the girl he had known? Who had picked up her skirts and clambered up walls with him, whose quick wit had both frustrated and delighted him? Was she gone, suppressed by etiquette lessons and laced up gowns, washed away by time and tempered by misfortune?

But then you had opened your mouth and bluntly stated his tardiness and he couldn’t help but laugh. No, your spirit was still unchanged, your fire still undimmed.

You looked up and his eyes skittered away. His palms grew clammy and he exhaled. Valar, he was acting like a silly boy, sneaking looks at you across the table, filling his mouth with food instead of conversation. 

“What is the matter, Faramir?” 

“Nothing.” He smiled. 

You had an inquisitive look on your face, half-curious, half-challenging. The same sort of expression you used to wear before launching into an argument. “You were looking at me.”

Heat started to creep up his neck and he dropped his eyes back to his nearly empty plate. “I was just thinking.”

He heard your intake of breath and he prepared himself for an onslaught of words, ready for the cajoling comments and prodding persuasions that you always used to coax him to speak.

Instead, he heard the clatter of cutlery and he looked up to find you arranging your fork and knife at the side of your plate. You glanced towards the open door and, something in that small action, so intensely familiar, made the words tumble from his lips. 

“Would you like to go on a walk?”

“I…” Your astonished look morphed into one of suspicion. “How did you know?”

“You used to walk after meals, if I remember correctly.”

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. Boromir had once pulled him aside, warning him that if he did not get his looks and glances under control, their father might start getting ideas for future marriage matches. He had wondered if your uncle had realised this and that was why he had whisked you off to the family estate back in North Lebennin when autumn arrived once more.

In truth, Faramir never found out the reason; he was never told, and he never asked. 

He grinned and stood. A walk would be good. Dinner had been pleasant, with the usual, banal questions asked and answered. Proper and polite. A far cry from shared smirks and ceaseless chatter you once shared with him. Perhaps some movement would ease the atmosphere. “Shall we walk? Is there any place you would like to see first?”

You paused for a moment, biting your lower lip, before a sly smile crept onto your face. “The old lookout tower. The one that overlooked the Houses of Healing.”

“I do hope you won’t chase me up it. I do not think the excitement would agree with the food we just ate.”

“I won’t.” You looked out at the courtyard then back at him, eyes now dancing with mirth. “Are you becoming old and decrepit?”

“More like sensible and wise.” He walked over to the hooks by the door and reached for the two cloaks that hung there. “Here, you are welcome to borrow one of mine. It is cold out.”

He offered you the thicker one and watched as you ran your fingers over the soft wool before throwing it around your shoulders. It fell past your feet, pooling on the floor, and the sight of you swathed in his cloak stirred something in him. 

He led you out into the courtyard and then onto the open ramparts. Hundreds of little lights flickered in the city below. It was quiet, save for the distant bustle of the kitchens and the rustle of the guards shifting on their feet. The wind carried your perfume to him and he inhaled the sweet scent of lilies.

“I have always wondered,” he said, “why you left Minas Tirith.”

“My uncle was worried about me growing up in court. I think he wanted to avoid any pressure that might have befallen me. Marriage offers and gossip and the kind.” You looked away, towards the plains. “I was sorry to leave, but I am glad that I had gone.”

His heart dropped. Had he been selfish? Writing to you and asking you to visit the city when you were clearly happy out in the country? Had you not thought of him once in all the years? He swallowed. “Does it bring you pain to be here?”

“No, not at all.” You shook your head and laughed, and his shoulders relaxed. “I simply meant that I think he made the right decision. It might have been a little boring, but I grew up unrestrained.”

“I do hope you will enjoy the excitement of the city.”

“The change of scenery is refreshing. And I will confess that a break from my responsibilities back home is welcome.” 

He noticed then, the shadows under your eyes, the weary tinge in your smiles. 

Yes, the both of you were no longer children.

The old, crumbling tower neared and your steps quickened. You paused at the base of the steps, throwing a mischievous look over your shoulder, before vanishing up the stairs. He chuckled and hurried after you, taking the steps two at a time. “You said you would not race me!”

“I said I would not chase you up it!”

He caught sight of the edge of his cloak and the flash of deep purple silk underneath it as he rounded the corner. “So you’ll have me chase you instead?”

Your laugh echoed in the narrow stairwell. “I have no doubt that you’ll catch up. You were always the faster one.” 

“And you always the cheater.”

“It is called levelling the playing field.”

The gap between you and him rapidly narrowed, and as the both of you emerged at the top, his hand closed around your shoulder before he could stop himself. You turned, flushed and giggling, eyes alight. Laughter rose in his chest and he chuckled, breathless and buoyant. “You’ll get me into trouble. Like before.”

“Faramir, you are the steward. There is no one to get in trouble with.” You grinned at him before striding towards the merlons. “In any case, I have no plans to lob mushy apples from here so you need not worry about disgruntled guards and unfortunate citizens.”

“I always have to worry about disgruntled guards and unfortunate citizens. It is no easy feat, running a city like Minas Tirith.”

“I can imagine.” Your voice was soft, sympathetic.

He strolled towards you, and you glanced behind at him, shadows from the flickering torches dancing across your face. Your eyes were intense, searching. Valar, he could never stand to hold your gaze when it was like this. It was as though you saw through him. 

“Faramir, why did you ask me here?” 

He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling boyish and clumsy. “I was… clearing some of the rooms in the Steward’s House when I chanced upon our old classroom. I found one of your old essays.”

“A beastly thing, I’m sure.”

He slowed to a stop beside you, close enough that your cloak fluttered against his legs when the wind blew. “It was rather good, actually. I’m certain you would have made a valuable advisor if you had stayed in court.” 

“Well,” you scoffed. “I do not think the court missed us much when my uncle and I left.”

“Boromir and I did.”

 “You did not write.”

“I was not certain I was allowed to. Father refused to  tell me anything, and then there were other matters. Training, classes, scouting missions.”

He felt a pang in his chest. In truth, he had thought of you over the years, but there were always things to attend to. His father’s growing resentment, his strange prophetic dreams, city matters and trade routes. 

The War. 

It had been a sleepless night when he had wandered the empty halls, opening old doors and peering into neglected rooms, when he stumbled upon the old classroom. It was still and dusty, books stacked by the window and sheets of paper on one of the tables, abandoned as though someone intended to come back, but never did.

He had been hit with an intense loneliness, a hollowness, an aching. 

When he had seen your familiar scrawl on the sheets of paper, along with an unflattering sketch of the tutor, the memory of your playful smile flashed into his mind. And then there was a comforting warmth in his chest, and then for the first time in weeks, he had laughed. 

“Faramir,” you said, and he shook himself out of his thoughts. “I am sorry I did not write either.”

“It is no matter.” A smile tugged at his lips. “We are here now.”

-

“Faramir, if you wobble the ladder I will drop these books on your head.” You gripped the polished wood with one hand and clutched a stack of books to your chest with the other.

“If memory serves, you were the one who had a habit of rattling stools and ladders.”

You glared down at him, scoffing at the grin on his face. He was leaning against the shelf with his arms across his chest, relaxed and languid. That night on the tower had shattered the stiffness between the both of you, and the last week and a half had been filled with nostalgic adventures. 

Between his duties, Faramir had shown you the changes in the Citadel, walked with you to the markets and shops, even challenged you to a slingshot contest which he won. There had been dinners on balconies, and picnic lunches in gardens, and midnight snacks in derelict towers.

He had told you about his experience in the war. His heartbreak at finding Boromir’s cloven horn, the near-fatal Osgiliath charge, recovering in the Houses of Healing. And you told him how you had to manage the family estate, the scramble to build temporary houses for the refugees, how many of them chose to settle and work the land instead of returning to the ruins of their villages.

He had smiled at you in that soft way you knew, had given you the unbroken strip of apple skin he peeled, had discussed new theories and topics with you by the light of the fire.

“Are you coming down?” Faramir smirked at you. “Or are you going to add to that dangerously heavy pile in your hands?”

You shook your head and started down the ladder, feeling the rungs with your feet. 

The library was empty, the librarian having gone home for the day. Light rain pattered on the windows and a fire crackled somewhere in the room. The library, of all places, had remained the most unchanged. There was something comforting in that, in the musky smells of books and paper, of the plush chairs and rickety stools. 

As you neared the bottom, your foot slipped, misjudging the distance to the floor, and you stumbled. Instead of hard stone, you were met with a firm chest at your back and a hand on your waist.

Had Faramir always been this warm and big?

“Are you alright?”

You felt the rumble of his chest, his breath by your ear. 

His hand, large, heavy, burned through the thin silk of your dress.

“Yes, thank you.” You stepped out of his touch and fumbled with the books in your arms, rearranging them into a neat stack. Valar, what has gotten into you? It was just Faramir. You shoved the books into his arms and turned away. “Next time you can go up on the ladder.”

“I think I would flatten you if I fell.”

“I’ll be sure to step out of the way.” You forced a laugh and wandered down the aisle. You heard him follow after you, his steps slow and steady. 

How could such a simple thing affect you so? It was not as though you were so wholly inexperienced; there had been one or two sweethearts in the past, though most of them were short lived.

 Had there been anyone for Faramir? Some pretty thing with a perfect education who could recite poetry and embroider and dance?

Your stomach churned and the twisting feeling in your heart squeezed the traitorous words up your throat. “You know, I am surprised you have not found a partner yet. I would think that the offers must be pouring in.”

“Why would you think such a thing?” He was closer now, just behind you, and you could hear the dismay in his voice. 

“The maids, they love to gossip.” You laughed, but it sounded hollow to your ears. “I spoke to a couple of them when I went down to the kitchens two nights ago.”

He fell in step with you and you glanced at him. There was a small smile on his lips but his eyes looked clouded. “There have been offers, yes, but I have declined them all.”

“Unable to find a suitable one?” You arched an eyebrow at him.

“It is not a question of suitability. There is no need for me to choose a partner for their station or standing. Such things never mattered to me, even more so since my family’s passing. I would much rather have someone’s genuine love and affection.”

Of course he would say something of that sort. You smiled to yourself, heart warming at his words. They would be lucky, whoever he loved. 

The rain fell harder against the glass and thunder rumbled. You glanced at the window, a memory coalescing in your mind. “Is the little alcove still here? The one behind the curtain?

Faramir grinned and inclined his head towards the back of the library. “I believe so, though it has been some years since I have sat in it.”

He led you to the back of the library where a narrow velvet curtain hung in the corner. He drew the fabric back to reveal a cosy space with a wooden bench built into the wall by the window. The lantern that hung from the low ceiling was dusty and unlit.

You padded over to the bench, bending and inspecting the corners. “It is still here,” you breathed, tracing the two sets of initials carved into the wood. “I cannot believe it.”

He leaned over you, so close that you could inhale his scent. Sandalwood and something, paper perhaps, or mild soap. “So it is.”

You looked up and Faramir’s face was mere centimetres away. Were there always so many yellow flecks in his grey eyes? And his lips… did they always look so soft and inviting? 

All you would have to do would be tilt your head, and your lips would connect…

You stepped back and waved stiffly at the lantern. “Shall we light this? We could read here. If you’d like.”

He glanced at the narrow bench. There would be no doubt that the both of you would have to be pressed up in some way to fit. 

“If you would like. I think there are might be some oil on the librarian’s desk, and a lit candle, I could —”

“I’ll go.” 

You turned around and marched away, pressing your hands to your hot cheeks when you were safely hidden by the shelves. You took a breath. It was just Faramir. You would find the oil and the candles and sit and read with him, and think nothing of lips or kissing or how solid he had felt behind you.

-

Faramir was in a hell of his own making. Truly, it had been all his fault. For the first time, he cursed his gentle nature. If he had chosen not to speak and steered you away from the instrument shop…

How could he have forgotten that he was not the only friend you had made in your youth?

Elphir, the boy, no, the man who made lutes and drums had been one of them as well. And how could Faramir have denied you when you had lit up at the sight of the old shop and nearly tripped over your feet rushing to the door? And when you had asked if Elphir could come to the Citadel in the evenings to teach you how to play, he could not find it in himself to refuse you, even as discomfort settled deep in his stomach.

In some fantastical lapse of judgement, or perhaps in some foolish notion to watch over you, he had offered the sheltered courtyard below his sitting room to you and Elphir, and now music drifted into the room. Teasing, taunting, tormenting in the way it would mingle with your laughs. 

He strode over to the window and slammed it shut.

For five evenings now, you had rushed off after dinner to Elphir, returning to your rooms after your lesson without seeing him. The pot of tea you usually shared with him in the evenings sat unfinished and cold on the table each night. Faramir sagged against the stone pillar and stared up at the vaulted ceiling. If Boromir was alive, he would call Faramir a fool and insist that he go over and chase the man away. But what right did he have? 

He was not your lover or your partner, and even if he was, it would be unreasonable to get upset over you spending time with another, especially for something as innocent as music lessons. Faramir was your friend and… 

He was your friend. 

His breath hitched as the thought rippled through his body. Somewhere in the past three weeks he had forgotten that. 

When he had written to you, inviting you to the city, he had only planned to reconnect with an old friend. Someone who got along with him, who understood what his family had been like, who was not a soldier or a subordinate. 

He did not intend to be run away with his feelings.

He had grown used to you in the Steward’s House. Your shawl was draped over a chair, the table was always laid for two, you wished him goodnight in the evening before you retired. He had even considered clearing the set of rooms next to his own for you so that you did not have to walk through two corridors just to visit him.

But alas, you were not his.

“Faramir!” You burst into the room with a wide smile on your face and he startled. You slowed your steps, tilting your head and lowered the arm that held your lute aloft. “Is something the matter?”

He shook his head and tried to smile. “I was just deep in thought. How was your lesson?”

“There is something I want to show you.” You wandered over to the cushioned seats by the fire. “Will you sit?”

He nodded and sat in the lone arm chair instead of sharing the bench with you. Your brows creased for a moment before you shook your head and positioned your hands on the lute. 

A haunting melody began to fill the room. It was simple, no more than five or six notes that changed subtly every few bars. It tugged at something in his mind, a dream perhaps, or a memory. 

A woman humming, a gentle hand on his cheek, the comforting scent of beeswax.

“My mother,” he whispered, frozen where he sat. “She used to sing this to Boromir and me. To get us to sleep.”

Your playing petered out and you looked up at him. “You used to hum it when we were younger, when you thought no one could hear.” You laid your lute to the side. “Elphir taught me the basics of playing. I taught myself the song. In the night, after my classes.”

He felt the corners of his eyes start to burn and he glanced away. How could he not love you now? 

“I am sorry, if I shouldn’t have —”

“Please do not apologise. I…” He shook his head and dabbed at his eyes. “ She would be happy to hear these rooms filled with her music once more.”

You came over to him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, your thumb soothing the tension in his muscles with its idle strokes. His eyes focused and unfocused on the decorative ribbons on the bodice of your dress. The crackle of the fire and the rhythmic sound of breathing filled the space between your bodies. He felt your hand drift towards the side of his neck, your thumb just grazing the edge of his jaw, and he slowly, slowly looked up at you.

Your eyes were soft and half-lidded, your lips slightly parted.

He did not dare move, did not dare breathe.

“Faramir.” He shivered at the sigh in your voice. “I—”

A knock sounded on the door and you jerked away from him. Cold air replaced where your heated hand had been. 

A muffled voice came through the door. “I have your tea, sir.”

“The tea,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “Would you like to…”

“It has been a long day,” you said, snatching up your lute and striding to the door. “I… Goodnight.”

You flung the door open and he heard the startled squeak of the maid followed by the rapid patter of your footsteps. 

-

You slammed your room door shut behind you and leaned against it. Your breaths came short and quick, chest heaving and skin searing. 

 What had you almost done? What words were going to spill from your traitorous lips? 

It was just Faramir. 

Just… a friend.

You shook your head and slumped to the floor. There was nothing decidedly friendly about what had just passed between the both of you. And… and what? What could possibly happen between you and him? You had an estate waiting for you in Lebennin, there were people who needed your instruction and leadership. And Faramir was the Steward of Gondor; the people needed him as well.

Your trip to Minas Tirith was supposed to be nothing more than a visit to an old friend. You had forgotten yourself. For so many years you had run the estate on your own, had resigned yourself to quiet meals in the day and lonely nights in the study. There was no time, no place, to entertain such ridiculous notions like love.

And yet…

You stared at your hands, hands that had held him for just a moment, had felt the coarseness of his beard and the beat of his heart. 

Want burned in you. 

Want for his lips, his hands. For his gentle smile, for his joyous laughter. For a permanent seat at the table, for space on his shelves for your books.

-

Faramir stared at the tea tray on the table. Two cups, two saucers. A full pot of tea. 

He stroked the side of his jaw, his own fingers feeling indelicate compared to your touch. There was no mistaking the look in your eyes, desire mixed with tenderness. Perhaps it was not so ridiculous to think that you might return at least a fraction of what he felt for you. 

His stomach swooped and a strangled laugh burst from him. 

But was it just a flash of fancy, borne from the moment? A reckless action in the dim of the night?

Were you going to slip from him, retreat back into your shell of polite distance? He would not be able to bear it, to hear your stilted words, to have you shrink away from his casual touches. To have you vanish again, taking your laughter and your light away with you.

Should he go to you? Would that be impertinent? But he had lost you once before with his inaction, and only a fool would not learn from their mistakes.

-

You tugged the borrowed cloak on your shoulders closer around you. It smelled like Faramir, like sandalwood and that evasive something, ink perhaps. Mist had descended on the Citadel and drifted across the parapets like sheer curtains. Your steps were soft on the stone and you wandered from torch to torch, veering closer for warmth, roaming further for the cover of shadow. The guards paid you little attention, and the stars overhead twinkled unbothered. 

Twice you had tried to walk to Faramir’s room, twice you had turned on your heel and fled back to your rooms. In the end, your room had become stifling and you rushed out into the open air. 

Your blood had cooled and, now in the starkness of the open night, you felt foolish. 

You paused by the old watchtower, leaning on the cold stone and staring down at the Houses of Healing. You would apologise when you saw him next, and then perhaps it was time to return to the family estate…

Muffled footsteps approached and you turned. 

Faramir emerged from the mist, still in his day clothes, his hair mussed and his eyes tired. 

“Faramir,” you whispered, arms falling to your sides. You opened your mouth to speak, but your rehearsed speech refused to leave your lips.

He came to a stop in front of you, a disarming smile on his face. “Somehow, I am not surprised to find you here.”

“Were you looking for me?”

He nodded, and amusement coloured his smile. “I suppose, in a way, I have always been looking for you.”

“Is there something you wanted from me?”

His twinkling eyes grew serious. “I wished to speak to you.”

You turned away, suddenly unsure, but his hand reached for yours. His thumb caressed your knuckles and you lifted your eyes to him. “What about?”

“I think you already know.”

You swallowed and tried to speak, but the words stayed lodged in your throat, and your eyes fell to your joined hands. 

“I have never been good at disguising my feelings,” he said, voice soft and low. “I am sure you must be aware…”

Aware? Aware of what? His feelings? That he only viewed you as a friend, and that perhaps you had taken advantage of his kindness, mistaken it for affection and…

His fingers skimmed your chin, gently urging it up. His grey eyes were alight, burning almost, with an open passion so rarely seen in him. You scarcely dared to look away. Your heart pounded in your ears. 

“Perhaps I have always loved you, even before I realised what that word meant. I was too young, too naive.” He cupped your cheek and you leaned into his touch. “But we are older now. And I can say for certain that I… I —”

You surged forward and pressed your lips to his. They were pillowy and soft and carried a trace of bitterness from the tea. He deepened the kiss, pulling you flush against him. You laid a hand on his chest, fingers splaying across his heart. He sighed into your lips, his exhale hot on your skin. You felt him grin and you nudged his nose with yours. 

“I think,” you muttered, “I have wanted to do that for a long time now.”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You are welcome to do it any time you wish.”

“Faramir, why me? And after so many years since we last saw each other.”

“Can such a thing truly be explained?” He hummed to himself. “I suppose the simplest answer I can give is that you bring me joy. And perhaps also, I think we make good partners. We have always made good partners.”

You sobered at his words. “Faramir, we are not children anymore. My estate… I cannot leave it unmanaged. And I have neglected my duties already these past weeks.”

“We will find a way,” he assured. “It is only a full day’s ride from Minas Tirith, is it not?”

“Less, if one has a good horse.”

“Less, I think, if you had the reins.” He chuckled. “We are not children anymore, yes, but that only means that we can truly do as we wish. As we choose.” 

You mulled over his words. “And you would choose to have a busy bride, to have to make trips out to the country with her?”

“I choose to have you.” He stroked your cheek. “And you, my love? What would you choose?”

“I choose, I think,” you said with a smile, “to remain where I have always belonged.”

“In Minas Tirith?”

“With you.”

He grinned and wrapped his arms around you. He laughed into your hair and you tucked your nose into his neck. You inhaled his scent, thinking of the unknown, familiar note in it that always eluded you. Thinking of how it smelled like rain and books, of apple peels and bitter tea.

Thinking of how, perhaps, it smelled like home. 

---

If you made it this far, holy shit thank you for reading.

I characterised Faramir a little bit differently here. I think I have a tendency to conflate kindness with passivity when it comes to him, but I think he can be pretty intense if he wanted to be.

And also, I feel like this entire piece is tinged with the bittersweetness of growing up, but I hope that it veered more sweet than bitter. To you young'uns out there, truly, I promise you, it is not terrible to grow up ❤️

Taglist: @sotwk

[actual-bill-potts]

Hi! If you're still doing the prompts, may I request a Finrod (in beleriand) + green things even among the pits and broken rocks?

Hello! Dear one! Most excellent silm artist! I apologize for being gone so long, feels like I have had several years of bad brain days in a row😭 but thank you so much for prompting me anyway - and what a prompt! I was instantly taken by an image and had to write it down. I hope you enjoy this one<3

TW for descriptions of blood, gore, bones, and general dead bodies.

They brought the bones up first.

Beren’s frame was sharp as daggers, driven into Lúthien’s arms; but he had not listened to her pleas that he eat.

"I will not rest until they can," he said, and for a long moment Lúthien had not understood: who? Rest where?

Then she understood: he meant the dead.

Lúthien was weary beyond belief, cursing the softness of her form and the six-days lost in Nargothrond, and even Huan beside her was sagging in exhaustion. But in truth, she did not want to leave anyone down there in the dark and the filth either.

So they gathered the bones. There were so many! Lúthien knew, of course, that the Eldar had skeletons; but the breadth of them, scattered about the floor, was such that she could not really connect any of it to living breathing creatures. Many of the bones had been split open and the marrow sucked out; others were splintered so badly they had wedged into the stone floor and had to be left. Despite this there were scraps of flesh, still, scattered here and there. It was like no death in the wilderness she had ever seen. These were not merely starving creatures; they had been purposefully cruel.

More than once Lúthien had to stop, and take her too-light load up under the stars, climbing the crumbling steps and breathing very steadily lest she lose all composure. Beren worked like a man possessed, but he was wasted to almost nothing, and so their grim task took long enough that the velvet blackness of the sky had begun to turn grey.

But at last it was done; they had neat rows of bones, away from the chains and the stones, laid out upon the dirt under the sky. At last there was only - only Finrod left, to carry out.

Huan descended with them, this time, head hanging low, and Lúthien clutched his ruff for support as they approached her cousin’s body. The stones crackled beneath her feet.

What was left of Finrod had been barely visible as they labored, between the gloom of the prison and the darkness of the night; but now light was creeping down the stairs, and she could see the gold of his hair and the pale grey of his skin. He was splattered in old black stains, across his mouth and chest and side and legs, and new brown stains. As Lúthien approached she could see the white of bone in his chest and flashing in one arm, and had to close her eyes. Beren beside her let out a low moan.

After a moment, she opened her eyes again, feeling the first rays of the sun warming her back. Then she froze.

Finrod’s hair had been mostly shorn, and what was left was covered in the damp blackness of the pit; but somehow, through a crack in the wall, a patch of aur-hennin had grown. It crowned him in yellow and green, leaves tucked behind his ears, one flower falling forward onto his forehead, as if he had simply fallen asleep after a night’s heavy revelry.

"Beren, look!" said Lúthien, very softly, "the king has got a crown again."

For a moment she felt - outside herself. She was not Lúthien, princess of Doriath; she was the Nandor Elves who had tended to Denethor’s slain body upon the hill of Amon Ereb and, it was said, crowned him in flowers; she was the Eagle who had snatched King Fingolfin’s body from the hand of the Morgoth; she was, for a moment, someone very small, standing in an unfamiliar forest under an unfamiliar sun.

Then the moment passed, as Beren staggered in grief upon her shoulder; but his tears were, she thought, a little lighter, seeing the golden king crowned, seeing her cousin cradled in softness.

Slowly they carried him up to the light.

[klinefelterrible]

How Lord Of The Rings affected my sexuality: The story.

The Two Towers

Step 23: Eomer. He is literally impossible to not win the Hottest Dude of Middle Earth prize. Even Aragorn would suck his dick and be happy about it. And so would I.

Step 24: Gandalf the White. Charming, but not into Mayars or Mithrandirs or whatever

Step 25: Theoden the cuter than before. I can consider something, 6.5/10

Step 26: Eowyn. I was gay but now I am bisexual and gods help me if I’m stuck between Eomer and Eowyn I will happily give my life for Rohan geeeez

Step 27: Faramir. Meh. Also Denethor; meh. Boromir however: yum.

Step 28: The Elves. This clearly homosexual army hasn’t affected me at all, but…

BUT THIS GUY COULD MAKE ME HIS PUPPY

The sexiest elf of all time, I cried when he died

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

‘Do you still have those books?’ Éomer asks, low voiced. ‘Which books would those be?’ ‘The ones your wizard,’ half-spat, ‘gave you.’ ‘Perhaps.’ [...]

Éomer mutters something and nothing about crooked wizards and their lies. How Saruman’s promises are no better than any promise Sauron ever made and gods he was never much of a student, but he knows his history and knows that Sauron’s word was as good as the filth on the bottom of Éomer’s boot. And if that is Sauron, what does that make Saruman? ‘Less than the filth on the bottom of my boot.’ Grima, suddenly hot-chested, flame-cheeked, snaps back, ‘Speak not of which you know nothing.’ ‘I know a liar when I see one,’ Éomer retorts. He makes a vague gesture to the room. See, here, a proof: Éomer has always known Grima as a snake. ‘And while I have never heard him speak, I have no doubt in my heart that his words are cheap.’

‘They are hardly so. He is wise. You needn’t care for him, my lord, you needn’t agree with him, but you cannot call him a fool nor—’ ‘I’ve called him a liar, not a fool. Though I think he’s one of those as well.’ ‘You’ve never met him,’ Grima sneers. ‘You’ve never heard him speak. You cannot know what you are dismissing. He has the gift of foresight, similar to the elves and great lords such as Denethor. Indeed, he is better than most and the ending he sees for this world is not a hopeful one. Of course he is making the rationale choice to join with Sauron rather than go against—from what he has seen, to go against is to die. There is no other option.’ ‘Even if he is correct, and I disagree with him about the surety of a bleak ending, but even if he proves to be right - resisting Sauron is always an option. Indeed, it is the option that lets a man maintain his honour.' ‘A great comfort, I'm sure.’ ‘It can be,’ Eomer replies.

Eomer, your jealousy is showing.

I mean, you're not wrong, but still. Your jealousy is showing.

Eomer: he gave you BoOkS??

Grima: .... mayhaps.

Eomer: have you considered, recently, that he sucks?

Grima: no.

Eomer: and that I am better? Not that I care, of course, about your opinion. or who woos you with fancy presents

Grima: I wouldn't call it wooing.

Eomer: I can get you books, too, you know. Have you considered this? I can order them from Minas Tirith. I'll set up an ABEBooks account for you.

Eomer: i'm just saying.

Eomer: not that I care, of course.

[squirrelwrangler]

Now I noticed how NOBODY ELSE benefits from the Silmarils's retrival, the rest of the Noldor, the Edain, all the other elves (Eldar and Avari), nobody gets anything, the Silmarils are for Feanor and his sons only. Which...is far, its their jewel, not anyone else. Buuuuut, its so double standards, cuz they also feel entitled to other people's stuff?

Yet the Feanorians feels like...entitled to aid? What their Edain vassals even would care for the Silmaril? Why would the elf servants? The soldiers that fought and died? The normal ass people? Their families? All Noldor mind you

Most fics show the post-Lotr Noldor begin happy and united in Valinor, but honestly? I think they would all lowkey hate each other

The Silmarils are garbage. They are a garbage McGuffin and only exist to give Lúthian and Beren a quest item and Eärendil a halo. They suck. I've gone on record that either direction would have been better -mystery of the Sampo- or having them be a truly living conscious being trapped in the form of a glowing stone (Aide from the SF series Belisarius is my shining example). The Swanships have more value than the Silmarils in both practicality, beauty, community imput, community cultural history, cultural value, and the loss that their destruction caused. The only time the Silmarils are seen positively as a good object to be around is when Elwing had in the the refugee camp at the Mouth of Sirion.

The Noldor in general are characterized by their fractious individualistic competitiveness. Vanyar have unity. The Teleri are divided (in the case of the Falmari and the rest of the Sindar, deeply so) but show a willingness to come together and reconcile with ease -Denethor and the Nandor, that Avari are welcomed in, Círdan's staunch ally-vassalage, Elwing's plea, the integration of Sindar and Silvan. With them, their branching out into a variety of lifestyles and settlement patterns (shore versus forest, nomadic versus settled, housing location, etc...) suggests that an ad-hoc flexibility strengthens rather than hurts their greater group identity. But the Noldor are the ones with dynastic jockeying occurring on the page. Often violently so. And the nastiest offenders of that are the Fëanorians. Remember, Morgoth himself laughs and acknowledges that their presence and their Oath was always beneficial to him, not detrimental.

Fëanor's actions after the Darkening is some of the foulest shit. His xenophobic political riot speech is skin-crawling. Then he rushes to Alqualondë because he knows that he doesn't have the popular majority support, and his goal, stated right on the page, is to make Valinor worse, to trash it further so that he retains his tenuous political grip. Then tries to incite a coup against Olwë and commit some of the biggest acts of hypocrisy to date in demanding, stealing the Swanships, murder, and then destruction. Melkor only kills one elf when stealing the Silmarils and then stops Ungoliant from destroying them. It's a bad sign when Melkor has the comparative moral high ground.

The shittiness of the Fëanorians and why would the Silmarils matter is a thread that runs through my Bór fics, at least the ones involving Great Lady Borte and her great-granddaughter Kreka. It's rather telling that they were the first Silm fanfics I wrote and shared.

When I write post-war Valinor, it's mostly as the peaceful aftermath of the various OCs that I tortured in Tol-in-Gaurhoth and Angband. Beren's Band of the Red Hand dudes. So I'm not focusing on internal strife because this is the promised comfort of H/C. But I do see a delicate dance from Fingolfin (and Turgon and Finrod) to ensure his followers don't destabilize Finarfin's highly competent rule. (There's a minuscule echo of this in Imin's rebirth). As for the Fëanorians? Bah, they can all stay in Mandos. Maybe one of the twins can come out, but I don't see any problem with storing all of them and the most implacably morally bankrupt of their followers in there until Arda is ReMade.

[lazywitchling]

“Isengard has been unleashed. The eye of Sauron now turns to Gondor…”

Hey, shit’s fucked. Saruman’s army is moving, Rohan has made a bad decision to go to Helm’s Deep, and Frodo and Sam are so far off course, they’ve even left the plot line. Elrond is having his dramatics about how much he hated this world, Arwen is having her dramatics of whether or not to go to the Grey Havens (and has also left the book plot, but I’m okay with this one because it still fits thematically).

Boy it sure would suck if Elrond were to send a bunch of elves to Helms Deep to fight and mess up like five different storylines. Good thing that doesn’t happen. (This is the hill I die on.)

Anyway, dinner is going to be a little heavy, so Afternoon Tea is somewhat light. Strawberry tea from a local herb shop, and a stroopwafel, which I’ve just discovered can be bought individually! Hell yeah.

We’re headed into a deleted scene where Sean Bean shows up dressed in grey. I gotta find that post about the colors in this movie, and how Boromir wears grey/black (Denethor’s colors) until he sets out on his own, when he starts wearing red and blue. And Aragorn, after the death of Boromir, starts slowly picking up those reds and blues. Bless the costuming department.

[leohtttbriar]

Choose violence 8, 10, 24 for Tolkien? :)

<3 when i saw you had sent me an ask, i blushed so hard i'm pretty sure i gave myself a mild fever. omg hi <3

also, so sorry but i def employed some tolkien-esque verbose-ness in answering these lol. especially the last one, whew. like, im embarrassed.

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

what’s funny with the tolkien fandom is that the movie fans and the book fans have whole different spheres of bugaboos and Annoying Habits so it’s easy to vacillate between either camp when you keep encountering the Nonsense.

that being said, i one hundred percent consider myself a “book fan” and think movie fans are more annoying than all of us literates. like, they can’t help it—the movies are the source of most their ills— but as a rule movie fans are wrong about like all of the characters. as in, legolas isn’t mister stoic badass, sam isn’t More Heroic, aragorn isn’t pathetically reluctant, elrond is much prettier than hugo weaving, and denethor is not nutso (to name a few).

i would say, though, that book fans are generally really bad at figuring out what parts of the movies to pick on. like for years i’ve been so baffled by people still being angry over glorfindel’s exclusion in the fellowship movie and no offense to people who have read the silmarillion and the fellowship…but that was not only the best adaptational change but it also improves on the book. in that, sending arwen to guide them to rivendell and to physically hold frodo to her as she defended the last homely house with water horses, is an genuine story improvement—not just because lotr is a sausage fest and that Sucks but because it foreshadows arwen giving frodo her passage west, via a flight east, it lets arwen actually parallel luthien riding across middle earth on huan, which in turn gives arwen an equal sort of challenge in living up to a legacy, something that can thematically help aragorn live up to his, doing that thing tolkien does best and telling the same story over and over until the song finally scans and the rhyme resolves and the Big Story ends.

of course, the movies left out the arwen-giving-frodo-the-evenstar-gem thing so in terms of Sexism both media are equivalent.

i think book fans in general are wayyyyy too like faithful monk readers of the bible. and not even like medieval monk readers, where there’s a clear delineation between various interpretive approaches, going from the literal to the poetic in degree. no, tolkien fans i think have mistaken a rich creative world for something near perfection, to the point where they don’t really know how to explain why the amazon series is bad beyond “amazon is bad” and what makes tolkien’s fantasy unique. tolkien fans, in terms of pedantry, are worse than dune fans.

but yeah. everyone is wrong about glorfindel in fellowship. he is Not as interesting as arwen as a character and does Not really fit in the story.

10. worst part of fanon

definitely the freaks who treat genuine baddies as misunderstood kittens. like, i don’t feel very sorry for maedhros? also, why is the elrond-considers-maedhros-and-maglor-as-dads caucus in the tolkien fandom so loud??? look, there’s no arguing these are tragic and pathetic blorbos, and i personally love stories in which they seek atonement, but elrond had a dad. if i were elrond or elros, i wouldn’t even be considering letting someone else slot into that position. especially not with my dad constantly being in the sky, like a particularly unfair reminder. maedhros can be complicated and alluring, but i hate the fanon of him or maglor genuinely adopting the baby half-elves out of untainted goodwill. it softens them in a way that makes me like them less.

also, the fanon of people being like “tolkien wasn’t sexist. look at melian.” does that count as fanon? if so, i hate that too.

24. topic that brings up the most rancid discourse

i feel like this goes for all fandoms, but by far any sort of accusation of racism in the work or in fan works is the most grenade-like kind of accusation one can lob.

with tolkien, i see a lot of people often focused on tolkien’s own opinions on “allegory,” and to be quite honest, anyone who uses that to say tolkien isn’t as racist as you might assume, is dumb as a rock.

tolkien’s frustration with "allegory" is the concept of 1 to 1 relationships. he didn't like when people were like "rohan is anglo saxon england" or "aragorn is [insert historical figure]" or any sort of reductive comparisons of lotr to real life figures and struggles in world war ii. (interestingly, however, he has said that dwarves were very inspired by jewish people. like, to the point that saying tolkien's dwarves are jewish is as accurate as saying shylock in merchant of venice is jewish--in that, they are characters in a story written by a christian who didn't really understand a whole heckuva lot about judaism. but that's a whole other topic.) and while that might tempt you to think that he therefore was not trying to represent any person or civilization from the real world in his books, unfortunately the core tenet of analytical reading is to assume deliberation over every single detail. you do in fact have to choose an idea before you write it down. and tolkien wrote the word "swarthy" one too many times for any of us to assume good-faith.

of course, there's also the claim of lotr not being as racist as the man (tolkien) likely was because art and the artist are not the same thing. and yeah. but again. "swarthy."

there is no easy answer to the whole death-of-the-author debate and questions over how much biography should be allowed in critical readings--at least no easy answer that doesn't just boil down to the simple demand to "think critically" (which isn't all that simple, in the end)--so i'm definitely not going to try to arrive at one now. but when it comes to tolkien's little made-up world, there are certain tropes in the fan interaction with it that make me somewhat queasy? like tolkien was so demonstrably inspired by real-world mythos and folklore that it is so easy to fit some of his characters and stories into real-world folk art and aesthetic. and to me there's a sliding scale of acceptable inspiration to maybe-we-shouldn't(?) inspiration. like when i see fan art that is labeled "indigenous tolkien," with no tribe or even geographic region specified, i find that weird.

and the reason i find that weird is the fundamental reason that i think discourse in fan circles over racial biases can get so rancid (unlike the discourse in non fan circles! just kidding, fandom discourse has nothing on a medievalist conference with a panel on white supremacy in the field, lol), and that reason is: tolkien's made-up world is not as made-up as the immersiveness of his world suggests. it is very rooted, and deliberately so, in the histories and folklore of western-european people (in particular) and thus the stories, the characters, the aesthetics, the ethics, and the themes are all off-shoots of these traditions. there is a missing element of material recognition in the interpretations of tolkien as really one thing or the other. material culture plays a much bigger role in the whole of all his arda-tales than is immediately obvious.

people want to give fantasy a pass when it comes to certain biases and they use that annoying allegory quote to do it with tolkien's work. because they are enlightened and do not project white supremacy and other legacies of colonialism onto a "made-up world." but tolkien would probably be the first to say that his work was built off fairy-stories, as a contribution to the genre.

he even goes on this relevant tangent at the beginning of "on fairy stories":

It is perhaps not unnatural that in England, the land where the love of the delicate and fine has often reappeared in art, fancy should in this matter turn towards the dainty and diminutive, as in France it went to court and put on powder and diamonds.

whether or not he's right about this distinction between english fairies and french fairies, this still shows that he considers the fantastical an expression of real and observable culture. therefore, despite the fact that it is bad-faith to read anything in tolkien as 1 to 1, he was trying to represent our world with his because he doesn't see the fairy/monstrous/supernatural as entirely separate from the physical/metaphysical or the human imagination. he was just trying to tell the same story that has always been told, from creation and onward.

so yeah. it is entirely valid to call aragorn's Specialness as a Special Sort of Human kind of fascist.

(and just as the rooted-ness of tolkien's fantasy world means that his work cannot escape accusations of bias, the rooted-ness also opens the way for a specific kind of progressive reading that is less about plugging one's ears to the bias but leaning into it. the real-world is more complex than one man can imagine it and when that one man is trying his hardest to represent the world, as any good writer would do regardless of genre, things will slip in to the story that the man chose but may not have understood. eowyn's speech about staying in the burning house is feminist thought even if tolkien would probably never have claimed it as such. the love between legolas and gimli is canonically transgressive and metaphysically-challenging--aspects of a love that tolkien probably would have assumed of gay love, in his time. if that makes sense. his biases don't define the art, even if they are present. especially since he was a very good writer and reader.)

[sophsaysstuff217]

DENETHOR SUCKS

[axelwolf8109]

Denethor sucks

[anghraine]

How would you picture a confrontation between Aragorn and Denethor if Faramir had joined the fellowship instead of Boromir as it was intended and had not died - I believe there was a reason if Faramir was "called" - ? Could Aragorn have become the King without Denethor's approval ? How would his sons have reacted in your opinion ?

This is always an interesting concept for me! I agree that whoever sent the dream clearly preferred Faramir (and Tolkien considered this important enough to go out of his way to add), and that the reason was not "they preferred Faramir, but were wrong and things would have gone worse," or "they preferred Faramir, but it would have made little difference in the long run."

I think the clear implication is that the outcome would have been better that way—and it makes a lot of sense that Boromir is less equipped to deal with the subtle, grinding influence of the Ring and Faramir less equipped to handle direct conflict. And yet it does create some interesting quandaries, of which this is a significant one.

Faramir, in TTT, is decidedly skeptical of Aragorn. It's the mystical healing experience that transforms him into a steadfast and devoted ally. So how does he react without that experience? He trusts Gandalf and would likely trust Elrond, and at any rate has a profound insight into the thoughts and natures of others that could impact him. He would like a return of the monarchy if he could be assured that the claim was valid and the claimant didn't suck personally (the essential problem of monarchy!).

So maybe he'd support Aragorn off the bat. Or maybe not. I think it's most likely (and most compelling) if he has a generally positive first impression of Aragorn, but isn't immediately LO, THE KING because of his general reservations, and gradually warms up over the Fellowship's journey.

I'm not sure Boromir would ever be a full-throated supporter of Aragorn's claim. He never fully acknowledges it in the book (the dying "my king" is a film invention) and I trust Faramir's judgment of him more than most people who like Boromir (which I do). I agree with Faramir that, even if he did accept Aragorn's claim in theory, his response is likely to be more complicated when push comes to shove. And that's probably the optimal circumstance for him to accept Aragorn's claim!

In the Faramir-goes-to-Rivendell scenario, meanwhile, Boromir is back home fighting a desperate war to save Minas Tirith and the millions of people in Gondor. If some guy with a long-rejected claim (who isn't even from Gondor) shows up to claim the kingship after almost a millennium of Stewardist rule, it's really hard for me to see Boromir being onboard with it.

I think Aragorn could technically become king without Denethor's approval, but it would be quite difficult, and this is why he is so cautious about declaring himself after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Historically, the Steward of Gondor was the hereditary head of the Council of Gondor (among various other responsibilities/rights), and had a major say in whether the Council would or would not accept a claim. The Steward Pelendur, for instance, played a big part in the rejection of Arvedui's claim. So even if he weren't the ruler of Gondor, Denethor would (by law and precedent) have a very outsized say in the matter.

That said, Pelendur seems to have been backed by the Council and the Dúnedain of Gondor more generally. The question with Denethor is if he could unilaterally reject Aragorn's claim if the other Dúnedain of Gondor as well as his people more broadly opposed him. I mean, maybe? Or maybe denying the universal will of the people and rest of the Council would stretch the powers of the Stewardship beyond its limits.

But it's also not entirely clear to me that everyone would oppose Denethor if he retained his sanity and capable leadership. He seems to be quite popular, even with children. I think the most likely result is a lot of dissent and uncertainty in Minas Tirith rather than Denethor vs everyone, a dissent they can ill-afford at the moment. Hence Aragorn's carefulness.

And I don't think Denethor would ever willingly give way to Aragorn. TBH I think this is the main reason that Denethor "has" to die in LOTR. Otherwise, the best case scenario in a canon-like scenario is probably 1) Denethor doesn't look into the palantír and is fine but grieving at Faramir's side, 2) Aragorn shows up and heals Faramir in front of him, 3) Denethor somewhat warms up but isn't about to give way, but would be a more helpful ally to a gradually rebuilt Arnor than otherwise, and 4) Denethor dies before his time, Boromir died in battle, and Faramir proves amenable after his healing.

Without the Black Breath or the healing, since Faramir would be part of the Grey Company all along ... I'm still not 100% sure what he'd do, tbh.

[dogblessyoutascha]

Okay. Hear me out…

How the LotR/The Hobbit/tRoP guys react to their partner asking how they are after they've been kicked in the nuts:

"I need you to fuck it better." - Boromir, Hirgon, Isildur, Merry, Sauron, Elladan, Elrohir

"I mean, if you want to suck it better, I won't say no…" - Elendil, Adar, Legolas, Elrond, Pippin, Haldir, Bofur, Fredegar Bolger, Halbarad

"A kiss would help the healing process tremendously." - Thranduil, Aragorn, Kili, Imrahil, Ori, Gandalf, Grima, Samwise, Galion, Dori, Tom Bombadil, Halbrand

"I'm fine, just give me a minute." - Bard, Faramir, Bilbo, Théoden, Balin, Celeborn, Radagast, Frodo, Feren, Percy, Bombur, Oin, Bill Ferny, Arondir, Rumil, Orophin

"What do you think?! They tried to break the family jewels!" - Fili, Gimli, Gloin, Éomer, Éothain, Glorfindel, The Master, Bifur, Nori, Durin IV, Valandil, Ontamo

"Don't fucking touch me." - Thorin, Dwalin, Denethor II, Saruman, Beorn, Alfrid, Braga, Pharazôn