#mûmakil

[theworldsoftolkein]

Éomer Faces the Mumakil - by Wout Art

A personal piece two years in the making, on and off. Was dissatisfied with the direction it took and left it for a year. Happy I found my inspiration again.

My favorite parts in the Lord of the Rings are probably those that speak of the Rohirrim. I love their desperate sacrifice and this part of the book, where Éomer is overcome with grief over his fallen sister Éowyn always gets to me.

---------------

An excerpt from The Return of the King, LoTR Book 5, Ch 6, The Battle of the Pelennor Fields, by J.R.R. Tolkien:

And now the fighting waxed furious on the fields of the Pelennor;... and the mûmakil were bellowing as they were goaded to war.... [The] horsemen rode eastward to the succour of Éomer: Húrin the Tall Warden of the Keys, and the Lord of Lossarnach, and Hirluin of the Green Hills, and Prince Imrahil the fair with his knights all about him.

Not too soon came their aid to the Rohirrim; for fortune had turned against Éomer, and his fury had betrayed him. The great wrath of his onset had utterly overthrown the front of his enemies, and great wedges of his Riders had passed clear through the ranks of the Southrons, discomfiting their horsemen and riding their footmen to ruin. But wherever the mûmakil came there the horses would not go, but blenched and swerved away; and the great monsters were unfought, and stood like towers of defence, and the Haradrim rallied about them. And if the Rohirrim at their onset were thrice outnumbered by the Haradrim alone, soon their case became worse; for new strength came now streaming to the field out of Osgiliath. There they had been mustered for the sack of the City and the rape of Gondor, waiting on the call of their Captain. He now was destroyed; but Gothmog the lieutenant of Morgul had flung them into the fray; Easterlings with axes, and Variags of Khand, Southrons in scarlet, and out of Far Harad black men like half-trolls with white eyes and red tongues. Some now hastened up behind the Rohirrim, others held westward to hold off the forces of Gondor and prevent their joining with Rohan.

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

STRAIGHT OUTTA SOUTHERN HARAD -- LIVING, BREATHING, RAMPAGING SIEGE ENGINES.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on the War Mûmamkil and their Haradrim riders, scenes from the War of the Ring and the Battle of the Pelennor Fields as depicted in "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King" (2003), directed by Peter Jackson.

"New forces of the enemy were hastening up the road from the River; and from under the walls came the legions of Morgul; and from the southward fields came footmen of Harad with horsemen before them, and behind them rose the huge backs of the mûmakil with war-towers upon them. But northward the white crest of eomer led the great front of the Rohirrim which he had again gathered and marshalled; and out of the City came all the strength of men that was in it, and the silver swan of Dol Amroth was borne in the van, driving the enemy from the Gate."

-- "THE LORD OF THE RINGS," "The Return of the King," Book V, Chapter VI, written by J.R.R. Tolkien

Source: www.novelforfree.com/the-return-of-the-king_chapter_book-v-chapter-6_1735_199.html.

[ltkebron]

Return of the King reboot where everything is the same but all the Mûmakil look like this:

[mithrandirl]

Not too soon came their aid to the Rohirrim; for fortune had turned against Éomer, and his fury had betrayed him. The great wrath of his onset had utterly overthrown the front of his enemies, and great wedges of his Riders had passed clear through the ranks of the Southrons, discomfiting their horsemen and riding their footmen to ruin. But wherever the mûmakil came there the horses would not go, but blenched and swerved away; and the great monsters were unfought, and stood like towers of defence, and the Haradrim rallied about them.

[frodothefair]

Friendly reminder that Éomer is known for taking out two Mûmakil, but Éowyn also disabled a Mûmak by cutting its achilles tendons. She slashed the backs of its legs riding by, and it collapsed.

Rohanese royal siblings for the win, I suppose?

[autistook]

OK SO RETURN OF THE KING AT THE CINEMA

I've NEVER had as much chills as I had when the ride of Rohirrim happened. I shed a fucking tear. THEN THE MÛMAKIL APPEARED AND THAT HORN WAS BLOWN AND I HAD MORE CHILLS.

I've NEVER cried as much before at this scene as I did tonight when Pippin found Merry, wounded. "It's Pippin" made me BAWL.

Poor person next to me had to hear me cry approximately half the movie.

AND THIS?!:

I would have screamed if it was socially acceptable.

DON'T EVER ASK ME HOW MUCH I CRIED DURING THE GREY HAVENS OR DURING THE MOUNT DOOM SCENES OR DURING YOU BOW TO NO ONE

I've always adored this movie, but seeing it on the big screen was one of the best moments of my life. Not even kidding. Made for big screens. More than worthy of all the Oscars it got.

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 6/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 16.6K (finished)

“Forgive me. But I will not allow myself to deceive you.” Aragorn reached out, meaning to take Legolas’s hand, his arm, something, just to feel as though his very life was not crumbling before his eyes, but Legolas stepped back. It hurt worse than if Legolas had taken a knife and driven it straight between his ribs. “I did not wish for you to find out like this, on the eve of battle. But—” Legolas’s eyes closed. He seemed at war with himself. “I have heard the gulls.” Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

previous parts

-

+I. Minas Tirith

The thought first came to him on the fields of Pelennor, a fleeting idea conceived in one breath and dismissed in the next in favor of more immediate priorities. Legolas looked radiant as he dismantled the Mûmakil, bow aloft, hair billowing elegantly in the wind—the first traces of what if drifted into his mind at that exact moment, then slipped away with the next Orc to come into view.

He did not think of it again until hours later, busy in the Houses of Healing tending to his people. For those who were physically wounded, he helped apply bandages and salves. For some, his mere presence seemed to give them strength and spirit, little though he felt he had done to deserve such an honor. For Éowyn, there was nothing to be done but wait, for hardly anything was known about the effects of a Nazgûl upon the body. He lingered at her bedside each time he made his rounds, wiping the sweat from her brow, praying to every Valar he could name that breath return to her body. She, who had saved them, deserved most of all to live.

Éomer remained faithfully at his sister’s side throughout the day, holding her hand, speaking to her in quiet undertones in hopes his voice might reach her. Once, Aragorn glanced from a few beds down to see Éomer running his hand so carefully through the strands of her hair, so gently, that even if Aragorn had not known them to be brother and sister, Éomer’s affection would have been impossible to miss. Éomer did it again and again, brushing out the golden strands until they lay on the pillow like a crown around her head, and the gesture tugged at Aragorn’s heart in a way that nearly hurt.

Legolas had never touched his hair, and Aragorn had a fair idea why. What if—would Legolas—

He did not even complete the thought before someone groaned in pain a few beds down and he was called away.

The thought came again as he saw a couple embrace in relief upon finding each other alive; again as a woman wept uncontrollably beside a body covered with a white sheet; again as Pippin brought Merry into the tent to be checked, shaking with equal parts relief and terror. There was no more profound place to experience love than in the aftermath of war—love in all its beauty and horror, the sweet and the bitter.

Aragorn did not sleep that night. Even if he had been afforded the time, he did not think he could have with the echoes of men’s cries in his ears and the knowledge of how many had died to keep Minas Tirith from falling. He was kept company by the single, constant thought that had finally taken full shape in his mind, that of what the future would look like for him and Legolas.

Éowyn woke sometime after moonrise, a victory in itself, but there were scores of men who needed tending, and few hands were as skilled as his. It was not a boast; few in Minas Tirith would have even heard of the Lord Elrond, never mind had the opportunity to learn the healing arts under his tutelage.

There was enough work to be done, therefore, that he did not see Legolas until the following morning, when Mithrandir summoned them all to the throne room to decide what would come next.

Even as their eyes met across the room, he could tell that Legolas did not look his usual self. He appeared diminished somehow, pale and wilted like a plant starved of light. Dread seized Aragorn like the talons of a Nazgûl beast. It occurred to him then, as sudden and terrifying as a lightning strike, that victory against Sauron himself would feel no different from failure if something had happened to Legolas.

But in front of all these eyes, what could he do? Aragorn bade his tongue and focused instead on the problem at hand.

To assault the Black Gate in the hopes of lending Frodo time was a crazy, foolish plan, and one likely to leave no survivors, but he could not see another path froward. When Legolas spoke in that unwaveringly direct manner of his—a diversion—and put Aragorn’s idea into simple words, not a man protested further. They had come this far; with the fate of Middle Earth at stake, they had no choice but to see it through.

After the plan was agreed, Mithrandir and the others slowly began to leave. There were preparations to be made, men to be rallied, goodbyes to be said.

Aragorn lingered, making his way to Legolas.

As a rule, they did not lie to each other. To his knowledge, they never had.

But not lying was not always the same as telling the whole truth, and of obscuring the entirety of a situation, keeping private thoughts and emotions that would have great bearing on the other, they had each been guilty exactly once. Their secret had been the same secret, and its eventual revelation in the bowels of Helm’s Deep had brought forth the greatest joy of his life.

In this instance, there was no such luxury to wait and allow the truth to unfold. If all went to plan, and certainly if all did not, they were not promised a single minute past the following dawn.

Four words. A simple, monumental request. There was no more time left, so he would ask, come what may.

Aragorn came to a stop. Up close, it was even more obvious that Legolas was suffering, dark shadows under his eyes and within them, his usually indomitable spirit shrunken as if under some great weight. “Are you hurt?”

Legolas lifted a shoulder, deflecting. “I do not wish to lie to you, meleth nîn.” Aragorn’s heart skipped a beat at the new endearment, then dropped at the raw vulnerability of the words. Even Legolas’s voice was thin, weak. “Please, do not ask me to lie to you.”

“Very well.” He trusted that if Legolas were gravely injured from the battle, or otherwise in imminent danger, he would not make such a request. Perhaps it was only natural that the weight of the last several weeks had taken a visible toll on Legolas; he had been strong for so long, but even Elves had a breaking point. Though he disliked letting this go, he resolved to revisit the topic at a later moment.

Legolas stared expectantly at him, clearly having realized he had more to say. Aragorn stared back. His tongue felt as though it had been twisted into loops more complex than the ones in Legolas’s hair, and the words he needed stilled on his lips.

“Estel?” Legolas prompted. “Are you well?”

It was the preposterousness of such a question, when Legolas so clearly looked the worse of them both, that spurred him onward. In his heart of hearts, he knew that Legolas would never ridicule him, whether he embraced or rejected Aragorn’s request. He knew, too, that Legolas loved him, and did so with strength enough to stand at his side on the morrow in face of certain death.

Still, his heart was pounding so loud he was certain it could be heard throughout all of Gondor. Aragorn took a deep breath. Four words. “Will you braid me?”

Legolas’s eyes widened. It took a long time for him to speak, and when he did, the words were careful. “You have braided me many times. Do you know what it would mean for me to braid you in turn?”

Aragorn did not know for certain, but he had an inkling. The same inkling that had followed him doggedly since the battle and all through the night, that had taken hold of his heart and refused to let go.

“I can see in your eyes that you know,” Legolas said, reading him perfectly as ever. Then, quieter, “Say it, so I may not have to.”

As Legolas spoke, Aragorn found that he did know, with greater certainty than he could have imagined just a moment ago. “It would mean we were wed.”

After another long pause, Legolas nodded, looking miserable in a way Aragorn had never seen. “Forgive me,” he whispered. His voice broke. “Estel, forgive me.”

A cold, sinking feeling spread through Aragorn’s bones. What had he done? “Legolas—”

Legolas held up a hand to forestall him, and just as well, for Aragorn had not the faintest idea what he could say to fix this.

“Forgive me. But I will not allow myself to deceive you.”

Aragorn reached out, meaning to take Legolas’s hand, his arm, something, just to feel as though his very life was not crumbling before his eyes, but Legolas stepped back. It hurt worse than if Legolas had taken a knife and driven it straight between his ribs.

“I did not wish for you to find out like this, on the eve of battle. But—” Legolas’s eyes closed. He seemed at war with himself. “I have heard the gulls.”

The world itself came to a halt.

“Oh, Legolas.” Aragorn surged forward and took Legolas’s hands in his own, desperate to have him close, desperate to hold him. This time, Legolas did not pull way. “Oh, Legolas, by the Valar. How—when?”

Legolas did not open his eyes. “At Pelargir, when we seized the corsair ship. As soon as I saw the shore, I could feel the song of the sea in my heart.”

The way Legolas looked, haggard and frail, suddenly made sense. Aragorn had heard many tales of Elvish sea-longing over the years, usually told in hushed tones by the friend of a friend of a friend of someone who had purportedly experienced it. It was said to be a force of unimaginable might, powerful enough to pull even the most legendary of Elves back across the sea to Valinor. If Legolas had been fighting such a pull for days—

Aragorn could feel his heart splintering into pieces even as he asked the question, but he could not stomach the thought of Legolas in pain for his sake. “Are you—are you sailing?”

He could hardly bear to hear the answer.

Legolas squeezed his hands hard enough to hurt, as though he too needed something to hold on to. “No. No. I will not leave you to stand alone against Sauron.” Aragorn’s traitorous heart calmed just a fraction—he had nearly been preparing himself to have to put Legolas on a ship before supper. “The sea calls to me, yes, but its pull is not so strong yet.”

Aragorn heard what was not being said. “You believe the pull will grow.”

Legolas nodded. Still his eyes were closed, but a tear leaked from the corner and carved a path down his cheek. Aragorn longed to brush it away, for he so hated to see Legolas cry, but he did not wish to let go.

“I do not know how long I can give you. Perhaps years, perhaps only days. So you must forgive me, Estel, for I dearly wish to braid you and wed you in the way of my people, but I cannot.”

“I thank you for telling me.” Legolas made to pull away, but Aragorn did not let go. Where in the past he had been blind to Legolas’s inner thinking, this time, he felt certain he understood what was happening. “But if you think this changes my desires, you would be wrong.”

“How could it not?” Legolas asked.

“Has the sea-longing replaced what you feel in your heart? Or do you still—do you still love me?” And though he was sure, almost entirely sure, that he knew what the answer would be, still his voice wavered.

Legolas’s response was immediate, and forceful. “You are my Elven mate, Estel. I love you, just as I will to the end of my days in Valinor.”

Aragorn released a breath. Somehow, it felt both fitting and jarring that they were having this conversation in the throne room of Minas Tirith, before the very seat he would be expected to ascend if all went to plan. “Then that is all I need.”

“Only in children’s stories is love always enough. I implore you to set that aside and think rationally. We may not have long. Even in the little time we have, I may continue to grow ill. That is no life for a King, Aragorn.”

Where he had thus far in the conversation been Estel, the switch to Aragorn felt pointed, landing exactly where Legolas had likely hoped it would. What Legolas described certainly was no life for a King, or the husband of a King. But with Legolas, he had never been Aragorn, heir to the throne of Gondor—only ever Estel, a young boy alone in a large world, desperate to belong.

“We may not live past sundown tomorrow, meleth nîn.” Aragorn was pleased when Legolas melted a little at the endearment despite the situation, the lines of his face softening. “The forces of Mordor may destroy us long before the sea parts us. It matters not to me. Whether we enjoy this happiness together for a day or for a lifetime, it will be worth it.”

“Elves mate for life,” Legolas pressed. “If I—if the sea calls to me, our customs would prevent you from ever wedding another.”

“I do not want another. And I do not want forever. I want only you.” Aragorn cupped Legolas’s face and stroked the rise of his cheek, demanding that he hear these words. “Legolas, open your eyes.” Legolas did not. “Lassë,” he whispered, a plea and a prayer. “Open your eyes.”

Legolas opened his eyes. They were filled with tears, and a pain so deep it cut Aragorn to the bone.

“I want only you,” he repeated. “So I ask you again—Legolas, son of Thranduil, will you braid me?”

“For us to be wed, you would wear my style,” Legolas said. “Is that—is that what you wish?” Is that what you wish still, he was asking, as though he thought that Aragorn could ever want something else.

“Yes, I wish that.” Aragorn’s voice did not shake. He had never been so certain of anything.

The ensuring seconds might have been the longest of his life. Every heartbeat thudded in his ears.

Finally, finally, Legolas smiled. The pain in his eyes did not dissipate, but nestled alongside it now was an equal part of joy. “Then I shall braid you by my hand, as you have braided me by yours. Let the weave of our hands tell of our love, and let us be wed.”

The happiness that burst forth in his chest could barely be contained. Unable to help himself, Aragorn leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Legolas’s lips. “Let us be wed,” he echoed, giddy with the prospect of it.

Aragorn remembered his promise to himself in the gardens of Imladris, that he would endeavor to savor the moments of peace and happiness that otherwise too easily slipped through his fingers. Each moment with Legolas was even more precious now that there remained no guarantee how many more would be coming, and if their fleeting time together would have to sustain him for a lifetime, he was determined to commit every single detail to memory.

Indeed, he did not think it would ever be possible to forget the way Legolas reached forward, never once looking away from Aragorn’s face, and deftly fashioned a braid at each temple. His fingers brushed lightly against Aragorn’s skin as he worked; each point of contact left Aragorn tingling from head to toe. With each twist of the braid, Aragorn felt as though his very fëa was changing, shifting and growing to make space for another. The feeling of the moment was indescribable—headier than the strongest strongwine, warmer than the blazing heat of a fire, gentler than the lightest caress.

“It is done,” Legolas said, in a voice that sounded as though it came from the very earth, and so it was. Bound together forever—Aragorn could not imagine a better fate.

And so it was that the Estel who had long lived inside him, searching for a home and a family of his own, knew peace.

And so it was that when Aragorn rode upon the Black Gale to battle Sauron for the very soul of Middle Earth, it was with Legolas at his side, Legolas’s braids at his temples, and Legolas’s fëa in his heart.

[celeluwhenfics]

Weekly Rohan poll!

[iamnotshazam]

part 2 of Minas Tirith society trying and failing to understand that Aragorn and Arwen are just. waiting. to have a kid and the royal couple spreading wild rumors about elf reproduction:

Faramir and Imrahil, southern Dúnadain and both scions of Mithrellas, are totally in on it.

Year 15 of Heir Watch™️. Faramir and Imrahil practically skip into court in Minas Tirith, interrupting a luncheon of the Eastern Lebennin Pickled Fishmonger's Guild. They loudly proclaim how happy they are to help Arwen with her ~royal duties~ and bring her various random implements, presented grandly on a silk pillow. A bamboo whisk from the far East, three (3) mûmakil-ivory nipple rings, jarred frog spawn from Harad and, of course, of course, (fishmongers and their family members from rural Lebennin in Minas Tirith on holiday watching spellbound, leaning in) the absolutely necessary carved cylinder made from the heart of a naturally fallen mallorn-tree, enchanted for fer-ahem-ABUNDANCE, and suspiciously. . . "mushroom" shaped.

Faramir and Imrahil both bow and scrupulously apologize to Queen Arwen for being too excited to wait to show these treasures in private later as she requested. Arwen nods sagely and accepts them with grace. Faramir and Imrahil race back out the door to meet Eowyn, who stayed outside for being unable to meet the exacting Gondorian courtly manners expected in this instance without using obvious horse dong puns and metaphors, and is ready to explode.

Aragorn, who Arwen and her loyal delivery lords got the jump on, has to duck into a private chamber because he's bright red and about to melt into giggles. In his study next door he overhears two pageboys listening through a cracked door (their regular duty at court, in case the king needs something) having a quiet but scandalized meltdown:

"What's the frog spawn for? Why - why a whisk? Why does it have to be bamboo?"

"My mom was saying something about the Queen the other day and my dad yelled at her to stop before my little sisters heard. Oh, Elbereth, is this why?"

"Why are there three nipple rings? Not two, not four! Does - do they have three nipples? Do Elves have three nipples?"

"Dad said his cousin's friend's gardener worked under visiting Elves in the eastern orchards last season and she swears up and down the Elves were at first confused about what everyone was talking about, and then they all started laughing-"

"No, no, the Queen - what am I thinking? She pretty clearly has two - oh, don't look at me like I've peeked in her dressing room, you know what I mean - so does the King have three nipples? Is this a Northern Dúnadain thing?"

"That was not a mushroom!"

[niamhcinnoir]

Oneshot for Day 1 of #lotrweek on tumblr

Prompt: memory | history | home 

This oneshot is inspired by these lines from Seeds of the White Tree by @GreenScholarTales :

"When she had first come to him in Minas Tirith, Aragorn discovered his bride to be both joyful and restless. No longer was the elvish reverie enough for her to fully replenish herself, but neither did a human's sleep come easily. It had taken time, and many long nights spent lying awake in Aragorn's arms after he nodded off before she learned to sleep and dream as he did."

•●•●•●•

The memory of smoke still lingered in the air.

It was a pale morning, one of Arwen's favourite kinds. The city of Osgiliath was just about visible, with a combination of distance and morning haze obscuring its ruins. The sun had not quite risen yet, but the sky was light, light blue, with distant clouds a rosy hue that heralded dawn.

Arwen knew the meaning of the rising of a red sun, and shivered, wondering how many of the wounded soldiers had died in the night. The number was decreasing day by day - in fact, for the last few weeks, nobody had died at all, and the remaining wounded were healing, slowly but surely. Even so, the old elvish saying remained in the back of her mind.

She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and looked to the mountains beyond the fields of Pelennor, still darkened where horses' hooves had trampled blood into the earth, of orcs and men alike; black indentations where the Mûmakil carcasses had been burnt still dotted the landscape.

Last night, Gimli had regaled them all with a song in his deep bass voice about the Misty Mountains, a melody passed down to him from his father about the quest to reclaim Erebor. The Misty Mountains could not be seen from Minas Tirith, but the Ephel Dúath were a good imitation, reminding her of the view of the Misty Mountains from the Hidden Valley - tall grey peaks, blurring into shadow. Gimli's song was a reminder that they were grim, and cold, and very, very dangerous.

Now however, they were at peace. It was a sensation they were not quite used to, Arwen could sense that, but now the mountains slept, knowing the evil they held was banished from this world.

Arwen felt a hand on her shoulder then, and knew without looking that it was Aragorn, leaning back against him even as his free hand slipped around her waist. The easy way in which they slipped into such shows of affection, as in Lothlórien in times of old, was a testament to both the endurance of their love, and relief at its survival into this new world.

"Your hands are cold, meleth-nîn," he noticed, his voice low and warm. Arwen smiled at his concern.

"I have been here for some hours already," she explained. "Sleep eludes me, even now. I feel its pull, but it is such a fleeting thing. I confess, Estel, I am used to a different, darker feeling than mere tiredness - a weariness of the soul, where lying still with my eyes closed, or wandering dreams, would not bring much relief. Now that weariness has vanished - and thank the Valar for it -"

"Thank the Valar for it," Aragorn repeated into her hair, so quietly that she could hardly hear him, even as his arms trembled slightly. The Evenstar had been made anew, but Arwen knew that her husband was still plagued by visions that haunted the darkest corners of his dreams; visions of her life smashing into countless pieces as if it was crystal on a cold marble floor.

"What need do I have to sleep? The Enemy had been defeated, and even the Ephel Dúath radiate a serenity they have not felt in generations. Now my weariness has vanished, and I feel so light, that sleep seems so trivial an occupation."

Aragorn laughed. "You have a great many things to learn, rían-nîn. The mortal body does not function very well when it lacks sleep."

Arwen nodded slowly. "That stands to reason. I went to see Éowyn last night - she has been moved from the houses of healing, you know - and was told she was asleep. I was confused, because Adar always told me that sleep is the greatest healer - why then would she be taken away, if she still needed to heal?"

"He was right," Aragorn said, taking hold of Arwen's hands properly and rubbing them gently within his own. The increased blood flow restored some warmth, and he guided her over to a nearby couch where they sat and observed the view together. "However, you and Éowyn and every woman and man in the world still need to sleep - to be mortally wounded is not a requirement."

Arwen yawned, despite herself, and leaned her head onto Aragorn's shoulder once more, settling into his warm tunic. "What about you, meleth-nîn? You are the king. You need rest at this time more than anyone."

He ran his fingers softly through his wife's hair, the strands as soft as the blossoms of the White Tree even as its jetlike darkness reminded him of the night sky. Even more so when she wore white gems in it, or the queen's diadem, that sparkled like starlight. In his youth he had dreamed up a thousand songs about his lady's hair, or her endless grey eyes, or her soft white skin like silk - more than he cared to remember, as his skills at poetry had improved somewhat since then. Even so, a thousand songs would not be enough to do her justice. To say nothing of her endless patience and wisdom, her kindness and steadfast loyalty, and her love - her love, her love, her love. 

To hold her in his arms like this was unbelievable, yet he could think of no other possible reality. Finally, they were together - he was hers and she was his, after a lifetime of patience and despair.

"Estel?" Arwen could tell he was lost in thought. "What of your sleep?"

Aragorn came back to reality slowly, and laughed softly, answering with a question, as he had in the days of their courtship in Lothlórien where they spoke in nothing but riddles and song. "Do you know what home means to a human, a mortal human?"

"Home." Arwen thought about it. 

Just then the sun graced the eastern horizon and crept over the balcony rails, slowly and steadily bringing light to the White City. Soon the haze that lingered in the distance would be dispelled; soon the daily work of rebuilding the city would begin. Arwen would find herself in high demand again, surrounded on all sides by men and women who sought her guidance and leadership as their queen. She loved it, being the one these people needed the most, being able to help those in need and provide the support that her people needed in this time of regrowth and renewal.

"Home is where a person feels safe," Aragorn explained. "Safe enough to build a family, safe enough to have a fire and not worry about attracting orcs or other beings of evil with its light. Home is where you feel safe enough to fall into helpless sleep, where you can curl up and rest without fear."

Arwen only half heard him. The edges of her vision were blurry, her head was heavy, and Aragorn's rhythmic stroking of her hair was making her feel very sleepy indeed. It was hypnotic, and would be an almost frightening sensation, were it anybody but Aragorn.

"Then -" just before darkness consumed her entirely - "home for me is with you."

Thus, the newly crowned High Queen of Gondor fell asleep in her husband's arms on the morning of the one-month anniversary of the Fall of Sauron, finally safe in the knowledge that she could be helpless - just for once.

•●•●•●•

[woodenplankstudios]

Which pet should godzilla and kong adopt?

Couple goals 🩷

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

"THE DARK ONE IS GATHERING ALL ARMIES TO HIM. IT WON'T BE LONG NOW."

PIC INFO: Spotlight on a charging Mûmak of Harad and the Last Ride of the Rohirrim -- the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, from "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King" (2003), directed by Peter Jackson. New Line Cinema.

SAMWISE: "Who are they?"

GOLLUM: "Wicked men. Servants of Sauron. They are called to Mordor. The Dark One is gathering all armies to him. It won't be long now. He will soon be ready."

SAM: "Ready to do what?"

GOLLUM: "To make his war. The last war that will cover all the world in shadow."

-- "THE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE TWO TOWERS" (2002), screenplay by Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens, Stephen Sinclair, & Peter Jackson -- after the works of J.R.R. Tolkien

Source: http://elenastr.blogspot.com/2011/03/lord-of-rings-return-of-king-2003.html.

[stardustmuguet]

Mûmakil / Oliphaunt from the Lord of the Rings, Inktober 2024 day 28 - Jumbo

[kaapstadmk]

I'm having too much fun with this, but, here goes

You know how all the peoples of middle earth are portrayed to speak with variations of different UK accents?

What if we used regional American accents?

Aight, so first, we have the Shire. In my mind, I'm thinking a Chesapeake/tidewater accent, with the Brandybucks having more of a Hoigh Toider accent.

Dwarves, I'm gonna say have an Appalachian accent. Hard not to give them that.

Now, for the Elves, especially the Mirkwood/Sindarin elves? Full on SE Piney Woods accent. The remnant few Quenya-speaking elves speak more of a low country drawl. (Can you imagine Namarië with that slow, sweet tea & magnolia drawl?)

Rohan has a Midwest/Minnesotan accent. No discussion on the topic.

Gondor, personally, I want to give more of a Texan accent, but there's something delightfully fun about giving it either a NY or Boston accent.

Mordor orcs? If Gondor is Texas, then Cajun. And have the Isengard orcs have a New England, maybe Jersey accent. If Gondor is NY/Boston, then have Mordor be Boston/NY. Either way, Isengard remains Jersey.

And then the Easterlings, riding their Mûmakil, come with their suits, kitsch, temple garments, and Utahn accents

Lastly, there's a certain glee that I would have if Aragorn have the remnant descendants of Nûmenor had a surfer Californian accent. It would be most excellent. Or Pennsylvania Dutch. That would also be fun.

Addendum:

Y'all may notice these are all white American accents. That's done on purpose. While there are many distinct and amazing accents and dialects among POC, including AAVE, Gullah-Geechee, Miami English, various Native American accents, various Spanish-influenced accents, Creole, etc., I am white and, as many of the LotR peoples could easily be seen in a positive or negative light, did not want to create a sense of bias secondary to the attribution of a dialect (e.g. placing a white and a Spanish/African American accent on opposite sides of Gondor & Mordor, regardless of which is assigned which) or unwittingly play into racialized tropes (e.g. Native American elves suggesting a "noble savage" trope) and that's before addressing issues such as the "evil" peoples being portrayed in various media with darker/non-Caucasian skin tones.

Call me a chicken, but I would rather throw punches at my fellow white folks than joke around in a way that unintentionally comes across as racist.

[frodothefair]

Ok but… Éomer as a father of girls.

He is going to be the most protective, most doting father ever, who will mess up anyone who has even a whiff of dishonorable intentions with The Mûmakil Piercer (tm). Also, he has mad hair braiding skills.

(Not depicted directly in TGH except maybe in an epilogue, but certainly spoken of as a hypothetical.)

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

Grimbold of Grimslade HC

I decided on this a few years ago when the riders at the stables around here all had to wear masks for a time for obvious reasons. So some fierce ladies who looked something like this:

became my inspiration for Grimbold. An ask from @sillysistersusi this week reminded me, though, that I’ve never written this down anywhere. So…

Grimbold was kin to Théoden’s late wife, Elfhild, and lived on family lands in Grimslade. He had a rough go of it in early life because he was allergic to horses! It took a long time to figure out why he was always wheezing and struggling to breathe, and he wasn’t at all happy to find the answer. He felt ashamed, given the central role of horses in Rohan’s culture, and worried that he wouldn’t be seen as a true Rohirrim if he couldn’t ride.

Recognizing that he would never give up on horsemanship no matter what his challenges, his grandmother made him special gloves and a cloth mask to tie over his nose and mouth whenever he rode to try to reduce his exposure and ease his discomfort. That didn’t fully solve his problem - indeed, he lived his whole life unable to breathe all that well and with various other unpleasant symptoms – but it made things manageable enough that he could learn to ride and fight like anyone else. And when he grew up and turned out to be an extremely formidable warrior, the mask actually became like a calling card, something really distinctive and cool looking. Orcs and Dunlendings near the western borders all knew to fear the masked rider of Rohan.

Grimbold captained an éored that came under the supervision of Théodred as Second Marshal. The two spent a lot of time together and became very close friends on top of being cousins. Grimbold was deeply traumatized by watching Théodred get struck down in such a horrifying way at the Isen and then having to fight orcs for possession of his cousin’s body. He ran on adrenaline for the rest of the battle and managed to report for the muster of Rohan a few days later, but his trauma soon caught up with him and followed him on the road to Minas Tirith. He had trouble sleeping and was easily startled/panicked by little things around him. By the time they got to the Pelennor Fields, he was exhausted and on edge, but he rallied again with the support of Dúnhere and his other men who had seen that he was struggling. Grimbold led his company on the first charge, and he fought valiantly thereafter. Sadly, though, he was killed while taking down one of the Mûmakil. No one knows for sure, but people nearby believed he knowingly sacrificed himself in order to save everyone else in the Mûmak’s path.

The remaining men in the Grimslade éored all took to wearing masks in battle afterward as a tribute to Grimbold, and it became a signature part of their uniform. Many years later, long after anyone who knew Grimbold was gone, the éored still wore the masks and kept alive the memory of the man who would—and did—endure anything for his beloved Grimslade.