#gondorian ladies are great

[torchwood-99]

Eowyn and Theoden Headcanon

My close reading of Eowyn and Theoden's relationship has left me a headcanon that they had dynamic so close it became almost co-dependant.

Theoden had several sisters, a wife, and a Gondorian mother. We know Theodwyn and Elfhild died young, and the absence of Theoden's sisters and mother in the text suggests they died as well. So by the time of Theodwyn's death, all the women Theoden was closest to had died, or had moved so far away they were no longer a presence in his life.

Theodwyn, Eowyn's mother, was his favourite sister, and Eowyn was also said to take after Theoden's mother, Morwen Steelsheen. As a result, you can imagine that after losing all these women he loved, and being left only with a little girl, left Theoden projecting his love for these women onto Eowyn, seeing in her all the sisters he had lost.

Eowyn had lost her father and mother. She was taken from Aldburg and brought to the king's house, which was probably larger than home, and altogether a new place surrounded by new people. She was almost certainly scared, lost and vulnerable. So any affection, any care Theoden showed her, would have been very welcome. Theoden's grandeur, his position as great warrior and king, probably inspired Eowyn as much as comforted her.

As a result, they rather cleaved together.

We see Eowyn waiting on Theoden and standing by his throne, so it seems she acts as his cupbearer. You can imagine Theoden giving Eowyn this role when she is quite young, in order to distinguish her and to keep her close by.

Not only did this mean that Eowyn and Theoden were physically very close together, and it was expected Eowyn pay close attention to Theoden and learn to anticipate his needs of her, it almost meant that Eowyn's status, her purpose and her position, were irrevocably tied to Theoden.

Theodred and Eomer were Marshalls and warriors. Theodred would be King, Eomer would be Lord of Aldburg. When Theoden died, Eowyn would lose her position, eventually supplanted by the next queen. She would be married, but there was no one in Rohan who could offer her an equal or greater position than the one she would be leaving. Unless she married outside of Rohan, Theoden's death would not only mean the loss of a beloved uncle, father and protector, but also a demotion.

Eowyn was proud, and proud of her heritage as a daughter of kings. To be asked to step back, to accept a lesser position, after being raised as the Lady of Rohan, could not have been a welcome prospect. So Eowyn's dignity, and her worth, would have hinged on Theoden, because she had no titles to inherit, and she wasn't permitted to ride out and win glory for herself, no matter how much she wished to.

Eowyn not only grew up depending on Theoden for love and protection, but her identity and sense of self revolved around him. And any glory that was to be hers had to be his glory. When Theoden fell into dotage, Eowyn felt Theoden's "dishonourable" state, his physical frailty, his lack of action, his poor leadership, as not only a cause of suffering for him, but a cause of shame for herself.

Coupled with her thwarted desires to set out and earn her own glory, to protect her kingdom instead of waiting at home for word to come, and then to be forgotten or left to burn, Eowyn's self worth was rock bottom. And when Theoden recovered, and was able to ride out and fight, Eowyn was in the same role, the same cage, she was in the day of Theoden's ailment, and so she was unable to "redeem" herself as Theoden had done.

Meanwhile, after losing so many family members, all but his father women, Eowyn ended up becoming an emotional, and in time, physical crutch for Theoden. He ended up in some ways as dependant on her as she was on him. In her youth, it was probably having a little girl, a child around, to cheer him up, to remind him of his lost sisters, to protect her like he couldn't protect his loved ones. However, when he got sick, his dependency on her caused a role of reversals, and she ended up becoming his caregiver and protector.

Perhaps this culminated in Theoden failing to think of Eowyn as a member of "that house", because whereas Eomer was a full individual with a role and position removed from Theoden, a scion of their house whose role is to serve their people, Eowyn he saw as not belonging to their house or their people, but belonging to him personally.

The patriarchy customs and attitudes of their society would have supported such a lens, as patriarchies do not accept women fully as people, but as adjuncts to male figures, like fathers and husbands.

An important part of Eowyn's arc is her (and those around her) moving past this attitude, and seeing Eowyn as a fully realised person in herself.

For Faramir to prove himself "worthy" of Eowyn, he basicall had to do a reading of her character, and Tolkien justified their relationship on the grounds her "understood her" very well. Eowyn's happy ending was contingent on her no longer being the extension of a man, which she might have been had she married Aragorn, in whom she saw the king that Theoden was failing to be, and so exchanged one man to judge her worthy by to another.

The hope here is that as a child, Eowyn had as happy a childhood as she could, after losing her mother and father. That the affection between herself and Theoden was then a cause for joy and comfort, and it was only when Theoden grew sick, at the same time she might have started wishing to have a life beyond serving Theoden, that her suffering started.

[annabthesolitarywriter]

TOLKIEN OC WEEK 2024-DAY 3

Prompt: Alternate Universes

Title: An arranged marriage

(Pairing=> Faramir x OC)

!MAJOR SPOILERS FOR MY MAIN WIP THE LADY OF ITHILIEN!

(link in general masterlist)

Synopsis/Context:

Year 16 of the Fourth Age of the Sun.

The Steward of Gondor takes a new wife. Éowyn of Rohan—his first wife and mother of his daughter Elenna—lies entombed in her native land, as she died giving birth to their son Elboron five years prior. Despite her heroic actions during the War, the Lady of the Shield-Arm had always been looked down upon by her Gondorians contemporaries and her daughter, who happens to be betrothed to Crown Prince Eldarion, has been subjected to mockery, derision and even physical abuse (often due to jealousy) because of her mother's perceived inferior status. Gondorians deeply despise the people of the Riddermark and Elenna is worried her brother—Éowyn's spitting image—might one day be treated even worse than she is. In her mind, Elboron needs a new mother. A Gondorian mother. She and King Elessar arrange Faramir's marriage to Finduilas, daughter of Angbor the Fearless, lord of Lamedon. Faramir and his new bride have barely spoken to one another and Angbor only accepts Aragorn's arrangement because he opines his daughter needs to marry (she had previously rejected all of her suitors and, at nearly thirty, is still unmarried which is cause of great shame in Gondorian society). Angbor sees this as a golden opportunity, a blessing from the Valar and the two of them are betrothed at once.

They don't know one another and they don't love one another. Faramir is still in love with his late wife and only accepts to marry Finduilas for his children's sake.

Here is an edit which sums up the circumstances of their union.

This is how I imagine them to be on their wedding day. A pretty miserable affair. She's attracted to him but she's afraid she won't make him happy and he's deeply unhappy because he is essentially getting married against his will.

They will eventually fall in love (though I suppose Faramir will always be in love with Éowyn) and will have two children, Faelivrin (named after her mother and grandmother) and Eradan. [Both of them are OCs].

I like to think of Finduilas as a slightly more refined version of Éowyn. Sophisticated, educated but also fierce and headstrong.

Here is a solo Finduilas edit/moodboard.

The silver dress you can kind of see in the moodboard is how I imagine her wedding gown to be like.

Fancast is Laura Berlin from the tv show Vikings: Valhalla.

The Lamedon banner and the one of Minas Tirith, which I used them in the first edit. You can see them in their entirety down below.

I really like the colors and I think they complement each other pretty well.

Additional tags:

@tolkienocweek

@lucifers-legions

@emmanuellececchi

@saurongorthaur9

@evenstaredits

@a-world-of-whimsy-5

@cilil

Since I plan to be writing about them very shortly in my main wip The Lady of Ithilien, I thought I would share a few edits and keep what I have written for the actual fanfic. 😊

I think it's reasonable. Thank you for checking out this post and please let me know what you think!

[streets-in-paradise]

Courage

Relationships: (Platonical) Eowyn x (Fem)Gondorian!Reader / Eowyn x Aragorn (crush talking)/ Pippin x (Fem)Gondorian Reader

Warnings: Use of she/her pronoums

Summary: As a prelude to the celebrations on the victory over Saruman, the ladies of Rohan and Gondor participate in a simple encounter that seils their friendship validating each other's feelings in dark and lightfull topics concerning their hearts.

Note: For my dear friend @beautifultypewriter, inspired in her Gondor Girl concept. ( If you happen to like this one, I will keep working on releasing one more going full into the idea I brainstormed to you in dms)

Even after witnessing his demise, the voice of Saruman kept haunting her mind for a while during the trip back to Edoras. Despite being warned about it, she had certainly not behaved properly when facing the evil wizard responsible for the orc attack that caused the death of her brother followed by the kidnap of the hobbits. For once, she was the one doing exactly what Gandalf told her not to do and paid the price.

As a result of her angered search for a confrontation, she made herself another target of the prideful scolding. Saruman shifted guilt with skillful rhetoric, saying it was her who failed Boromir and let him die. The charm of his voice got her heart stricken with guilt. Although he didn’t waste much time on her, his insults were precise. He called her a wild beast that in nothing resembled the grace of a gondorian lady, a standing proof of the inexorable degradation in the lineage of Numenor that the ruling of Aragorn would not fix. In his conclusion, he didn’t forget to mention that Denethor would have rather been freed of a daughter than robbed of his eldest son. 

From all those claims, he presented at least one truth. 

The reminder of her father’s indifference was the last thing she needed at that precise moment. After acquiring a modest glory in the battlefield for the first time in her young life, being forced to think of Denethor was like having the victory being taken away. Her wins were twisted into flaws, making her feel once more relegated to the obscure spot he reserved for her back home. 

Only the sweet voice of Pippin bringing her back from the self absorption as they were riding away from Isengard managed to counteract the perverse effect. Given the rushed nature of their reencounter, he accepted no one else to take him merely because he wanted more time with her. The excited ramblings from her beloved hobbit about the escape from the orcs, his adventures in Fangorn, and his involvement on the attack plan of the Ents were enough to ease her heart.

On his part, Merry didn’t hesitate on reclaiming his share of the honors while hearing the tales from close, but he also understood that his cousin was trying to impress his lady. In return, Gimli told them in a prideful tease about the bewilderment that a certain gondorian shieldmaiden had caused among the Rohirrim through her courageous acts fighting alongside him, Legolas and Aragorn in the front line at Helm’s Deep. His comments made Pippin’s impulse to present himself in an heroic light increase with his admiration of her. 

It was simply lovely and she didn’t doubt in filling him with praise until he became a blushing mess hiding behind her. At the same time, he had accidentally reminded her of how proud Boromir would have been if he could have seen them together again after performing such great actions and that thought casted the sadness away. Time for celebrations was approaching and that brought a different, simpler reminder to her calmer mind. 

Until then, the people of Theoden had only met one side of her. Precisely the one she had forbidden at home, since they knew her as the warrior maiden of the Fellowship initially playing wolf on sheep’s clothing for Wormtongue only to reveal herself moments later. Since that fight the situation allowed her to never get back in disguise. The refined lady of Gondor once seen in Rivendell never stepped Rohan, but she thought it would be fun if she would make a comeback for the party. 

Let no one say ever again that she had no glimpses of the grace legends attributed to her bloodline.  

Presented with all the comforts that Eowyn could share with her, the transformation became an easy and midly fun previous step. It gave them time to have a good long talk together while taking part on a lady-like activity that wouldn't raise any concerns. The niece of Theoden had her own personal interest guiding a sudden want to perform feminity, one her friend knew that she wouldn't comment with anyone else. Revisiting her wardrove in the calm of her bedroom while talking of the latest events she didn't got to witness was a good start for both. For instance, she was a witness watching for her and willing to share details that her relatives didn't bother on comment to her before.

" He died doing what he loved, ... backstabbing his master. " The gondorian joked into her telling of Wormtongue's death. " Your uncle, infinitely kind hearted as he is, was still offering him a second chance. I think that worm realized he had made a strong bet on the wrong horse, but Legolas gave him no span to show the king any regrets. An arrow to his chest, quite ironical way to die considering what he did. "

Eowyn gave her a half smile, unsure of how to feel besides from a deep relief.

" His black heart craved only power, control over me."

The girl knew exactly what she meant. Her meticulous work hidding the most controversial aspects of herself from her father's sight weren't enough to keep her fame completely clean. Rumours had spread subtly, and to many men craving control those have came out as attractive. If the only daugther of the Steward was wild as the forest, every single one of them believed themselves to be the one that could tame her.

" You are free of him." She sweetly concluded, holding her hand and abandoning her sight from the beautifull garments to focus completely on her. " And we can still hate him in secret, if you wish. I have encountered my own amount of despicable noblemen in Gondor, but none of them has yet sold to the dark power hoping to receive me as spoil of war from the looting of his own countrymen. You resisted with courage, one of the kind that many soldiers in the battlefield won't understand. I do, and admire you for it. "

It was the most heartfelt compliment Eowyn had received in a good while and it was hard to explain why a surprising happiness invaded her.

" You, my friend? After obtaining glory for both of us? "

The gondorian was eyeing the blue fabric of a cute dress she was considering to choose.

A reminder of the sea, of her mother.

" Would you believe me if I tell you that your domestic feat remains more impressive to me than all my killings at Helm's Deep?" She suddenly confessed. " Being alone in Minas Tirith with Denethor would be a nightmare on itself. To that add one of my brothers dead and the other one exiled, while also having to flee from the advances of a repulsive man seeking to submit me through resignation. Inviting me everyday to accept him as some inevitable fate, remiding me I'm alone in the world ... I don't think I would have endured it as well as you did, always keeping your royal dignity."

Eowyn had sat on the bed and, dress in hand, her friend followed.

" If you think I'm strong, please look at yourself, because your strenght inspired me that night."

" In some twisted way that escapes all forseen ends, justice was served. " Was her simple reply. " Your brother and my cousin are avenged."

The garment was carefully placed at their side as the guest rushed to hug her.

" Vengeance is not over, because you are going to look gorgeous for your crush and have fun. " She mischievously whispered. " Haven't you think about it? The hatred on Grima's eyes as he was leaving Meduseld was too focused on Aragorn, and now I think I see why ... "

The rohirrim lady looked up in shamefull surprise.

" No, you don't! " She attempted to defend herself in a playfull tone, breaking the contact. " That's not true, and I don't know how it occured to you, but ..."

" But Arwen is leaving with her kind, as far as I know, so I don't see an issue." The gondorian encouraged her. " I got to meet her in Rivendell, and I meet her father ... If I had one as wonderfull as Elrond, I would too seek to follow him. Besides, you are my best friend and Aragorn has become like a brother to me. if a mortal woman shall eventually come to cure his sadness, I would rather her be you. "

Her eyes were shinning with hope, but not only to the kind voice inspiring her yet a third kind of courage to face her growing feelings for the Ranger.

Loneliness fading, like ice slowly melting, to the certainty of knowing she had found a friend. Another presumably lonely young woman, at least in terms of companionship that could be found of other women, who had so quickly shifted such strong affection towards her.

" As my beloved friend that you are, I beg you not to feed my dreams so soon."

" Allow yourself to dream for a while, you deserve it" The foreign girl insisted. " If things don't work as we expected, we will deal with that later ... Together. "

She liked the sound of the last sentence, but kept her objections.

" How? Do you know the cure for a broken heart? "

" Let that brave heart of yours to take the risk, not only by the blade its strenght can be measured. " The gondorian concluded, then kissed her forehead. " If turns out my brother of the sword is not the one, I still have one more blood brother to introduce you to. And if you don't like that one, I'm pretty sure Merry has no hobbit lass waiting for him at the Shire. "

Her positivity and will to comfort her ended up getting a few chuckles out of her. Not exactly because of the jokes, but due to the happyness she found in her insistent support.

" I believe your love for the halflings is starting to put Gandalf's to shame."

The called out lady smiled, clearly on remembrance of her own infatuation.

" One stay in Rivendel and days of travel on our quest was all it took for Peregrin Took to win me over, and he wasn't even trying. " She began to tell. " There are some men of Gondor that think not much different from the says of Saruman about me: a wild beast, only to them I'm a fair one ... And all wildeness is up to be conquered and rulled, owned to make use of. They approach me like a mare in need of taming, thinking they will perform the miracle of my submission. Do you understand now how could I have fallen for one of hobbits that released the forest? "

She could have continued, but no more words were needed to make her understand the core of her reasoning on her feelings.

" Wouldn't you prefer the green one?" Eowyn pointed out, regarding the dress choice. " In homeage to Fangorn, and your love."

[scyllas-revenge]

I've been encountering post comments of people flipping out over the Bridgerton S3 teaser clip where Anthony sneaks a kiss on Kate while dancing in front of the ton. It made me realize that Boromir was quite bold and brazen with the way he interacted with Reader (Aerdis) in "Breathe".

Getting so close and intimate, publicly, with a lady who was not his wife or even anything?? All the pearl clutching!! 👀😂

Real question, though: what are your thoughts, opinions, or headcanons about social protocols and restrictions in Gondor/Minas Tirith regarding interactions between unmarried men and women? Do you see it as a climate similar to the Regency Era, or something less restrictive? I guess it wasn't super conservative, considering the Farawyn public canoodling... unless that was a great scandal in itself. 😂

Oooh I love this question! (and I'm so excited for Bridgerton S3!!) Here are entirely too many of my thoughts XD

You know how much I love your Breathe fic, and I think acting a bit outside of social norms fits Boromir very well- he seems like the type to feel every emotion very intensely, and while he's very aware of social norms, he's not going to let them get in his way for long. (be still my heart, fetch me my smelling salts at once)

That being said I don't personally imagine Gondorian society to be quite as restrictive as regency-era England, just because the regency era was SO restrictive. There were SO many social taboos and particular ways you had to navigate social settings, and while I'm not an expert on them all, a lot of aspects of Jane Austen's books still stand out to me as just insane, like never referring to your spouse by their first name, even when you're just chilling at home with your kids. No hand touching if you're not wearing gloves, no dancing with someone more than twice in one setting (unless you're making your intentions VERY clear), etc. And alongside that, you get a lot of class restrictions too, like only certain pastimes being considered "proper," and everything from manners of speaking and sitting and chewing your food can mark you as uncouth and poor (I'm thinking of Emma here, and all the minute ways Emma has to teach Harriet to be an upstanding member of society. It's exhausting!).

I think some of these taboos would carry over to Gondor, like needing a chaperone to hang out with a person of the opposite sex before you're engaged, and minimal touching or displays of affection (and yes, I think the Farawyn kiss was VERY scandalous, people were probably gossiping about that one for ages lol). But some of the smaller more restrictive social norms of regency society probably don't apply (unless I want them to, for heightened drama).

Overall, I'm going to say that 1. social norms probably are bent out of whack a bit both during and a while after the war, just because people had more important things to worry about, and 2. Boromir and Faramir are a half-step away from royalty in Gondor, so their behavior probably gets a pass most of the time anyway.

As for the class restrictions, I think once again Boromir gets to bend a lot of rules here- he's probably very aware of how other nobles behave vs commoners, but I don't think he cares much and is probably a bit sick of all the hoops higher-class people have to jump through just to navigate a basic social situation. I also think that, because he's a soldier, he's more attuned to the rest of his citizens than other nobles might be. Plus he's had to cook his own meals, take care of his own horse, clean and sharpen his own weapons, mend his own clothes while on the road, etc. Nothing is beneath him by now. That was probably true for a lot of people during the war regardless of wealth or class, so I'm imagining a bit of the class division kind of dissolving, at least temporarily, after the war. Everyone emerged from it in different places with a different view of the world than when they started.

Finally, I personally really like the idea of some Ancient Roman influence on Gondor (they have aqueducts, I just know it! And I love the idea of Gondorian women wearing those Ancient Roman woven hairstyles) but unfortunately I haven't been able to find much on Ancient Roman societal norms online outside of how they approach meals (which we can tell from the books and films doesn't really apply anyway). So that idea might be a bit of a dead end.

Anyway, thanks for the ask!!! And sorry I wrote such a long rambling response, but you hit me with such an interesting question XD I couldn't help it!

[periantari]

In honor of Gondorian New Year yesterday

Faramir and Eowyn wondered at the new sign, but believed it to be a sign of good- that the Captains of the West had fulfilled their mission in the impossible way. The Ring-bearer had succeeded. And amidst sonorous song that rang through the city, the Great Eagle flew by bearing tidings of hope, and Faramir knew in his heart that Frodo had managed past the Dark Lord to fulfill his Quest. He did not know it but his face was wet from tears and he saw that Eowyn also had tears of joy gathered in her eyes. So many tension filled nights of discussing the Great Wave and Gondor succumbing had now abated.

All of Gondor was alight with song and hope. Faramir and Eowyn continued to embrace each other and Merry and Bergil joined them and laughed and had signs of relief. Their loved ones may yet make it. Merry could not wait to be reunited with his kin. It had been too long had he not seen them, and he hoped with all his heart that they were all right. Bergil hoped his father would return from the Black Gate- he was all he had and he needed him to return back alive.

Eowyn still held onto Faramir and she saw that his face was kind and throughout the days at the Houses of Healing had felt even more unexplained attachment and trust building. This was a man whom she can trust and she had seldom met a man of quality like this one.

Faramir could feel his initial heaviness lifted if not only a while, but he felt hope for the New Age even though his losses still hung in his consciousness. This Lady of Rohan was light and he believed hard as it may be– that he was meant to guide Gondor with the New King into the New Age.

[not-ur-manic-pixie-dream-girl]

Yearlings | Chapter 3

Pairing: Aragorn x OFC, arranged marriage AU

Summary:

yearling (plural yearlings)

A young horse that is between one and two years old;

Still a wild thing, untamed, knowing only the endless horizon of the plains, the world vast and waiting. It knows neither the weight of the saddle or the pressure of the bridle, untouched by the responsibilities that will one day rest heavy upon its back.

Elira, daughter of Rohan, once knew only the whisper of the breeze and the freedom of the endless fields. Yet now, bound by an arranged marriage to a king, she finds herself standing at the crossroads of duty and desire. Within the shadowed halls of Gondor, where power shifts and secrets linger, she must learn to carry the weight of a future she never chose. Alongside Aragorn, a man whose own burdens weigh heavy, she will face the slow, inevitable taming of her heart—a heart torn between the wild call of freedom and the quiet, steady pull of love between two souls learning, together, to carry the weight of grand destinies.

In a world where future is yet uncertain, Elira will come to understand that love, much like a yearling, must be nurtured, tamed, and made her own, before it can bear the weight of all that is to come

Word count: 7,673

Content warnings: grief, mentions of death, mentions of dead animals

AO3

Elira sat before the great mirror, staring into her own reflection as the maids worked around her, their hands weaving through her golden hair with practiced ease. Their chatter filled the chamber like birdsong, bright and hushed with excitement. 

“I heard the King is noble beyond measure,” one of them whispered as she fastened the last braid in place. 

“And wise,” another added, smoothing the silk of Elira’s gown. “They say his voice alone could command an army.” 

Elira said nothing. Their voices washed over her, distant and meaningless, like wind through the grasses of Rohan. She felt strangely numb, as though she were watching herself from afar, a spectator to her own fate. 

Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curled slightly into the rich blue fabric of her dress. The gown was new, made for this occasion—Gondorian in color, though cut in a way that honored the fashion of Rohan. A compromise, she supposed, though it felt more like a quiet reminder that she no longer belonged wholly to one world or the other. 

As the maids fussed over the final details, pinning silver clasps in her hair, Elira’s mind drifted, carrying her far from the Citadel, far from Minas Tirith itself. 

She saw her father, tall and unyielding in the armor of the Mark, the dark cloak about his shoulders rippling in the wind. The morning sun had set the plains aglow when he rode out for war, his great palomino stallion stamping impatiently next to him. Before mounting, he had turned to her, pulling her into his arms. 

“Take care of your mother and Aedwyn,” he had murmured into her hair, his voice warm but firm. “You have always been the strongest of us.” 

She had clung to him, fighting back the fear that burned in her throat. She had wanted to tell him not to go, to stay, but she had only nodded, straightening her shoulders. She had not cried. She had promised herself she would not. 

And now, as she sat in a foreign land, preparing to meet the man who would be her husband, she thought of those words again. 

The strongest of us. 

The memory was bitter, but strangely, it brought her peace. She had survived. She would survive this, too. 

“There,” one of the maids said, stepping back to admire their work. “You are ready, my lady.” 

Elira blinked, returning to the present. She glanced at her reflection once more. Her face was composed, her features calm. If there was any trace of fear or sorrow within her, it was hidden well beneath the surface. 

A knock at the door broke the silence. The maids hurried to open it, and a man stepped through—a chamberlain, clad in the dark robes of the Citadel, his expression solemn. 

“My lady,” he said, bowing slightly. “I am here to escort you to your audience with the King.” 

Elira rose gracefully, smoothing the folds of her gown. 

As they stepped into the corridors, the chamberlain fell into step beside her, his hands clasped before him. He cleared his throat lightly before speaking, his voice even and formal. 

“As you are soon to be wed to His Majesty, you will no doubt become familiar with the customs of this court,” he began. “For now, I will remind you of what is expected in your first meeting. Upon entering the chamber, you must bow and address the King as ‘Your Majesty.’ Once he grants you permission, ‘my lord’ will suffice in private conversation.” 

Elira nodded slightly, though she did not interrupt. She already knew these things—had been raised in a noble house where etiquette was taught as strictly as swordplay—but she let the man speak. 

“You must not turn your back to him when departing,” he continued. “And when seated in his presence, you are expected to wait until he is seated first, unless he grants you leave otherwise.” 

Elira inhaled slowly, keeping her face unreadable. Is he to be my husband or my liege lord? she thought wryly, though she kept the words to herself. 

“Should you wish to speak freely, my lady, it is best to do so only once the King has set the tone of the conversation,” the chamberlain added. “He is known to be gracious, but it is always wise to exercise care.” 

Elira let out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, her expression composed. She had been prepared for much of this. Aragorn was not merely a man, nor even just a king—he was a legend made flesh, and there would always be expectations surrounding him. And soon, she thought, those expectations will extend to me as well. 

They moved through the high halls of the Citadel, past towering pillars and banners of sable and silver. Servants and guards lined the corridors, their eyes flicking to her as she passed, their faces unreadable. 

At last, they reached a door carved with intricate patterns of intertwined branches and stars. The chamberlain turned to her, bowing his head slightly. 

“The King will see you shortly, my lady,” he said. “You may wait within.” 

He pushed the door open, revealing a stately but sparsely furnished chamber with a tall window overlooking the city below. The air was cool, touched by the crispness of the morning. 

Elira hesitated only a moment before stepping inside. The chamberlain gave her a final nod before retreating, the door clicking shut behind him. 

She was alone. 

For the first time since her arrival, she allowed herself a slow, steadying breath. Her hands tightened briefly against the folds of her gown before relaxing. She crossed the room to the window, looking out over the white stone of the city sprawling below. 

Minas Tirith gleamed in the morning light, vast and unfamiliar. 

Soon, this would be her home. 

She swallowed against the weight that settled in her chest and straightened her shoulders. I am the daughter of Rohan, she reminded herself. I will not falter. 

The door opened, and Elira turned sharply, heart hammering in her chest despite her best efforts to steel herself. The chamberlain bowed low and stepped aside, and then he entered—the King of Gondor, the man who would be her husband. 

Aragorn son of Arathorn was nothing like the kings of legend she had imagined in childhood. There was no towering crown upon his head, no heavy mantle of jewels and gold weighing his shoulders. He was dressed simply, though finely, in black and silver, the sigil of the White Tree gleaming upon his breast. His dark hair fell past his shoulders, and his grey eyes were keen and searching. There was an ease to the way he carried himself, a quiet strength, as though he had long grown used to the weight of both crown and sword. 

For a breath, Elira could only stare. He was not what she had expected. 

Then she dropped into a graceful curtsy, lowering her gaze as she had been instructed. “Your Highness.” 

Aragorn halted a few paces from her, and to her surprise, he let out something that was almost a sigh. Then, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “Please, Elira,” he said with an earnestness that caught her off guard. “Let us not stand on ceremony. We are both here because of duty, yes, but I would rather we speak to one another as equals. No titles—just our names.” 

Elira blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she searched his expression. She had expected him to maintain the distance that titles often bring, yet here he was, inviting her to set aside the walls of formality. A small breath escaped her lips as she considered his words. It was an unexpected gesture—one that both disarmed and unsettled her. She had been prepared for a king who would see her as little more than a pawn in his game of politics, but instead, Aragorn’s demeanor seemed to offer a kind of understanding that she was unprepared for. 

“You wish me to call you by your name?” she asked, her voice softer now, as if the tension in the room had eased by just a fraction. She studied his face carefully, seeking any sign of manipulation or insincerity. 

“I do,” he affirmed, a small but genuine smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Aragorn, not King. You are not a subject of mine, Elira. You are a woman of Rohan, and I respect that. In time, perhaps, we will know one another better.” 

For a moment, Elira simply stood there, her thoughts swirling. His words were so simple, yet they struck her with an unexpected force. She had braced herself for the grandeur and ceremony that would accompany a king, for the weight of his expectations and the burden of his crown. But in this moment, his request felt almost…human. She had not anticipated this. She had imagined a man of power, distant and aloof, not one who would seek common ground. 

She hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “As you wish… Aragorn.” 

The name felt strange on her tongue, too familiar for a man she had only just met, and yet… there was something in the way he regarded her that made her think he did not wish to be set so far apart. 

A silence stretched between them, heavy but not yet uncomfortable. Elira clasped her hands in front of her, willing herself to meet his gaze. He was studying her, though not unkindly, as if he too were weighing what to make of this moment. 

At last, Aragorn spoke. His voice was steady, deep as a river running beneath stone. “I know this was not your choice.” 

Elira’s breath caught, her fingers curling slightly in the folds of her gown. The words struck her with the force of an unexpected wind, and for a moment, she only stared at him. She had braced herself for pleasantries, for careful words of welcome, perhaps even reassurances meant to smooth over the unease between them. But not this. Not such blunt honesty. 

She swallowed, her throat dry, and schooled her expression into careful neutrality. A lifetime of training in courtly composure kept her from betraying the storm of emotions beneath the surface. Yet still, her heart beat hard against her ribs, as though some instinct within her recognized the weight of this moment. 

“No,” she admitted at last, her voice quieter than she had intended, though steady. “It was not.” 

Aragorn inclined his head slightly, as though he had expected no other answer. His grey eyes held hers—not demanding, nor sharp with judgment, but simply waiting. Measuring. 

“Nor was it mine,” he said. “At least, not entirely. But here we stand.” 

His tone held no reproach, no apology, only a plain acknowledgment of the truth. And that, more than anything, unsettled her. 

Elira exhaled slowly, unsure of what to say. She was not accustomed to such directness, least of all from a king. Most men of power would have sought to ease the moment with carefully woven words, shaping a narrative that suited them best. But Aragorn had done no such thing. He had met the truth without ornament or embellishment, and she found herself unsteady in its wake. 

He watched her still, his gaze unreadable, though there was something in it—patience, perhaps, or a quiet resolve that told her he would not press her to answer before she was ready. 

Then he spoke again. “I will not ask you to pretend to be glad of this, nor will I force upon you anything you are unwilling to give.” 

Elira’s gaze flickered up to his at that—sharp, searching. 

“You are not a prisoner here,” he continued, and there was something firm beneath his words, an unspoken promise. “Nor will I treat you as one.” 

For a moment, the room felt too still, as if the very walls were holding their breath. 

Elira studied him, watching for any sign of falsehood, any subtle shift that might betray his true intent. She had learned, over years of watching the dealings of men, that words could be as sharp as steel, but twice as deceptive. Yet Aragorn’s face remained composed, open but unreadable, revealing nothing but the simple truth of what he had spoken. 

She had not realized until this moment just how much she had feared exactly that—that she would be no more than a piece in this arrangement, bound to a stranger who saw her only as a duty to be fulfilled. That her will would matter little, her voice even less. 

A breath she had not known she was holding slipped from her lips, and with it, some small measure of the tension coiled within her. Not all of it—no, she was not so easily swayed—but enough to make her shoulders ease, if only slightly. 

“I appreciate your honesty,” she said, her voice carefully controlled, “but it does not change the fact that I must do my duty. My people, my family… They will be depending on me.” 

Aragorn’s gaze softened further, and he nodded once. There was a brief silence between them, and then he spoke again, as though to offer some form of comfort. 

“I do not ask for your love, Elira,” he said, his tone low and steady. “But I ask for your trust, if only a little. We will both have to change, but we will do so on our terms, not on the terms of others.” 

Elira met his gaze, her heart thudding in her chest. For the briefest of moments, she felt a flicker of hope, though she quickly smothered it. She couldn’t afford to trust too easily. Still, his words, his kindness—they lingered in the air, a reminder that perhaps this new life wouldn’t be as unbearable as she had feared. 

She nodded, slow and measured. “I appreciate your honesty,” she said at last, her voice quieter now, but steadier. “I can only offer the same in return.” 

Aragorn studied her, and for a moment, something in his face shifted—not quite a smile, but something thoughtful, something near to approval. 

“Good,” he said simply. “It is honesty we will need the most in the days to come.” 

 For a moment, silence settled between them—not tense, but weighted, like the hush before the breaking of a storm. Elira could feel Aragorn’s gaze on her, steady as the mountains, and though she did not drop her own, she was keenly aware of the way he measured her in turn. 

It was an odd thing, she thought, to stand before the King of Gondor and feel as though they were equals in this—two strangers bound by duty, neither of them blind to the cost. 

Aragorn was the first to break the silence. “I know what it is to be given a path not of one’s choosing,” he said, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. “To walk it despite uncertainty, despite doubts.” His eyes darkened slightly, as if some distant memory stirred behind them. “I will not insult you by pretending this is easy.” 

Elira studied him, her expression still carefully guarded, but something within her shifted. It was a strange thing, to hear a king speak thus—not as one who commanded, but as one who understood. 

She glanced away, fingers brushing the embroidery at the hem of her sleeve, tracing the familiar pattern absently. The weight of the past few days—of leaving Rohan, of stepping into an unknown future—pressed down on her, heavy as a yoke upon a beast of burden. But beneath that weight, a quieter thought settled: Perhaps I am not entirely alone in this. 

She looked back at him then, searching his face once more, and though she still felt the walls of her own caution standing firm, the raw edge of her apprehension had softened—just a little. 

“I appreciate that,” she said finally, her voice quiet, but carrying no falsehood. 

Aragorn inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his keen eyes did not waver from hers. “If nothing else,” he said, “we will speak plainly with one another.” 

There was something resolute in the way he said it, as if this, at least, was a certainty he was willing to offer her. 

Elira exhaled, slow and measured. “That,” she admitted, “would be a relief.” 

The corner of Aragorn’s mouth twitched—perhaps the shadow of a smile, or merely recognition of her words. But whatever passed through his mind, he did not speak it. Instead, he studied her for a moment longer before he straightened, his expression composed once more. 

“There will be time enough for all else,” he said, the gravity of his station settling over him like a mantle. “For now, I will not keep you longer. You are weary from your journey.” 

It was not a dismissal, nor was it a command—it was merely the truth, and a courtesy she had not expected. 

Elira hesitated for only a breath before she inclined her head in agreement. “Thank you,” she said, her voice careful but sincere. 

She turned to go, but as she moved toward the door, Aragorn spoke once more. “Elira.” 

She paused, glancing back at him. 

“You may always speak your mind here,” he said. “Whatever else this arrangement may be, know that your voice will not go unheard.” 

Elira held his gaze, weighing his words. There was no hesitation in them, no empty assurance meant only to placate. He spoke as if he meant it. 

She nodded once, slowly. We will see, she thought. Words were easy things, even when spoken with sincerity. It was time and action that revealed their true worth. 

Still, something in her chest felt a fraction lighter as she turned again toward the door. She had expected this meeting to be worse—expected a man who would remind her of her duty, of the role she was now expected to play. But Aragorn had done none of that. He had given her honesty, and though it changed nothing of their circumstances, it was more than she had dared to hope for. 

The heavy wooden door opened under the hand of a waiting servant, and cool air stirred the loose strands of her hair as she stepped into the corridor beyond. She did not look back. 

The chamberlain was waiting just beyond the threshold. His sharp eyes flicked to her face, likely searching for some sign of how the meeting had gone, but she gave him nothing. Her expression remained composed, her posture straight, betraying nothing of the thoughts still tumbling through her mind. 

“This way, my lady,” the chamberlain said smoothly, bowing slightly before turning to lead her back toward her chambers. 

Elira followed in silence, her fingers still curled lightly at her sides, as if to keep herself from fidgeting. 

As she walked through the long halls of the Citadel, her thoughts remained on the man she had just left. Aragorn—her husband-to-be, a king, yet a man who had offered her understanding where she had expected command. 

A strange feeling stirred in her, one she could not yet name. Not trust, not yet. But something quieter, something that might, given time, take root. 

She exhaled softly. Whatever else lay ahead, she would face it as she always had—with her head held high, and her heart her own. 

***

The halls of the Citadel were quiet at this hour, shrouded in the heavy silence of night. Only the occasional torch burned in its sconces, casting long flickering shadows along the stone walls. Elira’s steps were light against the cold marble, yet in the hush of the empty corridors, they seemed too loud, as if she were an intruder in a place not meant for her. 

She had not intended to wander, yet rest eluded her. Sleep had never come easy in strange places, and in Minas Tirith, where every carved pillar and vaulted ceiling reminded her that she was no longer home, she felt more restless than ever. The weight of expectation, of duty, of the unknown road ahead pressed upon her, making her feel as if she could not draw breath. 

Almost without thought, her feet carried her away from her chambers, away from the cold halls of stone, toward the place she felt most at ease. She had known where she would end up before she even began walking. 

The scent of hay and horses greeted her as she neared the royal stables, comforting in its familiarity. The great wooden doors stood slightly ajar, and it was as she reached them that she heard the commotion within—sharp voices, the unmistakable thud of hooves striking the ground in protest, the jangle of a bit yanked too harshly. 

Elira hesitated only a moment before stepping inside. 

The hush of the night was broken only by the restless shifting of horses and the distant murmur of the wind against the high walls of the Citadel. The scent of hay, warm leather, and damp earth filled the air, familiar and grounding, though it did little to steady Elira’s pounding heart. Before her, a great white stallion tossed his head, his powerful muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, his eyes wild with fear as his legs struck the ground in frantic protest. The stablehands clung to the fraying threads of control, their grips unsteady, their voices sharp with frustration. 

“Stay back, my lady,” one of them warned through gritted teeth as the stallion reared again, hooves striking the air. “He’s dangerous—” 

But Elira had already stepped forward. 

The stablehands’ voices faded into the background, as distant and unimportant as the torchlight flickering along the beams above. There was only the horse before her—his panic, his strength, his fury at being restrained. She knew this wild defiance, had seen it before in battle-scarred warhorses, in colts yet unbroken, in the noble spirit of Rohan’s finest steeds. He was not dangerous. He was afraid. 

“Hush now, proud one,” she murmured in Rohirric, her voice steady and low, an echo of the tones her father had once used when speaking to his own stallion. She let her hand hover just before the stallion’s muzzle, letting him take her scent, letting him choose to come to her. “You are a mighty beast, but there is no battle here. Nothing is happening. You are safe.” 

The stallion tossed his head once more, his nostrils flaring, but he did not lunge. The whites of his eyes faded as he focused on her instead of the chaos around him. 

Gently, Elira placed a hand against the warm velvet of his muzzle. His breath was hot and heavy against her palm, and as she ran her fingers down the bridge of his nose, she felt the tremble of his agitation begin to ebb. She stroked him as she spoke, soft Rohirric words flowing with practiced ease, the voice of one who had spent her life among such creatures. 

“There now, my fierce one,” she whispered. “There is no need for this fight. You are safe. The war is over.” 

The war is over. 

The words nearly caught in her throat, as she thought immediately about her father. The war might be over, but the sorrow remains long after.   

A warm huff against her palm pulled her back to the present. The white stallion’s ears twitched, his muscles no longer bunched with fear, his breathing even. He lowered his head slightly, his great frame relaxing beneath her touch. 

“You see?” she murmured, giving him a final stroke. “There is no need for such a fight.” 

“You have a way with them.” 

The voice, spoken in flawless Rohirric, startled her. 

Elira turned, her hand still resting against the stallion’s face. 

Aragorn stood just beyond the lantern’s glow, half-shrouded in shadow. His grey eyes, keen and perceptive, watched her with an unreadable expression. He had been there for some time, she realized, unnoticed as she had lost herself in the moment. 

At once, the stablehands straightened, their hands falling away from the horse’s bridle. But Aragorn did not look at them. With a flick of his fingers, he dismissed them, and after a moment’s hesitation, they bowed and departed, leaving her alone with him. 

Elira stood frozen, unsure of what to say. 

Would he rebuke her for interfering? Tell her this was not her place? 

Instead, Aragorn inclined his head slightly. “I am not surprised,” he said at last. “You handle horses well.” 

His voice was even, but something in his tone made Elira pause. It was not just an observation—it was an acknowledgment, almost an approval. 

To her own surprise, she let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I have handled hundreds like this one.” She ran a final hand down the stallion’s nose before stepping back, smoothing the creases in her gown. 

Aragorn’s lips curved, just slightly—not quite a smile, but something close. “I do not doubt it.” 

She hesitated, glancing at him sidelong. “You speak Rohirric?” 

Aragorn nodded. “I spent time in Rohan, years ago.” 

Elira studied him, the flickering light casting shifting shadows across the strong planes of his face. 

She had heard of a northern ranger who had once ridden alongside the Riders of the Mark, a man who had fought with the fire of the old kings and the wisdom of a seasoned warrior. The name Thorongil had surfaced in whispers among the elders when she was a girl, spoken with respect. 

Now she understood. 

She turned her gaze back to the stallion, her voice quieter. “I had a horse like this once. Proud, strong… a terror to be around.” 

Aragorn chuckled, a deep and knowing sound. “And what became of him?” 

The mirth in her expression faded. The tightness in her throat returned. 

“I watched him being buried two weeks ago.” 

The words felt heavier than they had when she had said them to her sister, to the stablehands, to her mother. There was something about saying them to Aragorn that made the grief she had long buried stir again, a quiet ache that was more than just the loss of her beloved horse. It was the loss of her past, of her home, of everything that had been swept away in the wake of the war. Arduro had been more than a horse—he had been a part of her life, a constant companion, the one who had shared her every moment. And now he was gone. 

She could still see it—the grave, the shovels moving earth over his lifeless form, the way the wind had carried away the last echoes of his presence. 

The image of him—his mighty body still, the light gone from his proud dark eyes, his golden coat dulled with dust—flashed before her as vividly as if she were standing once more at his grave. She remembered how she knelt in the damp earth, her fingers curling into the mud that covered him, as though she could call him back. 

Aragorn was silent for a long moment. Then, in that same steady voice, he said, “I am sorry.” 

Elira looked up at him, startled. She had heard those words before—had been met with empty condolences, with words spoken out of obligation rather than true feeling. 

But Aragorn meant them. 

Elira’s eyes flicked to his, searching for any sign of insincerity, but she found none. The depth of his words, the weight behind them, startled her. He had no reason to offer such a thing—there was no expectation, no duty. And yet, there it was. She had expected sympathy, of course, but not this. Not this quiet understanding, this feeling that Aragorn might truly see her, might understand something she herself was only beginning to grasp. 

The silence between them was not uncomfortable. 

Then, Aragorn gestured for her to follow. “Come,” he said. “I would show you something.” 

Curious, Elira stepped in stride beside him. 

Aragorn led Elira down the long, quiet corridor of the stable, the low hum of the lanterns their only accompaniment. The dim light flickered across the smooth wood of the stalls, casting shadows that danced across the floor as if in gentle conversation with the dust motes swirling in the air. Elira followed at his side, her thoughts drifting like the light, unsure of where they might land. There was something in the air, something between them, though neither had yet named it. 

They came to a halt before one of the stalls. Inside, a bay stallion stood, his coat gleaming in the half-light like burnished mahogany. His eyes were wide, intelligent, and unafraid. Elira felt a pang of recognition, an understanding of the bond between man and beast that spoke more than words ever could. 

“This is Brego,” Aragorn said softly, his voice low with affection. He extended a hand, his fingers gently brushing the horse’s neck as Brego snorted and nickered in greeting. “He carried me through many battles, and I owe him my life more times than I can count.” His tone, typically so commanding, had softened, and there was something in his gaze—something almost reverent—that made Elira pause. There was no mask here, no pretense. He stood before her as simply a man, a man who had known loyalty, courage, and perhaps even loss. 

Elira studied the horse, her heart stirred by the sight of the noble creature. She could see the strength in his muscles, the grace in his movements. He was a horse born for battle, for greatness. A horse that demanded the same loyalty he gave. She studied the horse, the noble lines of his frame, the keen awareness in his gaze. A Rohirric steed. 

“You have good taste,” Elira said quietly, her voice softened by the sudden, unexpected connection she felt to both the horse and the man beside her. 

Aragorn’s lips lifted slightly, a ghost of a smile that spoke of something warmer than what was typically seen in the throne rooms of Gondor. He ran his hand down Brego’s neck, murmuring something in Elvish, words that were so low, so intimate, they seemed to belong only to the horse and the man. There was a tenderness in the motion, a quiet reverence that Elira could not help but notice. For the first time, she saw Aragorn not as a king, nor as the stranger she had been bound to by duty, but simply as a man who loved deeply. 

And it unsettled her. 

And suddenly, watching him like this, she realized— 

If not for the circumstances that bound them, she might have liked him enough to befriend him. 

The thought unsettled her even more. 

She had seen him as a king, as a stranger, as the man duty had forced her to wed. 

But here, in the dim light of the stables, with his hand resting upon his horse and his voice low with affection, he seemed simply a man. 

And that, more than anything, made him dangerous. 

She stood for a long moment, watching the two of them. Aragorn, his hand gentle against the stallion’s neck, his eyes soft with affection, and Brego, the proud beast who stood unflinching, his trust implicit in his stance. It was a bond Elira could understand, a bond she had known with Arduro, but it was also a reminder that her heart was no longer free to be so fully given. 

Aragorn’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Brego has been with me through much. He carried me at Helm’s Deep, at the Black Gate. In the darkest of days, when hope seemed lost, he was there. He is more than a horse to me. He is my friend.” 

When Aragorn mentioned Helm’s Deep, a cold shadow fell across Elira’s chest. Helm’s Deep—the place where her father had fallen, where her heart had been torn asunder. Her breath caught, and for a brief moment, she found herself frozen. She turned her gaze to Brego, her fingers tracing a delicate line along the horse’s neck, but her mind was elsewhere—lost in the memory of her father’s last moments. Aragorn fought there too. He had fought beside the Rohirrim, just as her father had. 

Why had Aragorn lived when her father had perished? The thought clung to her, bitter and raw. It seemed cruelly unjust that he had been spared, while her father’s body had been laid to rest beneath the great oak at the edge of their estate. Aragorn had fought valiantly, no doubt. But had it been fate, or luck, that had determined who had survived and who had fallen? Elira’s heart tightened as she realized how much she resented the whims of fate. 

She blinked quickly, pushing the thought away, but it left a lingering bitterness in her chest, one she could not easily ignore. Her fingers tightened around the stallion’s mane, grounding herself. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly at last, her voice steady now, though still touched by the weight of what they had shared. “Thank you for showing me Brego.” 

Aragorn nodded, his eyes meeting hers. “It was a privilege.” 

The silence between them was not heavy but filled with the kind of understanding that only those who had seen the worst the world had to offer could share. And in that moment, something shifted—something small but significant. There was no turning back from it, but Elira did not mind. For once, the future did not seem so daunting. 

Elira felt the weight of the moment settle upon her like a heavy cloak, a silence between them that was too deep, too intimate for her to bear. The gentle glow of the lanterns, the soft sound of Brego’s breathing, the stillness of the stable—all of it seemed to press in, drawing her thoughts to places she did not wish to visit. 

She glanced at Aragorn, who was standing there beside Brego, his posture composed yet relaxed. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what it might have been like had the years been kinder, had their paths not crossed at the confluence of politics and loss. The rawness of their shared understanding was not unwelcome, but it stirred in her something restless, something that spoke of roads not taken, of what could have been in another life, in another time. 

Her heart tightened painfully, and the memory of her father’s face—the last time she had seen him, so proud, so certain—flashed before her eyes. The grief of his death had been a constant companion, an ache that gnawed at her from the moment she had received the news. But now, as she stood in the shadow of Aragorn’s quiet strength, something else stirred. Her father, his death, Arduro’s burial—it was all still so fresh. Too fresh. 

And now, this man, this king, who had fought beside the people of Rohan, who had shared in the great battles of her homeland—who, she realized with a sharp pang, had fought at Helm’s Deep, the very battle where her father had fallen. 

The bitter thought crossed her mind yet again—why had Aragorn survived, when her father had not? What made him worthy of life, when her father, so strong, so full of pride and purpose, had been taken from her? The question lingered in her chest like a stone, heavy and unyielding. Her eyes flickered briefly to him, but she quickly looked away, unwilling to let that thought take root any further. 

“I should go rest,” she said suddenly, her voice quieter than she intended. The words felt empty, a shield to deflect the weight of the questions she could not voice. “It has been a long day.” 

Aragorn turned his gaze toward her, his face unreadable, but there was an understanding in his eyes that made her throat tighten once more. He nodded, his expression gentle. 

“Of course,” he said softly. “Rest well, Elira.” 

For a moment, she hesitated, the words she wanted to say—words she wasn’t sure she could express—teetering on the edge of her tongue. She wanted to tell him how deeply she felt the dissonance in her heart, how the honor and pride of Rohan seemed to twist when faced with the reality of this union. How, in the presence of a man like Aragorn, her memories of her father, of Arduro, felt like they were drowning under the weight of a future she did not fully understand. 

But she said nothing. Instead, she simply nodded, giving him a brief smile that she knew was more a mask than a true expression of her heart. 

“Good night,” she added, turning quickly, unable to stay a moment longer. 

As she moved away, her footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor, and she could feel the pull of Aragorn’s gaze lingering on her back, though she did not dare to look again. Her mind was swirling, a tempest of conflicting emotions. Her father’s death, Arduro’s burial, Aragorn—who had become a part of her world in ways she had not foreseen, who had quietly entered her thoughts and seemed to demand a place within them, though she had not invited him. 

By the time she reached the door of her chambers, her breath was shallow, and her hands trembled slightly, still carrying the touch of Brego’s strong coat. She paused, resting her forehead against the cool wood of the door, breathing in deeply as though to steady herself. The weight of grief and confusion pressed on her chest. 

Inside, her bed awaited her, its quiet, empty expanse a refuge from the complexity of her thoughts. But sleep would not come easily. 

She thought of Arduro—of how proud he had stood, of how he had once carried her through the fields of Rohan, steady and unyielding. She remembered the day he had been buried, the wind carrying away the dust from the mound of earth that now held his bones. Her chest tightened, the memory too vivid, too painful. 

And then, Aragorn’s face rose unbidden in her mind—softened by the quiet words of understanding, by the brief but meaningful connection they had shared. She could not deny the pull between them, the curiosity she felt. It was not just his strength or his sorrow—it was something more. Something she could not yet define. 

Her eyes closed, and for a moment, she wished she could simply slip back into the simplicity of her life in Rohan, where things were less complicated, where her father had been alive, and Arduro had still been by her side. She wished, too, that she could undo the marriage that bound her to this king, that she could find a way back to the life she had once known. 

But it was impossible. The future was not hers to control. The marriage would go forward. And whatever path lay ahead, she knew it would demand her full attention, her full heart—even if she was not yet ready to give it. 

With a long, shuddering breath, Elira pushed the door open, stepping inside her chambers, but the questions, the uncertainties, stayed with her—clinging like shadows in the dark. 

She sank onto the bed, her fingers curling into the fabric, her mind adrift between the past, the present, and the uncertain future that lay ahead. She thought of her father once more, the man who had given her everything, and then of Aragorn, the king who had shown her a glimpse of what might be—a future that felt both alien and inevitable. 

As her eyes fluttered closed, she could not help but wonder what might have been, had fate not intervened. 

***

In the shadows of a distant chamber, hidden behind the tall, sweeping towers of Minas Tirith, a group of discontented noblemen gathered once again. The chamber was dimly lit by the flickering glow of a single candle, its light casting long, wavering shadows across their faces. The air felt thick with tension, a palpable sense of resentment hanging over them. The stone walls, weathered by time and silence, bore witness to the quiet conspiracy taking place. These men, once influential in the court of Gondor, had seen their power slip away under Aragorn’s rule, and the loss was gnawing at them like a festering wound. 

They sat hunched over the heavy oak table, their voices low but sharp, their faces twisted with frustration and suspicion. Their robes of fine cloth rustled as they shifted in their seats, exchanging glances filled with bitterness. One of them, a man whose once-commanding presence had now been reduced to the murmurs of the forgotten, was the first to speak. His voice, though low, was cutting. 

“Have you heard?” he said, eyes glinting with dark fire. “The King has done it now—this marriage with a woman from Rohan. A mere horse breeder’s daughter. It is an insult. A slap in the face to the nobility of Gondor. As if we are nothing more than pawns to be moved around at his whim!” 

A murmur of agreement passed around the table, though some of the men remained quiet, lost in their thoughts. Another, older man, whose once sharp features were now worn by years of scheming, looked up, his expression thoughtful. He ran a finger absently over the rim of his goblet as his eyes narrowed. 

“Do you truly believe this… alliance with Rohan is as simple as it appears?” he asked. His voice was calm, almost soothing, but the undercurrent of calculation was unmistakable. “He marries her to solidify ties with Rohan, yes. But it is more than that. He is showing us his true intentions—he will not bend. He has cast aside all our counsel and chosen his own path. A path that leads us further from his favor with each step.” 

One of the younger men, his face a mask of bitterness, clenched his fist. “He mocks us, does he not? He owes us. We were the ones who ensured his throne, who placed him there after Lord Denethor’s death. And now he spits upon us like this—no consideration for those who have served him.” 

The others nodded, murmuring in agreement. Their faces were flushed with frustration, their eyes darting back and forth in quiet resentment. The air seemed to grow thicker with each word spoken. The weight of their growing disdain hung heavy, palpable. 

Another noble, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was measured, carrying a tone that had long since lost any semblance of loyalty. “And what are we to do about this? We cannot simply watch as our influence withers away. His decisions, his choice to marry a woman of Rohan—it makes it abundantly clear that he has no intention of bending to our will. He is determined to rule alone. If we cannot sway him through reason, we must find another way.” 

A stillness settled over the room as each man considered the words. It was not an idea born out of rashness, but one born of necessity. They had seen Aragorn’s strength, his steadfast resolve. His bond with Rohan was a clear challenge to their longstanding influence in Gondor. The path forward was not one of negotiation. It was one of force, albeit a subtle one. 

One of the men, whose sharp eyes had long been focused on the larger world beyond Gondor’s borders, leaned forward. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, “we do not need to turn to the people within Gondor. Perhaps the answer lies beyond our walls. To the south, in Harad. The leaders there are discontented. They are not blind to the changing tides. And they know, as we do, that Gondor’s strength lies in its alliances. If we are to weaken Aragorn, we must first find a way to exploit these fractures, these hidden alliances.” 

A murmur passed between them, the idea taking root as it was spoken aloud. Another man spoke, his voice low but filled with a quiet assurance. 

“We have already made contact with them,” he said. “The Haradrim leaders are disillusioned with Gondor’s new direction, especially under Aragorn’s rule. They will be willing to join us. They will provide the strength we need. If we can promise them something—control over trade routes, protection from their northern enemies—perhaps we can strike a deal.” 

The others exchanged glances, nodding slowly, their expressions darkening with the weight of the plan unfolding before them. This was not a course of action they had taken lightly, but it was one they knew they had to follow. They had seen too much, lost too much to simply sit idly by as Aragorn’s rule continued to tighten around their throats. 

One of the men, who had been silent for much of the conversation, finally broke the silence. His voice was measured, though his eyes gleamed with cold calculation. “We cannot afford any mistakes. This must be done in secret. If even the faintest rumor reaches Aragorn’s ears, it will be the end of us all.” 

The others nodded in agreement. They were no strangers to intrigue and secrecy. They knew the stakes. 

“There will be no turning back,” the first man said, his voice low and resolute. “We strike swiftly and without hesitation. If Aragorn will not bend, then we will find others who will bend the knee. Together, with the strength of Harad at our backs, we will make Gondor ours once more.” 

The others rose, their eyes filled with a shared resolve. The candle flickered as if in agreement, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch across the room. Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the whispers of distant lands. The promise of power—of revenge—hung heavy in the air. With their decision made, the men of Gondor turned their backs on their king, their thoughts already focused on the path ahead. 

The winds of change were rising. 

[themoonlily]

Éothiriel story ideas, part x

some time after the Ring War, Éomer comes to Minas Tirith along with some of his own councillors to find himself a queen

it so happens that Imrahil's people are also in the city looking for a suitable husband for Lothíriel

Éomer is feeling reluctant about the affair and is impatient, which leads into him unintentionally causing a scene with a potential bride candidate

the lady in question wants nothing more to do with him

his councillors ship Éomer off to Emyn Arnen before he causes more trouble and scares off any other ladies

Lothíriel happens to be visiting Éowyn and Faramir (probably because she also has Feelings about the prospect of a marriage with some stranger and is trying to avoid suitors)

for some reason Éowyn and Faramir are summoned to Minas Tirith, leaving the two guests to their own amusements

these amusements include: complaining to each other about meddling councillors trying to control their lives, offering shoulders to cry on, he gives her punching lessons in case she ever gets in a tight spot with a suitor she doesn't like, she gives him advice about Gondorian women, picnics in the woods, trying and failing at fishing, falling in the river together, getting scared because of a very great thunderstorm and sneaking off to the other one's bedroom to cuddle, kissing practice, eloping together

they literally elope and inform the councillors and Imrahil's people that there's no need to continue looking for brides/husbands because they've already got married

(this all was possibly orchestrated by Éowyn and Faramir who thought Imrahil and Éomer's councillors had the wrong idea)

they live happily ever after

[marietheran-archived]

LotR reread - book 2, chapter 6 - Lothlórien

I was never that great a fan of dwarves, but all those moments of cultural significance Tolkien gives Gimli are something*･✧

And I love the fact that he gets to see his people's ancestral realm, despite it all, and even be something of a guide to the rest of the fellowship at times.

That was in the previous chapters, but kudos to Gandalf for frequently consulting Gimli even though he ultimately had the greater knowledge of Moria

"Though Orcs will often pursue foes for many leagues into the plain, if they have a fallen captain to avenge" implies an interesting sort of semi-loyalty, even when not pressed by the person commanding it.

Mysterious Allusions to Aragorn/Arwen Counter: 2.875 (why must there be so many that might be more general, but...?)

I have decided that the bad reputation Lothlorien has among some Gondorians is, more or less, due to the fact that once in a while a young scholar will realise the Lady of the Golden Wood was there for most of history, and set out to interview her, be rather indelicate about it (this is her family, after all!) and get summarily thrown out.

"But from the West has come no word/ And on the Hither Shore/ No tidings Elven-folk have heard/ Of Amroth evermore"

Elves can forget! "That is but part for I have forgotten much". I don't know if it's common fanon that they can't, but I have met with it, and it's not true.

The description of the night spent among the trees, and the elves speaking in whispers while Frodo is half-asleep... something about it moves me.

A Lorien elf with gold hair... hmm, clearly it isn't nonexisten among the elves of Middle-earth. Lothlorien did have a population that included some Noldor (including maybe some more part-Vanyar than just Galadriel), but this seems more like it might be a silvan elf.

Aragorn's handling of the blindfold situation does cast him in a very good light.

Frodo seems to be able to look at the world with elvish eyes, here in Lorien, maybe, everything seeming both new and ancient...

"...but whereas the light perceives the very heart if the darkness its own secret has not been discovered." vs. "And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it."?

Allusions to Aragorn/Arwen Counter at 3.875. Admittedly, "Arwen, beloved" is more than an allusion, but it's in elvish so no one understands it at first.

"And taking Frodo's hand in his, he left the hill of Cerin Amroth and came there never again as living man." *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

I'm beginning to fall in love with Aragorn again.

That last quote is weirdly phrased though... does it imply he came there not as a living man? or is it just a poetic expression?

[gaindragon]

THE TARGARYENS OF MIDDLE EARTH; A SHORT HISTORY.

while much is stored in the archives of minas tirith and the scrolls of imladris, true scholars know this is but a meager part of the land's great history, and untold accounts have either been long forgotten or their record has been kept secret. that which has been put down in the telling of house targaryen comes largely from when their heraldic banner has been seen upon the field of battle. what has been passed down by the chroniclers and lore-masters gives but a brief tale of one of númenor's oldest persisting houses.

the targaryens were one of the many noble houses of númenor aligned with the king's men, later to be known in part as members of the descendants of the 'black númenóreans'. their house was not one of prominence, keeping no strongholds nor governance amongst the lesser men of middle earth, preferring instead to hold to their ancient seat on númenor. in the year 3262 of the second age, when sauron was brought to númenor as the prisoner of ar-pharazôn only to shortly be elevated to role of advisor to the king, the targaryens were the first of the númenórean houses to hearken to the dark lord. the targaryens partook in the proffered dark magicks, of which they already had an affinity for, and it is said that sauron presented them with a vial of dragon's essence, to which their blood and the blood of their lineage would be eternally bound. deceiving them into thinking this would bring them power nearer to the likes of the eldar and the valar, the targaryens were misled by sauron to consider their house as more akin to gods rather than mere men; a notion that has since spread like a fire.

some years before the downfall of númenor, one of the targaryens had a vision of the destruction that awaited them lest they depart and build a new stronghold in middle earth. thus it was that the targaryens and their household left númenor, choosing to settle in the withered heath rather than the havens of umbar. it is there that they came upon the last dragons, and thus their many-towered citadel was named dragonstone. long had the dragons become disobedient, heeding naught but their own fancies and obeying no summons. it was the targaryens who finally brought the dragons to heel, as sauron intended, for now he had a tool to bend the dragons back to his will; the targaryen dragonriders. when the downfall of númenor swept the island beneath the sea and sauron returned, in the coming decades many of the targaryens left dragonstone to fly to the aid of barad-dûr during the years-long siege. many a dragon and a targaryen were slain, and in the wake of sauron's defeat in the year 3441 of the second age, the remaining of house targaryen retreated back to dragonstone.

some travelled and married with house velaryon, another remnant of the 'black númenóreans' who resided as a power in umbar. in order to put an end to the battles waged between them in the following centuries, a lady of house targaryen wed the gondorian king tarannon falastur in the year 830 of the third age. named berúthiel by the men of gondor, though this was not her name, she brought with her seven dragon hatchlings, and was much detested by the gondorian people for her love of these evil creatures. she was later exiled, and further enmity deepened between house targaryen and the gondorian houses. as the targaryens dwindled due to their custom of intermarrying to keep their gifted blood pure and infighting for the seat of their inheritance, so did their mark upon the annals. one of their last more notable contributions were as dragonriders flying beside the ranks of the armies of angmar against the men of arnor, for with the bond to their dragons came an eternal oath sworn to sauron's forces that they could not break, until such time that the king who was promised fulfills the legend of the targaryen dream, releasing them and their dragons from their oath.

[annabthesolitarywriter]

Gondorian OCs: The Lady of Ithilien

Calatári

DOB: FoA 28

DOD:

Lady from Dol Amroth attending Enna's school. Her maternal grandparents are from a village not far from the Desert of Lostladen (Harad), her mother shuttled between Ithilien and Minas Tirith and her father is an elf. Her name means "Queen of Light."

Title: Khatun (Harad); Lady (Gondor)

Fancast: Anya Taylor-Joy

Daron

DOB:

DOD:

Native of Dol Amroth. Son of a former soldier serving Prince Imrahil created lord following the War of the Ring. He marries Lady Tulisa of the Blackroot Vale.

Fancast: Gethin Anthony

Maira

DOB:

DOD:

Enna's maid in Minas Tirith

Fancast:

Finduilas of Lamedon

DOB: TA 3007

DOD:

Youngest daughter of Angbor the Fearless, Lord of Lamedon, she marries Faramir a few years after Éowyn's death. She gives the Steward two children: Faelivrin "Fae" and Eradan. She's Elenna's stepmom and the two of them have a great relationship. Hers and Faramir's is initially an arranged marriage, but the two quickly develop a mutual respect which eventually turns into affection and love.

Fancast: Laura Berlin

Faelivrin "Fae"

DOB: Around late FoA 16/early FoA 17

DOD:

Third child (and second daughter) of Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien. Her mother is Finduilas of Lamedon, Princess of Ithilien and Lady of Emyn Armen.

She looks up to her big sister and utterly adores her. She's basically Enna's mini-me. She adores her siblings (she has a necklace with their initials) and loves pearls. She legally marries Şehzade (later Sultan) Orhan and receives, upon marriage, the title of Haseki Sultan, thus becoming a queen of Harad (I still don't know which kingdom or province specifically)

Fancast: Isla-Merrick Lawless (child); adult fancast is yet to be decided.

Eradan

DOB: FoA 18

DOD:

Fourth child (and second son) of Faramir of Gondor, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien. His mother is Finduilas of Lamedon. He marries Aeliniel.

Fancast: Henry Proctor (child)

Jannis Niëwohner (teenager/adult)

Gilraen

DOB: FoA 3

DOD: After FoA 220

Princess of the Reunited Kingdom, first daughter of King Elessar and Queen Arwen. Her name was supposed to be Celebrían, but then Aragorn asked Arwen if they could name her Gilraen and Arwen accepted. Though she loves him, she thinks her brother is an idiot and she totally thinks Elenna shouldn't marry him. Outspoken and at times excessively blunt, she has a bad relationship with Arwen. She loves the sea and spends most of the time in Dol Amroth just to get away from her mother and her brother. She's friends with Elenna and Adanel.

Fancast: Kaya Scodelario

Lóthuil

DOB: FoA 16

DOD: After FoA 220

Princess of the Reunited Kingdom, second daughter of King Elessar and Queen Arwen. Her name means "Spring Flower". She's much more of a lady than her sister, but she too is very blunt and loves archery (both sisters are great at it). Eldarion has a soft spot for her (she thinks he's an idiot) and she'll enter Enna's service for a time.

Fancast: Marina Moschen

Meleril

DOB: FoA 19

DOD: After FoA 220

Princess of the Reunited Kingdom. Third daughter of Aragorn and Arwen. She's betrothed to Elboron.

Fancast: Mariya Andreeva

Mörwen

DOB: TA 2941

DOD: Shortly after FoA 120 (presumably FoA 122-123)

King Elessar's first cousin; her father being the older brother of Gilraen, Aragorn's mother. (that's totally another OC and I don't have a faceclaim for him since he won't even be mentioned in the story).

Gilraen (Aragorn's daughter) is extremely fond of her and spends most of her time in Dol Amroth in her mansion. Morwen married a nobleman from Dol Amroth who is deceased. She's widow with no children of her own and loves Gilraen as if she were her own daughter. She's also close to Lóthuil, but doesn't see much of the latter since Lóthuil is not particularly fond of the sea (if the two of them meet, it's definitely in Minas Tirith).

Fancast: Selen Öztürk

Maelivrin

DOB:

DOD: FoA 23-24

Lady of the court. Background for the character is yet to be decided. I only know she'll give the Herald a major trauma. Everyone calls her Maeva (she likes it way better than her given name and it's one of the many reasons why her parents nearly disown her. Not the main reason, but one of the many)

Fancast: Francesca Del Fa

Ethelia

DOB:

DOD:

Lady of the court. Born to a Dúnadan father and a Rohirrim mother, she resides in Gondor. She'll marry Selim.

Fancast: Anna Popplewell

Beregil

DOB:

DOD:

Faramir's assistant/herald/scribe/helper. He's prone to distraction and is very clumsy, but he's extremely loyal to the Steward and genuinely wants to help him.

Fancast: Angus Imrie

Imrolas

DOB:

DOD:

His father was from Dol Amroth and his mother from Lossarnach. He's Beregil's equivalent for King Elessar. He's the king's dutiful secretary, scribe, occasional helper.

Fancast: Daniel Portman

Estella

DOB: Late Third Age

DOD:

Former member of Lady Mörwen's household in Dol Amroth, she now tends to Princess Gilraen. She's the princess's governess, best friend and confidante and her only member of her household. Gilraen loves her because she feels she can actually talk to her. She loves her more than she loves Arwen.

Fancast: Burcu Gül Kazbek

Este

DOB: Late Third Age

DOD:

Princess Lóthuil's governess before she enters Enna's service in Ithilien. She's very strict but kind of loveable as well

Fancast: Burcu Güner

Galahad

DOB:

DOD:

Gilraen's future husband, a fisherman. He's from Dol Amroth.

Fancast: Alfie Allen

Devriniel

DOB:

DOD:

Daughter of Dervorin, lord of the Ringló Vale, and sister to Derevran.

Fancast:

Annúnien

DOB:

DOD:

Fancast: Anita Briem

Aldariel

Fancast: Léa Seydoux

(Unnamed)

Mistress of Eldarion and mother of his daughter Aerin.

Fancast: Gabrielle Anwar

Aerin

DOB:

DOD:

Daughter of Eldarion, Crown Prince of Gondor, and [still unnamed mistress].

Fancast: Bia Arantes

Elphirion

DOB: TA 3020

DOD: FoA 22

Elenna's second husband and father to Anárion

Fancast: Richard Madden

Vairenya

DOB:

DOD:

Elphirion's mistress chosen by Enna herself.

Fancast: Rebekah Wainwright

Anárion

DOB: FoA 19

DOD:

Son of Elenna and Elphirion

Fancast: Aybars Kartal Özson (child); Archie Barnes (teenage years/early adulthood)

Giluen

DOB: FoA 19

DOD:

Daughter of Elarien and Erionwë. Half-human/half-Maia

Fancast:

Daerion

DOB:

DOD:

Crown Prince Eldarion's tutor. Born into poverty, he entered the court of Minas Tirith as a servant to Denethor, Steward of Gondor when the late Steward took him in. Denethor taught him the ways of the nobility and granted him an education.

Fancast: Aidan Gillen

(Unnamed)

DOB:

DOD:

He marries Erien, daughter of Boromir (more info to be added)

Fancast: Sam Heughan

Ivonneth

DOB:

DOD:

A relation to Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.

Fancast: Miriam Dalmazio

Tulisa

DOB:

DOD:

She's originally from the Blackroot Vale. She marries Daron, a minor lord of Dol Amroth who is friends with Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos.

Fancast: Saadet Aksoy

[laurelsblue]

First part of my Stewards’ wives series for LLA.

Wilwarin - mother of Hurin of Emyn Arnen.

Lindissë - wife of Hurin of Emyn Arnen.

Tasarë - mother of Pelendur.

[essenceofarda]

When Fate Calls: Chapter 2

When Fate Calls updated!

Read Chapter 2 | Start from the beginning

Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth volunteers as a nurse and is assigned to the Third Marshal of Rohan's army. At first, no one takes the princess seriously, thinking she's one of those Great Lady Nurses, all show and no backbone, but she quickly proves them wrong, and Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, can't help but be inexplicably drawn to the feisty princess.

Faramir is the Captain of the Rangers of Gondor and is assigned to train new recruits, one of whom is a young soldier named Dernhelm from Rohan. The two quickly become friends and comrades in arms, though Faramir begins suspecting that Dernhelm has a secret that he's not divulging. And as time goes by, Faramir can't deny the feelings he's starting to develop for Dernhelm...

Éowyn is tired of being left behind while those she cares about risk their lives for the greater good. She wishes for nothing else than to fight for her people's freedom and survival. She disguises herself as a man named Dernhelm and joins the Gondorian army, where she meets and befriends her superior officer, Faramir. Things get complicated when the two start falling in love...

WWI inspired LOTR AU.

Main POV characters: Éomer, Lothíriel, Éowyn, and Faramir

[thelandswemadeofpaper]

Kurma of Enni: a farmer and a fisherman that, alongside his oldest sons, was forced to go to war and die in the Dark Lord's name. Husband of Viya and Tenka, father of seven children.

Kurko: only surviving child of Tenka, a boy of ten and seven, one of the two youngest sons, spared from the same war that killed his father and brothers because of his age at the time. A great admirer of the history and the sea, the last one leading him to form a odd friendship with a girl that does not belong to the dry lands.

Vika: Kurko's half-brother, son of Viya. Has more of a tempestous personality and deeply resents their situation, harbours rage against Gondor and their treatment of the East, is proud of his culture and sea heritage, and desires the freedom he was denied. Has an affinity with magic, whose combination with his long-held ambition for power and revenge, however well-intentioned it might be, presents a danger for Dhurara's more friendly approach towards the West.

Kurya: only daughter of Viya and Kurma, works in her family farm. Latter called Kuhina (sea-bride) for her refusal to settle down and get married, claiming to only she will never love someone more than the sea, become a great sailor latter.

Freggo: a simple widowed merchant and former great artists. His son, Briegga, is a childhood friend of Vika and Kurko.

Dhurara: the rebel leader of the horseman tribe Karuk, is Gretta's greatest rival. A former hunter turned soldier, he is proud of his culture and wishes to mediate the hostility between the people of Rhun, allying himself with Gondor and Rohan against the dark enemy. He is a fierce man with noble ambitions, yet he might be in conflict between his desire for freedom and the moral hoes of leadership, which may risk the lives of others or use them as pawns. Later, he is called Urion, the 'fire-son.'

Gretta of Karuk: the self-proclaimed 'King' of the West, is a greedy and malicious man who serves Sauron with the intent of gaining and maintaining his position of power among his own folk. A skilled warrior and a influential lord, he is one of the generals who has lasted the longest in the dark army. Gretta is involved in dark magic and harbors an unsettling obsession with the Eldar. It is rumored that his father, Graham, killed the Blue Wizards.

Estevane: one of Gretta's wives and mother of one of his many sons, is a Gondorian noble woman exiled due to her involvement in dark arts. A cunning and ruthless woman, she shares her lover's ambitions and desires, aspiring to one day be worthy of becoming queen of the East. Ironically, her name in Elvish means 'beauty and hope.' Has the epithet of 'witch of the west' among the people of Rhun.

Araya: daughter of the strongest Chieftain of the Penthu, Lord Akkanan, is a great singer and a well-known beauty. As her lord father rose to power, an alliance was formed with the Karuk King, Gretta. She was offered as a bride, along with a generous dowry. I read the summary of Girls of Paper and Fire recently and the idea of a rebellious concubine seens awesome (I hope she murders Gretta)

Cyssa: The sharp Lady of the Shevan Clan, from which Tenka hailed before her union to Kurman. Tenka served as an ossamê —a a maiden apprentice learning the duties and customs of her role from an older relative before her marriage. Her clan is a old and respected family from the eastern tribes.

Heka, Priya, Naviya, and Peli: kinswoman of the Kurvan

The M'anglik: an intellectual group dedicated to the study of diverse knowledge about the world, including the sea, the stars, and healing arts. Its members are known as the Shariah.

I can't hardly blame Tolkien for spending so much time creating names and cultures, its so fun!

I - finally - have courage to actuallly develop the crossovers and plots I have been writing and slowy creating in my head

And making up names and customs for my favorite Arda's people (my beloved Easterlings) is awesome. I need to be careful so I don't 'sanctify' them, for lack of better words, as much some people love to make them Feminism, Queer Accepting, Not-Racist, Unflawed just like some people do in real life with Native American Cultures.

I genuine thinking about men having more than one wife like some cultures had, not that I approve or fetish it, its just...historical? In some parts of Middle-East? I just don’t want to make Arda Eastern Culture...perfect?

What I can do to make them more 'feminist' is that, since so many men die in Sauron's army, and Easterlings are mostly trying to survive in a bad enviroment, its won't be historically incorrect for women to take men roles becaus of necessity

My Easterling names and words so far

Enni:

Kurma

Tenka

Vika

Viya

Kurko

Kurya

Naku

Rutta

Nysa

Wyla

Penthu:

Freggo

Briegga

Brinna

Adhina

Kuhina

Mharai

Inra

Runa

Welfa:

Oresha

Araya

Suriki

Yefa

Karuk:

Gretta

Dhurara

Kulthan

Valko

kheda (widow)

bri (beauty)

hina (bride)

ku (sea)

van (clan)

nel (woman)

nul (man)

Nelva (literally 'house of women', the place where widows and women whose husbands are away live with their younger children and orphans)

The tribes are deeply intertwined due to the constant exterminations of their people done in the past, both by Edain and Orcs alike, many parts of their cultures were lost, but those that remained were adapted among them

Although they can no longer say they have 'nobles', each tribe is divided into clans, each one proud eith their crafts and all following the same naming system. A single syllable added to the sufix '- van', while they don't have surnames, the firstborn naturally has the syllabe in their names (like the head of Tuivan could be named Tuikan or Tuimer), in daughter or a second son's name its optional

The Karuk and the Welfa are more present in the Sauron's army than the two others tribes, for their weapon and horse skils are more prized there and, with exception of Enni's boat-building and navigation skills, the sea tribe mostly contribute by farming and fishing. The Penthu are forced to give up their elaborate arts and gifts in exchange for more useful crafts produced in mass.

However they have an upper class, those who remain wealthy and powerful despite the ruin of their homeland and its inhabitants, allying themselves with the Dark Enemy in search of glory and participating in the terrorization of their own folk

This is my first time actually writing beyond just random making ideas like that post in 2022

I still starting and I want it to be a crossover, so still in making

Easterling, a simple term, often spoken with anger, fear and mockery, soon lost his original meaning. A vast word that embraced all the folks that lived beyond the Sea of Rhun. From the wild Karuk horsemasters, the skilled artesans of Penthu with their pottery, glasses and paint, the fierce warriors born in Welfa, and those that lived and died in the cold blue rivers of Enni.

[moonrainbowfish]

Lotr and Hobbit characters I ship my mutuals with

@the-second-tonks Boromir

I've said it many times before, but Boromir would adore you with all his gondorian heart. He deeply cares for you and sometimes tells you stories about his childhood and life in Gondor. He enjoys sparring with you and he knows you're more than capable of defending yourself, but should you ever find yourself in great danger, Boromir will always be there to save you. Even if it will cost his own life.

@beenovel Samwise Gamgee

This hobbit would love to be around you. He appreciates how kind and loyal you are, because he is the same. Your afternoon's are often spend with the two of you cooking, or baking for eachother, trying out new recipes and getting culinary creative with the food. He'll give you the most beautiful flowers everyday, grown in his own garden and whenever you need something Sam will always be there for you, worshipping and loving you, like you deserve.

@tolkien-fantasy Galadriel

From the moment she saw you, the lady of light only saw brilliance and greatness in you. And she really loves you, she does. Your creativity and resilience is something to admire and sometimes she can't help but smile when she sees you. Your beautiful face in her hands as she glances down into your gorgeous blue eyes and kisses you. It's moments like these she wishes would last forever, for every hour spend with you, is one of many, she will treasure forever.

@emsilverblades Thranduil

The elven king would find your strength quite alluring. It's not everyday a mortal was able to make him flustered, but you surely knew how to make him weak in the knees for you. He sees great queen/king material in you and in his mind you're already ruling over Mirkwood by his side. You'd be the heart of your kingdom, loved and cherished by everyone and mostly by Thranduil. His beloved and gorgeous Emmilia. Capable of making everyone fall for her in mere seconds.

@smelly-fozzy Kíli

Kíli would absolutely be fascinated with your colorful hair. You're a beauty and someone he thinks he'd wanna spend the rest of his life with. He'd try to include you in his pranks and he thinks you're a really jolly person to be around with. His eyes gleam like little stars everytime you tell him facts about mythology and folklore and everything you know about it. You're clever, funny and a true friend. How could this dwarf not adore you?!

@sehnsuchts-trunken Éomer

I picked the blonde horse man for you, because I remember you saying you really liked him. And looking at him I can honestly imagine Éomer falling for you too. He would love those stories you write, becoming quite intrigued with them (and you) asking if you'd like to spend the evening with him after his royal duties are over. You complete each other and Éomer would kill an entire army of orcs, just for you. I won't be long now before he would ask for your hand in courtship and maybe even marriage.

[arofili]

men of middle-earth ❅ northmen ❅ headcanon disclaimer

          Ealdor was the seneschal of Edoras, an old man in the time of the Lord of the Rings, though in his youth he had been strong and doughty, a great hunter and falconer. He served as a mentor to Háma, the doorward of Meduseld, who learned from Ealdor how to anticipate the moods of the King.           Yet this was only so helpful when Théoden King was ensorcelled by Gríma Wormtongue, the treacherous son of the much wiser and nobler counselor Gálmód. Nonetheless, Háma abided by the rules of the King’s House when Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, and Gandalf arrived at the Golden Hall, insisting they surrender their weapons before seeing the King. Yet in his heart, Háma was grieved at Théoden’s fall, and chose to allow Gandalf to keep his staff despite knowing of the wizard’s power with such a tool.          This decision allowed for Gandalf to throw off the enchantments of Saruman from Théoden and send Gríma scuttling back to his true master, but Théoden still could not let this oversight go unreprimanded, and Háma was temporary relieved from his position as the doorguard. Háma then released the King’s sister-son Éomer from captivity, arrested Gríma, and recovered the King’s sword Herugrim from Gríma’s hoard.           Háma was loyal to his king to the last, riding with him to the Hornburg and falling before its great gate in the ensuing battle. Théoden deeply grieved the loss of his faithful companion, and buried him in great honor under the shadow of the Hornburg, Personally casting the first earth on his grave. After the War of the Ring, Háma’s orphaned son Haleth was taken under King Éomer Éadig’s wing as his squire, in honor of his father’s noble memory.           Despite Háma’s efforts, Gríma Wormtongue fled to Saruman after Théoden’s mind was freed from thralldom, and he informed his master of all he had learned while spying for him in Meduseld. He had not been the most faithful of servants, having revealed Saruman’s double-crossing of Sauron when the Nazgûl came to Rohan, though he attempted to conceal this betrayal from Saruman. When Gandalf rode to Isengard to confront Saruman, Gríma threw a “heavy rock” at him, which was actually the palantír of Orthanc, a precious artefact, and for its loss Saruman punished him severely.           Exiled from Isengard, Saruman and Gríma travelled westward in the guise of beggars, eventually reaching the Shire, where Saruman had been quietly exerting his control under the name “Sharkey.” By the time of their arrival, Gríma had become so degraded and wretched that Saruman shortened his nickname to “Worm” in derision. Under his master’s orders, Worm killed Lotho Sackville-Baggins, and may have eaten him; yet his hatred for Saruman only grew, until it overwhelmed his fear and he was spurred to action by the words of Frodo Baggins after Sharkey’s defeat, slitting his oppressor’s throat and darting down the road. Thus Gríma Wormtongue found his final escape: not through flight out of the Shire, but into death, as hobbitish arrows found their mark, making him the final casualty of the War of the Ring.           Gríma’s dreadful actions were shamed by those Rohirrim who remembered him, but many others who died in the War were greatly honored in songs and poems. The Song of the Mounds of Mundburg honored those who fell in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and the minstrel Gléowine immortalized Théoden King in his own song, though only the last stanza survived into history. That the whole poem was not lost was thanks to his niece Idis, a woman of the court who became a handmaiden to Queen Lothíriel. Idis was a dear friend to her queen, helping her and her Gondorian handmaidens adjust to their new life in Meduseld, and she grew especially close to Lothíriel’s friend Morwen, and after an extended courtship, the two ladies were wed in a great celebration organized by the Queen herself.

[thelordofgifs]

In the interests of being a fair and balanced poll-maker I have been obligingly reblogging the Lothrandir propaganda through gritted teeth BUT. VOTE VIDUMAVI SERIOUSLY. She marries Valacar and then moves away from Rhovanion to Gondor and literally changes her name to Galadwen in order to fit in with the Gondorians!! But they’re all racist and oppose the marriage because Vidumavi isn’t as long-lived as the Númenoreans and they make all these nonsensical complaints about how the blood of the kings is being diluted and other gross stuff and probably are always really rude and unfriendly to poor Vidumavi :( even though the text says she’s a “fair and noble lady” and also she lives to “a great age for her own people”. Also she’s the mother of the bestest boy in the legendarium but that goes without saying obviously. Vote Vidumavi!!!

Obscure Tolkien Blorbo:

Lothrandir vs Vidumavi

Lothrandir:

Dúnadan and member of the Grey Company [Lord of the Rings Online]

Very Good Boy who just wants to vibe with the Lossoth in Forochel becomes one of the main scouts for the Grey Company. Also (spoilers) one of the most annoying prisoners in Orthanc

Vidumavi:

A princess of Rhovanion who married Valacar of Gondor. The ascension to the throne of her son Eldacar, who was hence not fully Númenorean, led to the civil war known as the Kin-strife.

married the (future) king of gondor in her own hometown. one of the most interesting romances in the wider legendarium imo

Round 2 masterpost