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not-ur-manic-pixie-dream-girl · 1 month ago

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Yearlings | Chapter 14

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: 6,560

Content warnings: grief, angst,

AO3

The Houses of Healing were quiet in the late afternoon, the air heavy with the mingling scents of fresh herbs and cool stone. A golden haze stretched across the sky, catching in the leaves of the gardens below, where the last blooms of summer still clung stubbornly to their stems. Elira sat by the window, the carved wooden frame smooth beneath her fingertips as she traced idle patterns into it, her gaze drifting over the paths winding through the greenery.

It felt good to be outside her bed at last, to feel the weight of her own body as she moved, to remind herself that she was still whole, still strong. And yet, even with the soft breeze drifting in, even with the warmth of the sun on her skin, there was something heavy within her—a deep, unshakable ache that no healer could mend.

She had not heard Éowyn enter, but the sound of footsteps behind her drew her from her thoughts. A moment later, the White Lady of Ithilien sank gracefully into the chair beside her, her keen gaze settling on Elira with an expression that was both relieved and exasperated.

“You are fortunate,” Éowyn said, a wry note in her voice. “Were you anyone else, I might have throttled you myself for such recklessness.”

Elira let out a quiet huff, the closest thing to a laugh she had managed in days. “I imagine my stitches would come undone in the process, and then you would feel rather guilty.”

Éowyn shook her head, though her lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “I would simply summon the healers again.” But then her expression grew more serious, and she studied Elira closely, as if searching for something beyond the surface. “And yet, you do not seem as you should.”

Elira hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly against the window ledge. The breeze stirred her hair, carrying the scent of lavender and sage from the gardens below. “I have been thinking,” she said at last. “About many things.”

Éowyn arched a brow, waiting.

A sigh escaped Elira’s lips, her shoulders sinking slightly. “My feelings have become clearer,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But not simpler.”

Éowyn nodded, as if she had expected this answer. “You love him.”

Elira did not flinch from the words. She had spent too long denying them, too long trying to bury them beneath duty and reason. But love did not yield easily to such things. It had taken root in her, deep and unshakable, and now there was no sense in pretending otherwise.

“Yes,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the gardens below. “I love him.”

There was no relief in saying it, no lessening of the ache in her chest. If anything, it felt heavier now, as if the weight of it had settled more firmly upon her shoulders.

Éowyn was silent for a long moment, watching her. Then, softly, she asked, “And does he love you?”

Elira exhaled slowly, her fingers pressing into the window ledge as she fought the sharp pang that question brought. “I think he does,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I see it in his eyes, in the way he looks at me when he thinks I do not notice. I feel it in the way he lingers when he touches me, in the way he holds my hand even when there is no longer a need to.”

Éowyn tilted her head slightly. “Then what troubles you?”

Elira closed her eyes for a brief moment before turning to meet Éowyn’s gaze. “Because I also see that he has not let go of Arwen,” she said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “Because I know that even as he reaches for me, part of him is still clinging to her, to what they once had.” She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “And it is foolish, is it not? I knew from the start that this marriage was not born of love. I should not feel slighted by a ghost.”

Éowyn’s expression softened, her eyes bright with understanding. “Love is never foolish, Elira,” she said gently. “Nor is grief.”

Elira looked down at her hands. "I do not begrudge him his grief,” Elira murmured, fingers curling slightly against the smooth wood of the window ledge. “I know what it is to lose someone you love, to carry that weight day after day. I do not ask him to forget her. I would not want him to.” She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “But I also cannot bear to love a man who cannot love me fully in return. I will not live in the shadow of another, Éowyn.”

Her voice was steady, but Éowyn could hear the rawness beneath it, the quiet ache that no amount of resolve could wholly mask.

She was silent for a time, her gaze searching Elira’s face. Then, after a moment, she reached out and took Elira’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Then give it time,” she said. “Time to grieve, time to heal. His heart has not yet settled, but that does not mean it never will.”

Elira looked down at their joined hands, then back at Éowyn’s face. There was something in her friend’s expression—a quiet wisdom, hard-earned through her own trials. If anyone understood what it was to love and not be loved in return, it was Éowyn.

“You think he will choose me in the end?” Elira asked, her voice quiet.

Éowyn’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “I think he already has,” she said. “He simply does not yet know it.”

Elira let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, but she did not allow herself to cling to those words. Hope was a dangerous thing, and she had learned long ago not to lean too heavily upon it. Still, there was something comforting in Éowyn’s certainty, something that made the ache in her chest feel just a little less sharp.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the breeze stir the branches in the gardens below. Then Éowyn shifted, her voice turning lighter. “Tell me, are the healers still forbidding you from riding?”

Elira groaned softly. “Yes,” she muttered. “And I believe they enjoy it far too much. If one more of them tells me I must ‘rest and be patient,’ I may truly lose my temper.”

Éowyn laughed, and for the first time in days, Elira found herself smiling. Éowyn’s laughter lingered between them, light and unguarded, before she leaned back against the bench, her gaze drifting toward the open sky. “It is cruel, being kept from the saddle,” she mused. “I remember how I felt after the battle upon the Pelennor—caged, restless. No one understands but our own.”

Elira huffed a quiet agreement, shifting slightly as she stretched her stiff legs before her. “There is a kind of peace that only comes in the gallop,” she said. “The wind in your hair, the rhythm of the hooves beneath you… Nothing else exists in those moments. No burdens, no grief. Just movement and freedom.”

Éowyn smiled knowingly. “And you miss it.”

“I do,” Elira admitted. “But more than that, I miss the horses themselves. The smell of the stables, the warmth of them at my side.” She sighed, tilting her head against the window frame. “I find myself longing for home, for the fields of Rohan, for the foals that must be growing strong by now.”

“They will still be there when you return,” Éowyn assured her. “And your hands will be the first to touch their coats, to guide them, to teach them.”

Elira closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to hold that image in her mind—the wide plains, the scent of fresh earth, the young foals pressing their soft muzzles into her palms. A pang of longing swelled in her chest, but it was gentler now, tempered by the quiet comfort of Éowyn’s presence.

“I only wish I did not feel so caught between two worlds,” she admitted at last. “I am Rohirric, but I am also the Queen of Gondor now. And I do not yet know how to be both.”

Éowyn reached out, pressing a steady hand to Elira’s arm. “You will find your way,” she said. “Just as I did.”

Elira turned to look at her, searching her face for some sign of doubt. But there was none. Only certainty, only faith.

She let out a slow breath, nodding. “Perhaps,” she murmured.

And as they sat together, the city sprawling out beneath them and the gardens rustling in the wind, Elira found, if not certainty, then at least a measure of peace.

***

The study was dimly lit, the glow of a single lantern casting flickering light over the shelves of books and scrolls. The scent of parchment and ink lingered in the air, mingling with the faint trace of woodsmoke from the hearth. It was a space meant for quiet contemplation, but there was nothing quiet about Aragorn’s pacing. His boots struck the stone floor with measured but restless steps, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

Faramir sat at his desk, his chin resting against his fist, watching the king with a mixture of patience and mild exasperation. He had seen men caught in battles far more terrible than this—men grappling with wounds of the body, with grief that could not be mended, with choices that held the weight of many lives. But the struggle before him now was of an entirely different nature.

“I do not know what to do.” Aragorn’s voice was low, but the tension in it was unmistakable. “I did not expect—” He exhaled sharply, stopping mid-stride to press a hand over his brow before turning to face Faramir. “I did not seek to love again. And yet, she is in my thoughts always. It is as if she has settled in my very bones.” His hand dropped to his side, clenching briefly. “And still, I grieve for what I lost.”

Faramir regarded him for a long moment before leaning back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “You love her.”

The words landed like an arrow finding its mark.

Aragorn stilled, his breath caught in his throat. He had known it. Had felt it growing within him, undeniable as the rising tide. But hearing it spoken aloud—so plainly, so certainly��made it suddenly, irrevocably real.

He swallowed, his fingers flexing at his sides. “It is not so simple.”

Faramir let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Love is rarely simple, my friend.”

Aragorn’s gaze flickered, his jaw tightening. “I cannot let go of the past so easily. Arwen—” He hesitated, voice thick with something unnamed. “She was my heart for so long. To love another now feels… like a betrayal.”

Faramir’s expression softened, though there was a touch of wry amusement in his eyes. “Arwen chose her path, as did you. And it is not dishonor to the love you once bore her to allow yourself to love again.” He tilted his head slightly. “Unless you mean to tell me you would rather spend the rest of your days in mourning?”

Aragorn exhaled slowly, looking away. He did not answer.

Faramir studied him for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter now, but no less certain. “She nearly died for you.”

Aragorn flinched, as if struck. He did not need reminding—Elira’s blood had been on his hands, on his tunic, in the very fabric of his being since that night.

“And you would let her slip through your fingers?” Faramir asked, tilting his head.

Aragorn did not answer immediately. He turned away, staring into the dim glow of the lanterns, his thoughts a tangled storm. He knew what he felt. Knew it in the way his heart leapt at the sight of her, in the way he ached when she was absent, in the way the world felt hollow without her laughter.

But could he bear to reach for her when so much of him was still weighted with grief? Could he ask for her heart when his own was still mending?

He did not know.

But Faramir’s words lingered, steady and unyielding.

It would be foolish to let her slip through his fingers.

Aragorn did not speak for a long while. The only sound was the faint crackling of the hearth, the shifting of parchment as Faramir idly turned a page in a book he had no intention of reading.

At last, Aragorn exhaled, a quiet, weary sound, and ran a hand through his hair. “I do not wish to lose her,” he admitted, voice rough. “But I cannot ask her to wait for a man still caught between love and grief.”

Faramir’s gaze was steady. “Elira is not one to wait for anything.” There was a hint of a smile, though tempered with understanding. “But she is also not blind. She sees you, Aragorn. And she is patient in her own way.”

Aragorn turned, his eyes searching Faramir’s face. “Do you truly believe that?”

Faramir gave a small nod. “I do.”

For a moment, Aragorn said nothing. Then, slowly, he lowered himself into the chair opposite Faramir’s desk, as if the weight of all he carried had finally pressed him down. His hands rested on the carved arms of the chair, fingers curling slightly.

The silence stretched between them, not heavy, but thoughtful.

Then, Faramir leaned forward, a quiet amusement in his voice. “Will you tell her?”

Aragorn let out a breath—something between a laugh and a sigh. “I do not know,” he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. “How does one speak of such things when the heart is still mending?”

Faramir considered him for a moment before replying, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “Perhaps the heart does not wait until it is whole to love again. Perhaps it is love that makes it whole.”

Aragorn looked at him, something unreadable in his gaze, but he did not answer. He only sat there, hands resting on the carved arms of the chair, as if trying to steady himself.

Faramir let the silence linger for a moment, then leaned back in his chair with a small, knowing smile. “You know,” he said, tilting his head, “I half expected you to come here seeking advice on horses instead of your heart.”

Aragorn huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Would that horses were all I had to concern myself with.”

Faramir chuckled. “Ah, but even they are not so simple. Éowyn tells me Elira has been scandalizing the court with her opinions on Gondor’s cavalry.”

Aragorn raised a brow. “Scandalizing?”

“Well, she may have told a few lords that their prized bloodlines were ‘all show and no heart.’”

Aragorn laughed at that, a real, unguarded sound, and Faramir grinned. “You admire her spirit,” he observed.

Aragorn nodded, his smile lingering. “I do.”

Faramir’s gaze turned knowing once more, but he said nothing, only gestured to the flagon of wine between them. “Drink, then, and let us speak of simpler things for a little while.”

And for the first time in days, Aragorn allowed himself to do just that.

***

In the days of her recovery, Elira found herself more in Aragorn’s company than ever before. She did not know when it started—when he began seeking her out with such quiet insistence, as if drawn to her presence by something neither of them dared name. But she felt it, the shift between them, the way they gravitated toward one another as naturally as the tide yielded to the moon.

He was there when she took her first steps outside the Houses of Healing, his steady presence at her side as she breathed in the fresh air, the sun warming her skin for the first time in what felt like an age. He was there when, against all reason, she begged the healers to let her ride, and though they refused her outright, Aragorn had looked into her eyes, into the restless spirit that would not be caged, and sighed before murmuring, “I will see what can be done.”

She had laughed when, not a day later, he arrived at the stables with Brego and Faelan saddled and ready. “I should not be surprised you got your way,” she teased.

Aragorn only shook his head. “I did not get my way,” he muttered, offering her a hand into the saddle. “You did.”

They rode often after that, ranging out into the open fields beyond the city, where the wind ran free and the grass rippled like waves in a sunlit sea. The first time she truly galloped again, she let out a breathless laugh, and when she stole a glance at Aragorn, she saw the same quiet joy in his expression, as if this—this feeling of freedom, of motion, of life—was something he had needed even more than she did.

When they were not riding, they walked. Through the palace halls, through the royal gardens, through the hidden, quiet places of the city where no one troubled them. They spoke of everything—things simple and complicated, things past and present. He told her of his travels, of lands she had never seen, of the wild years spent in the North. She listened, captivated, as he spoke of the histories of Middle-earth, of poetry and lore, of the great deeds of those who had come before them. She was never one for idle courtly talk, but this—this was something else. His voice held knowledge and weight, wisdom shaped by years and hardship, and she yearned to hear more, to gather every word, to know him as deeply as he would allow.

And how she yearned for him.

It was a love that had taken root in her heart, unbidden and unshakable, a weed that stretched its roots into her ribcage, her lungs, unwilling to be pulled no matter the ache it brought. It had grown slowly, twisting through her, entwining itself with her very being, and now it was too late to cast it out. Nor did she wish to.

But it frightened her, too. Because love—true, deep love—had never been something she sought. She had thought herself content with duty, with honor, with simple companionship. But this… this was something else entirely. This was a love that burned in her veins, that made her feel more alive than she ever had. And yet, even as Aragorn sought her company, even as his gaze lingered and his hand brushed hers in passing, she could not be certain of what lay in his heart.

He had not let go of Arwen yet. And though he stood beside her now, though he laughed with her, spoke with her, sought her out as if he, too, needed her near—still, she could not know if he was ready to love again.

And she would not settle for anything less.

***

The banquet hall was thick with the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation, the air heavy with the fine scents of the meal laid out before them. Candles flickered, casting warm shadows across the gathered guests as the court of Gondor ate, drank, and talked. The soft rustle of silken gowns and the occasional loud laugh of an overzealous noble filled the space, but all around them, Elira sat with a quiet composure that spoke volumes. She no longer shrank into the background, nor did she try to keep her head low, offering only the softest smiles when addressed. Instead, she carried herself as one who had come to understand her place in this court, her position beside Aragorn no longer something to be tolerated but embraced.

The change in her was subtle, but for Aragorn, it was as clear as the moon rising over the Pelennor. She sat tall, her posture a quiet declaration of her worth. She spoke with an ease that had once been reserved only for the familiar halls of Rohan, her words cutting through the air with a purpose. The nobles around them had begun to treat her with a respect she had not known before, some offering it grudgingly, as though they had no choice but to acknowledge her presence, others with more open admiration. Aragorn felt it, too—the way the air had shifted around her, as if the very walls had begun to bow in respect. They were no longer looking at the daughter of a fallen warrior. They were looking at a lady of Rohan, an equal in stature and spirit to any noble born of Gondor.

He found his eyes wandering to her, studying her expression as she sat beside him, her brow slightly furrowed, her lips set in a quiet line. She had tired of the endless round of false pleasantries, of playing the part of the polite foreigner who needed to be indulged. She had come to understand that she need not pretend, and tonight, there was a certain defiance in the air around her. She was no longer yielding to the niceties of court life. Her place beside him was her own, and she would no longer allow anyone to make her feel as though she must apologize for it. There was a fierce pride in her now, a strength born not just from the memory of her father’s legacy but from the quiet acceptance of her own.

As they were seated near a particularly boisterous Lord Halden, a nobleman known for his excessive display of wealth, the conversation turned to horses. He bragged loudly about a hefty sum he had paid for a stud to breed a hunting horse for himself. Elira’s gaze shifted, a spark of interest flickering in her eyes as she listened to the man’s boast. It was not the words themselves that caught her attention, but the tone in which they were delivered—so sure, so self-satisfied. It was the kind of talk she had heard many times before, from men who had little understanding of what it truly meant to train and care for horses.

Without so much as a glance at Aragorn, Elira raised her brow and turned toward Lord Halden. “A fine choice,” she said, her voice smooth and measured, but the glint in her eye told a different story. “But only if you don’t wish to actually stay in the saddle during the entire hunt.”

The nobleman blinked, a look of confusion crossing his face as he set his goblet down. “What do you mean, my lady?” he asked, his tone haughty, clearly taken aback by her words.

Elira’s lips curled slightly, and she leaned forward just enough to make her words land with the precision of a well-aimed arrow. “I understand your reasoning,” she continued, her voice light but carrying a quiet edge. “The stallion, and I know it well, gives offspring that are strong of limb, proud, swift, and nimble. A fine animal for any man who seeks to display his wealth. And,” she paused, letting her words settle into the space between them, “they are also afraid of only two things—things that move and things that don’t move.”

A small chuckle rippled through the nearby nobles, stifled attempts at laughter that only made Elira’s point all the more apparent. Lord Halden’s face flushed with offense. “What do you know of Gondorian horses, my lady?” he snapped, clearly stung by her casual tone.

Elira did not flinch. She raised her head, the challenge in her stance unmistakable. “More than you might think,my lord” she said coolly, her voice soft but unyielding. “Many of the finest horses bred here in Gondor trace their bloodline back to Rohan. Horses like Galdor, with his steady gait and sharp mind; Eolande, swift and full of fire; and of course, Shergar—whose bloodline still runs strong in many of your own horses. And,” she added with a soft smile, her tone softening, “Arduro, with his coat of molten gold, a stallion I once rode with pride, who was born beneath the vast sky of Rohan and carried my father’s name with honor. And I wonder—do any of them share blood with the horses you so proudly boast of?”

The nobles were silent, some looking at her with a new light in their eyes, others shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Lord Halden stared at her, taken aback by the directness of her words and the ease with which she spoke of horses, of her father’s legacy.

Lord Halden looked at her, his face hardening. “And?” he demanded.

“And,” Elira continued, her eyes fixed firmly on his, “all four of those horses were bred by my father. I was there when they were born. I cared for them, and I was first to sit upon their backs.” She allowed herself a slight smile, one that carried both pride and humor. “I suppose that makes me somewhat knowledgeable about horses, though no doubt not as knowledgeable as you, Lord Halden.”

The hall went silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air. The nobles around them exchanged glances, unsure whether they were meant to laugh or to retreat into embarrassed silence. 

Lord Halden hesitated, his face flushing as he stammered for a moment. “I see,” he said, clearly thrown off balance by her calm confidence. “Well… I suppose you would know more about it than I, though I imagine a nobleman such as myself would have a more refined understanding of such matters, my lady.”

Elira’s smile was subtle, but it carried the weight of her years of experience. “Perhaps,” she said lightly, “but I have no doubt that the horses you speak of are lovely animals. Though, as you can see, they may not be suited for every rider. And if you do not mind being unseated during a chase, I’m sure they will serve you well.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the surrounding nobles, their amusement at Lord Halden’s expense hanging in the air like a pleasant breeze. Aragorn, who had been watching Elira with a growing sense of admiration, could not suppress his quiet chuckle. He turned his gaze to her, seeing the fire and strength in her expression, the pride in her words as she stood her ground, and his heart swelled with something both fierce and tender. She had faced this court, and she had made her place in it. There was no more pretending, no more shrinking. She was herself, fully, proudly—and it was impossible for anyone not to see the strength that had always been there.

As the laughter of the nobles faded into a soft murmur, Aragorn could not help but be struck by the sight of Elira—her chin held high, her eyes bright with the fire that burned in her spirit. The way she had spoken so boldly, yet with such calm and dignity, made him feel a deep admiration for her, one that grew with each passing day. He had seen many people in his time, some brave, some noble, but none quite like Elira. There was a strength in her that seemed to reach deep into the marrow of her bones, a strength that had nothing to do with her title or her noble birth, but everything to do with who she was at her core.

He felt the warmth of the candlelight flicker across his face, and in that moment, it seemed as if the entire world had quieted, leaving only the two of them in the midst of the noise and the feasting. The room was full of people, but all he could see was Elira, sitting beside him, her posture unyielding, her gaze unwavering. He could not recall the last time he had seen someone speak so plainly, so honestly, in the midst of all the pretense and courtesies of court life. And it was more than just her words—it was her presence, her calm, her quiet confidence that made him feel something shift inside him, something that had been growing, slow and steady, ever since their first meeting.

His thoughts swirled, the familiar ache in his chest returning as he remembered the moments they had shared—the quiet walks, the talks that stretched into the night, the way her voice had come to mean more to him than any other sound in this world. With each passing day, his feelings for her deepened, becoming something more tangible, more urgent, than he had ever imagined. Yet, there was a war within him, a struggle he could not ignore. He had lost Arwen, and the grief of that loss was still a shadow in his heart, a wound that had yet to heal.

But Elira—Elira—had come to mean so much to him. His chest tightened with the thought. She had grown into his thoughts like the wind that caresses the plains of Rohan—always present, always there, gentle but constant. The love he felt for her was not the same as it had been for Arwen, not the same, but no less consuming, no less beautiful for its fierceness. It was different, more real, more immediate, as if she had become the air in his lungs, the very beat of his heart. And yet, he did not know what to do with this growing affection, this love that felt so undeniably right, but also so unbearably heavy.

He looked at her now, the smile still playing at the corners of her lips, and the way the light danced in her hair made his breath catch. There was an intensity in her presence that he could not ignore. It was not the weight of duty that he had once felt when looking upon her, but something else—something more personal, something that stirred deep within him and made his heart race.

As the evening continued on around them, the laughter and chatter of the court receding into the background, Aragorn found himself looking at Elira more often than he intended. There was something in the way she held herself now, so at ease, yet so full of quiet strength. She had a way of commanding attention without ever seeming to seek it, a calm confidence that filled the space between them. His gaze lingered on her, tracing the curve of her cheek, the gentle fall of her golden hair—his heart ached with something he couldn’t name, something tender, but unspoken.

Her voice broke through his thoughts, her words light, but laced with that sharp wit he had come to admire. “It seems I’ve made my point,” she said, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and challenge.

Aragorn’s lips curved into a small smile, though his eyes never left hers. “A most effective point,” he replied, his voice low but warm, the admiration clear in his tone. There was no denying the depth of his respect for her—her strength, her intelligence, her spirit. It was a part of her that had drawn him in from the beginning, but now, in the quiet of the evening, he could feel something more blooming within him. A yearning that had settled in his chest, unspoken but ever-present.

Without thinking, without quite realizing the weight of the gesture, Aragorn reached out, his hand moving toward hers. For a fleeting moment, his fingers brushed against hers, and the touch sent a ripple of warmth through him. His thumb gently brushed over her knuckles, and he found himself lacing their fingers together, his grip brief but firm. The simple touch was electric, and yet it felt as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them in that moment.

The warmth of her hand in his felt like a quiet admission, one he wasn’t ready to voice aloud. He could not say the words that were forming on the tip of his tongue—the words that might give name to everything that stirred within him. But in this brief, tender contact, he felt something shift between them, something fragile, yet undeniable.

His eyes met hers, searching, as if to gauge her response, to see if she felt the same, but no words passed between them. There was no need for them. The silence spoke volumes—a shared understanding, an unspoken acknowledgment of something deeper.

“Elira,” Aragorn said quietly, his voice tender, though not fully revealing the emotions that swirled within him. “I’ve learned much from you… your strength, your spirit. It’s more than I could have ever hoped for.” He paused, his heart heavy with the words he wanted to say, but couldn’t. “I cannot imagine what my life would be without you by my side.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around his, and for a moment, they simply sat there, the world around them forgotten. The courtly bustle continued on, but it felt distant, muffled by the weight of their shared silence.

Aragorn looked at her, his gaze lingering, not just on the beauty before him, but on the quiet strength she had come to embody. He wanted to say more, to tell her how much she meant to him, but there was still something in him that held back, something tethered to the past, to Arwen, to the grief that still weighed on his heart.

For now, though, he was content with the touch, the unspoken bond that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. As their fingers gently parted, Aragorn found that, for a brief moment, he could almost believe that everything might be all right.

But the words still hung heavy in his chest, unsaid, for now.

***

The candles in the chamber flickered low, casting shadows on the walls as Aragorn and Elira sat in the quiet after the banquet. The hall had emptied, the sounds of the feast long silenced, but they lingered in a small study, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the weight of their conversation.

The sound of their voices, low and steady, mingled with the crackling of the flames. Aragorn and Elira spoke of many things, moving from one subject to the next with ease—of the beauty of Rohan’s wide plains and the horses that had shaped Elira’s life, of Aragorn’s travels across Middle-earth, and of the quiet moments spent with the Elves that lingered in his memory. Their conversation was both familiar and intimate, the kind that came with time and trust.

The words came easy between them now, flowing like a gentle stream, each one unraveling more of the threads that connected them. And yet, beneath the surface of their lighthearted chatter, there was a tension, an unspoken understanding of the closeness they had come to share, and yet neither was ready to confront.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. Elira’s voice had grown softer, her eyelids heavier with each word, until at last, she sank back into the armchair beside him, her head drooping. Aragorn looked at her, his heart a soft throb in his chest, watching as the tension of the evening seemed to leave her all at once. The lines of worry that had marked her face so often, so familiar, were smoothed in sleep, her breathing even, her lips parted slightly. She looked so serene, so at peace, and in that moment, Aragorn felt his heart lurch painfully within him, as though it was being pulled by an unseen force.

How is it possible, he thought, that my heart should so fill with love for her, so suddenly?

The thought was almost too much to bear. It pressed against him, a fierce, aching thing lodged deep in his chest, as if to remind him of the truth he was too reluctant to speak aloud. She had woven herself into his life, into his thoughts, into his heart in a way he could not untangle. It was no longer a choice—it simply was.

He leaned forward, his eyes tender as they lingered on her delicate face, the soft golden strands of her hair catching the flicker of the firelight. For a moment, he allowed himself to watch her, to simply drink in the sight of her, the peacefulness she radiated now that she was free of the day’s worries.

The urge to stay, to keep her close, threatened to overwhelm him, but he knew it was time to let her rest. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he moved gently to her side, careful not to disturb her. With a tenderness that surprised even him, he slipped his hands beneath her, lifting her with care, as if she were the most fragile thing in Middle-earth. She stirred slightly in his arms, but did not wake, and he held her tighter, instinctively, as if to shield her from all that might threaten her in this moment of peace.

He longed for her—truly longed for her—but the ghost of Arwen lingered in his heart, keeping him from fully opening himself to what he felt for Elira. He looked at her then, his chest aching, his eyes lingering on the curve of her cheek, the softness of her lips.

How could I love her, he thought, when I have not let go of the past? How could I ask her to be the one to ease my heart when it still belongs to someone else?

He carried her softly to the bed, pulling back the covers with the quietest of movements, his heart never leaving her for a second. He laid her down gently, smoothing her hair away from her face, his fingers brushing her cheek as he tucked the blankets around her. The simple act felt so intimate, so precious, that for a moment, it was all he could do not to lose himself in the warmth of it.

Then, without thinking, as if some part of him could not bear the thought of leaving her entirely, Aragorn leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. It was a fleeting touch, nothing more than a whisper of affection, but it was enough to send a rush of warmth through him. He lingered there for a moment, his breath catching, before he pulled away, his heart still racing.

He stood there, watching her for a long moment, the flickering light of the fire dancing across her sleeping form. His heart felt full, as though it might burst from the overwhelming depth of the love he had for her—a love he had yet to fully admit, even to himself. His gaze lingered on her sleeping form, and a quiet ache settled deep within him.

I will not keep you waiting forever, he thought, his heart full of something that could not be ignored. But not yet.

With one last glance, he turned toward the door, his footsteps light, but his thoughts heavy. He could not stay. He had to retreat, to leave her to her dreams, where she was safe and free from the weight of the world.

But as he stepped into the hall, he looked back once more, his heart tugging him back to her. He sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, and finally left, the door closing quietly behind him, leaving Elira to sleep in the peace of the night.

#fanfiction #fanfic #lord of the rings #lotr #ao3 #lotr fanfic #ao3 fanfic #aragorn #aragorn x reader #aragorn x ofc

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searchingforserendipity25 · 2 years ago

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AU-gust fic prompt:

Locked in a room + There was only one bed, in combination with

"I'll take care of it, don't worry!"

"How long has it been since you've slept?"

Thank you @ymfingsteadilyon! <3

Prompt from this list of AUs, my ask box is always open!

There were not many formal inns left to Minas Tirith after the battle at its gates, and the coming of the Rohirrim. Most operated informally, and some families, moved by need and by sympathy, opened the spaces of their vacated houses, the empty rooms of sons made swiftly useful in the grim certainty of their never-return.

"Do not expect food to go with the board. I can find you a place, but the window is boarded, and there is but one bed," the matron said briskly.

Maglor's mouth tightened, as did the hand with which he carried their light satchel, empty of even the last of their bread.

Daeron had grown used to his quick speech, and made a point to speak more quickly still. They had walked the long way from the Bay of Belfalas, making swift time with little rest, and Daeron wished dearly for a lightless place to rest his aching head.

He bowed, in a fashion older than the wrecked city of Minas Tirith, or the first ancient fortress to ever bear that name. "That is well, and better than well. We are most grateful for your hospitality."

"Repair my old loom and mend the hinges as you promised, and be gone by noon of the third day," Mother Morwen said, and sent them off.

The lady of the house looked at them not quite trustingly as they climbed the steps of the crooked staircase, not turning eyes eyes away. She was keen, as some Gondorians were, to sense a working of power when in its presence; though Daeron thought she would not have welcomed them at all, if she found anything to fear or disdain in their bearing.

A light enchantment concealed the strangeness of their appearance among Men. It could not hide the marks of battle on them - Daeron's still healing scratch, stark and ugly on his temple, the slow, stiff way Maglor moved his knee. They had sought to appear to have the look of straggling soldiers, delayed from the host returning from the Gates of Mordor, and the guise was easy to chant and easy to hold, being very close to the truth.

The room itself was a narrow, slanting garret: a narrow, slanting window lit the caulked walls, cast changeful blue light upon the floating dust in the air.

Daeron rubbed at his cheek, avoiding the wound to his face, and thought wearily of rising once more, and filling the empty ewer, and washing his face as it needed to be washed.

In the end, they made the way northwards and westwards for the coronation.

It had been a long debate. Maglor, self-wise with long reflection by the waters, avoided yielding lightly on any appeal to heart or loyalty or despair; and Daeron disliked the cities of Men greatly, for their sounds and smell, the cacophony of voices and all the mingled impression of many thousand mortal, splendid, forceful lives bound together in the Music.

Their songs had done grave damage to Sauron in the lands to the East of Ithilien for many years. A slow and gruelling and silent campaign, of enchanted groves and illusions raised up to trick passing bands of Gorthaur’s emissaries, to thwart chariots. To give time, and cover, and safety to the fleeing refugees that were at times forced to flee from their homes, for defying Sauron’s influence and rule and enslaving dominion.

And now, to hesitate to undertake this journey, after so many others through torment and danger!

All things considered, it would have been rather remiss of them not to make the journey. For one thing, the songs to mark the end of one Age and the start of another must perforce be as excellent as they could be; and neither of them could offer a better wedding gift than their music.

They had laid out arguments for days before deciding, each taking one position one day, and another the next; convinced and unconvinced each other and themselves. Because both of them wished to go, and neither wished to admit it, they had gone on in silence.

It filled the small room, the quiet, followed their shadows against the wall. Already Maglor turned the room's single narrow stool. Before Daeron had sat himself down on the edge of the mattress, he had already turned the stool to face the door, and laid down his lute and long knife ready on his lap where he sat.

"There is no need to worry," he said at last, sensing Daeron's hesitation. "I will keep watch."

“Assuredly not,” Daeron said at once. “And let you keep us both awake with your nerves?"

“I am not beset by anything, much less the nerves,” Maglor said, very dignified, as if he had not spent all the resting hours of their few pauses on the way pacing by the fire, turning a flute between his fingers ceaselessly, eyes distant, set upon a distant past, and a near future.

Daeron had not generally kept watch at all, for many years; he slept where he would in the wild, and heard the murmurs of the land’s movement as he slept. Danger did not touch him but lightly, for centuries.

That had been before Sauron grew in power, and sent his servants after him, seeking to claim him and use him. Daeron had not slept many nights since without Maglor keeping wary vigil - the palm of his cursed hand raised up, a threat and warning to the world that something foul was awake and listening.

They had joined their journeys together, they two travelers, both very aware of the danger they courted in evading capture and the danger they might be if captured.

It had been a difficult choice to make, and a difficult life to lead; but it had been easy, very easy, in the end, to let the closeness of a hundred nights under the stars and days spent in quiet turn to shared song, and to a shared life.

These were not his safe wandering places of years long lost. And yet - and yet, it was the end of an Age. Another one was starting. They had felt it, rising as the sun over cold mist in the days after Sauron’s defeat; a new Age, with very little of ancient lore and ancient power in it.

“There is no danger,” Daeron said more softly, and knew it was true as he spoke. “How long has it been since last thou hast slept? This is the king’s city, and this the king’s peace. I find it very unlikely we should be beset by wraiths and assassins and robbers tonight, in this place, with how long we have spent guarding the king’s lands already. For one thing, it would lack any poetic beauty at all.”

“Some poetic justice, perhaps,” said Maglor, who was always a little sore about his own guilt. But the stained line of mouth did ease, a little; and he set aside blade and instrument, and sat beside him him instead.

Daeron sighed. The feelings of the body beside him, familiar and ever-warm, eased the strain on his muscles. He could feel Maglor settling close, slowly, in a rare easing of tension.

There was peace, then, in the small room facing one of the seven broken city walls.

It was a strange notion, and a strange estrangement. Even now, scarred and weary to the bone, Daeron did not think of himself as a warrior. His king was dead, his lady, his teacher, his city; his part in the Music diminished, turned to small, unknown deeds, feats remembered by none, except in short-lived legends, and the memory of his companion.

He was but a wanderer, and not much given to wandering among the company of mortals at that. He had avoided war for many years, and fought in the shadows only. Had avoided the speech of speaking creatures altogether, and spoken to birds only, and then only to Maglor, and to what few people they met. He had not sought glory; he had not sought joy, though he had chosen it, when it grew into a thing that could be had.

Maglor sighed from deep in his chest, with a weariness Daeron felt as his own. His hand, when it held Daeron's, felt as heavy and graceful and terrible as the first time Daeron had taken it, and the closeness just as sweet when his eyes creased for him.

"How long hast it been since thou hast slept? Aye, very well. Let us have some rest, and put aside poetry for a time."

They slept wrapped close together, that night; and in the morning they washed themselves well, and went into the wrecked galleries where there were already markets of fruit and bread operating once more, and sellers offered salted fish from Dol Amroth in honour of the day's celebration; and the grey dawn opened over the splintered and shattered colonnades of the market square.

In the evening, there was the wedding of Elessar, the King returned; and of Arwen, called Undómiel, as fair and noble as Lúthien who danced in the meadows and glades of Menegroth.

There was a wedding to be had; and the singing, all agreed, was surpassingly beautiful.

#daeron #maglor #daemags #my fic #a ficlet supposedly lol #thank you!!#the silm fic

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tough-girl9 · 2 years ago

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Hey there! I was randomly scrolling through my YT feed and I found a video I hope you'll like!

https://youtube.com/watch?v=cnc2h83K4ro&feature=share9

I literally gasped and immediately clicked the link. I love to see your fic being hailed as the masterpiece that it is. It has quickly become one of my comfort reads and rest assured I will keeping up with it! I already mentioned how I've fallen in love with Sauron because of it and I don't regret it. I liked him a great deal even before stumbling across your novel—that's right, it is a proper novel to me— but your incredible writing helped me understand him and I've grown attached to him. I haven't started working on my Sauron/Thuringwetil/Wilwarien one-shot yet, but I honestly don't think it will be nearly as entertaining as Gorthauro Estel. Fingers crossed I don't ruin a wonderful character (well, two actually. Wilwarien is adorable). I'll give it a try though.

I'd love if you could check out some of my writing as well (I feel like I need guidance to some extent) and I'd love to hear your thoughts on my writing style. I'm kind of a perfectionist and I really would like to improve. (Also, I want to make sure my writing is up to your standards before I start 'messing' with your content)

My username on AO3 is AnnaB99awritersdream. You don't have to read everything unless you want to, but it's just for you to get a general idea of the stuff I usually write. I certainly have a long way, that's for sure. ☺️

Thank you so much for writing Gorthauro Estel and I hope you update ASAP (worry not, there's no rush—i'm just impatient by nature😂)

Hello there :) I'm so glad Gorthauro Estel has been the gift that keeps on giving for you.

I have had that video shared with me before, but I had forgotten about it. It still amazes me that people want to go that in depth with thinking about my story. When I first started Gorthauro Estel, I literally thought I'd maybe have one or two, maybe three or four readers, with no idea it would get so popular. But I'm very grateful that people are enjoying my interpretation of Sauron and his AU path to redemption so much.

I'm sure your one-shot will be lovely and you'll do great with the characters :D

I have your story "Lady of Ithilien" downloaded to my laptop so that I can read through it and comment. Right now, I'm at the tail end of my library's Summer Reading Program, which is the craziest, busiest time of year for me when I basically do nothing beyond eat, sleep, and work. Next week is the final week, after which I'm taking some time off to recover, and I expect to be able to get to your story then and give it the time and attention it deserves.

I'm also looking forward to getting back to writing once Summer Reading is over and I have a life back once again. My next update will be for my humor adventure story "The Fellowship of the Pen" (which also heavily features Sauron), and then "Gorthauro Estel" will be the next one up on the docket again to get a chapter update.

#ask answer #ask tough-girl9 #my writing #gorthauro estel #lotr #lord of the rings #silmarillion #sauron #mairon

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annabawritersdreamsideblog · 11 months ago

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As this new original work will also be a "Lady of Ithilien" historical AU, Bradley will be Leonardo, Lorenzo's cousin and childhood friend. I kind of like the idea of their families being related (they're all Maiar in the other story and they've all been created by Eru, so it is only fitting that they're related in this AU as well).

I'll have to think of a last name for him and I'll probably flesh out of a bit of his family, but, for the time being, I now give you Bradley James as Leonardo (one more person to my confirmed fancast list)

King Arthur in armor- Merlin

#bbc merlin #period drama #bradley james #leonardo #nobility #historical au #lotr/silmarillion au #original work #original characters #planning #fancasts

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annabthesolitarywriter · 11 months ago

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For the Would You Ever Write game you reblogged...

Would you ever write an original (non-fanfiction) novel?

Yes, I would indeed! I wrote one two years ago which is currently on hiatus (I have written ten chapters or so, but some parts need rewriting and will have to go through major changes. I kind of momentarily lost interest in the subject the project was supposed to be about, but it's definitely not abandoned and I will go back to it someday). It was a historical fiction novel set in the 1960s and the main character was a girl who had ends up in politics. It involved both original characters and real-life historical people from that time (famous politicians and the likes). As said, it's not abandoned, just on hiatus (I'm tired of abandoning projects tbh)

Just yesterday I worked a little on the original project I'm most focused on at the moment. It's a short-short/children's book (it's getting quite dark, so I'm not sure how suitable it will be for young children, but we'll have to see how it turns out). The main character is my cat and he's prince of Ireland (its whole premise is basically a running joke between my best friend and I- my cat being the prince of a fictionalized version of Ireland. This joke dates back to our middle-school days and I vowed to write something about it. This whole convo happened like ten years ago (if I'm not mistaken, it was around 2011-2012, so probably even more than ten years ago) and I thought nothing of it for years...until now. The story wants to be told and my cat is now sixteen so...it's about time I started writing it. It might even be the first thing I'll try to publish professionally, who knows.

Lastly, my Lady of Ithilien historical/renaissance AU. I have written like 400 words so far, and while I adore the idea, I'll have to think how to proceed. I created a poll which I have pinned on this account where I explain my worries about it (silly stuff I simply need to get over, probably). It will be a mix of Tudor/general Renaissance/Ottoman stuff. "Enna" (the nickname stays the same, but her given name is different) has three siblings and "Eönwë" is heir to a powerful family in his own kingdom (names, places and details still need to be worked out).

If you're interested, I have a side blog called @annab99awritersdreamsideblog (pretty self-explanatory, I know) where I post all about my non-fanfic endeavors + other random stuff.

Thank you for asking!

#annab99awritersdream asks #original works #non fanfic stuff #the lady of ithilien #the lady of ithilien AU #children's story #other original stuff #ask game

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annabawritersdreamsideblog · 8 months ago

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Possible title alternatives to Ties that Bind (it's fairly common apparently)

Unbreakable Ties

Bound to you

Lady of my heart

The Herald and the Lady

The Herald and the Slavegirl

Story of a Slavegirl

(to be updated)

#original work #the lady of ithilien au #lady of ithilien au #new titles #as much as i love ties that bind it's fairly common #probably too common

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annajolras · 2 years ago

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Eowyn and Faramir 🌿🤍

Companion piece to my arawen modern au🥰

#eowyn x faramir #eowyn of rohan #faramir son of denethor #lotr fanart #lotr #tolkien #jrr tolkien #lord of the rings #lotr modern au #modern au #fan art #farawyn #eowyn x faramir fanart #lord and lady of ithilien #rohan #gondor #digital art #my art

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annabawritersdreamsideblog · 11 months ago

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She's one of my favorite characters in Lady of Ithilien so she'll definitely be in my original AU. Her name is yet to be decided.

PELIN KARAHAN as MIHRIMAH SULTAN | MAGNIFICENT CENTURY

#perioddramaedit #magnificent century #mihrimah sultan #muhteşem yüzyıl

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anghraine · 7 years ago

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Whenever I go looking for some scrap I remember writing, I a) don’t find it and b) find something I don’t remember writing at all.

This time, a sudden Éomer appears:

"While I am no longer Lord of Gondor," Faramir began directly, "you may be assured that—"

Éomer waved this aside. "I know your lineage, lord. And I know well that Éowyn will receive more honour in Mundburg, should you take her as your wife, than she ever did in all her faithful service to Théoden-King."

"Lady Éowyn slew the king of the Úlairi before the gates of our city," said Faramir. "For that alone she will always be counted among the great in Gondor."

Éomer smiled. It would have been a fine death, as she had once intended, but it was better still to live in renown and glory.

#i think this got started because of my bitter hatred over the idea of éowyn being some kind of outcast in gondor #surrounded by catty ladies because obviously they would be catty /eyeroll #iirc it morphed into a thing about éowyn as marchwarden of ithilien but that morphed into... something else #i think friendship with arwen???#for every fic i set aside five more sprout up in its place #anghraine babbles #fic talk #the southampton au #i thiiiink it's in that continuity anyway #legendarium blogging #lord of the rings #faramir #éomer #éowyn

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roqueamadi · 4 years ago

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Planning for a LotR Regency AU (Boromir/OFC)

I'm not going to tag this because it's going to make me look completely insane, but I thought @scyllas-revenge and @trenko-heart you guys might be interested... I have spent way too much time on this (ngl it was fun though xD )

The challenge: How to convert the LotR characters into Jane Austen-style regency characters? I've watched the entire Ellie Dashwood YouTube series to try to ensure I correctly understand how titles and lineages work. Here were my problems and the ways I've decided to tackle them as I plan this fic - some of this may change once I actually start writing, but this is my thought process!

Problem 1: In the regency, people (ie peers/gentry) didn't refer to others by their first names. I had to choose between either: ignoring this historical fact and letting my characters use other characters' first names; making their 'known names' into their titles (eg Lord Boromir is the 'Duke of Boromir'); or, assigning them surnames and having characters refer to each other by names unfamiliar to readers.

I decided to go with the last option which is more historically accurate, principally because if I tried the second option, I would still run into trouble with siblings and parent-children relationships (Faramir is the brother of the Duke of Boromir?? No) - therefore, I'll need to accept that it might be hard for readers to follow who is who in this fic, at first. Eg (as explained below) most other characters will call Boromir 'Lord Ithilien', 'the Lord of Ithilien' or 'Coloniel Hurin'. And to be honest, now that I've stared at this for a few hours I'm actually starting to not mind it that much. I also think it feels more 'Jane Austen-y' for characters to have lots of confusing titles :p However, I think I'll at least let my protagonist 'think of people' by their first names in the narrative, which will assist with clarity.

Problem 2: Most of the characters don't have last names.

Problem 1 leads to this. My answer: I made them up. I tried to pick names from their lineage or alternative names that sounded right. For Denethor's line, I picked 'Hurin'; Aragorn's = 'Telcontar'; Elrond's = 'Peredhel'; Theoden's = 'Eorl' and Eomer+Eowyn's = 'Steelsheen'. I also gave Sauron a first name ('Mairon') and picked a random surname for my protag Cin ('Eradan').

Problem 3: It's extremely unlikely a Steward would be ruling in place of a King.

The more likely scenario (as seen in the regency period itself) is that a Prince Regent rules in place of a King because of illness, absence or minority. I decided to go with the latter - so my idea is that Aragorn's parents died when he was not yet of age and so a Prince Regent took over. This would most likely be his closest living relative - so I decided to make Denethor related to him (I've ended up making Denethor Aragorn's first cousin once removed - any closer and Aragorn would share a surname with Boromir and Faramir, which I didn't want).

Problem 4: Leading on from problem 3... I don't want Boromir to be too closely related to my protag Cin (for obvious reasons!)

I was originally going to make her Aragorn's younger sister, but that would make her and Boromir second cousins. That's a bit too close! So I made her Aragorn's first cousin on his mother's side - so Cin and Boromir are both cousins to Aragorn but have no blood connection to each other. Whew!

Problem 5: I wanted to somehow convert the main conflict of Sauron versus the West into the 'Jane Austen' realm - ie the 'battles' occur mostly during conversations.

I decided to include a plot point like this: Denethor has done something to disgrace himself and get kicked out of the role of Prince Regent (this feeds into Boromir's feelings of inadequacy regarding his line). The next closest relative steps into the role - Sauron! Oh no! This will be the main world conflict of the fic and is the prompt for Aragorn, who is now of age, to return and take up his role, and save his people from the ravages of this unqualified leader. I squeezed Sauron into the family tree as Aragorn's first cousin twice removed.

Problem 6: But, I still want some battles, if not 'on screen' then at least referenced.

This is straight from Sharpe, but my idea is that there is a war going on and many peers' sons have commissions in the Army. Boromir is a Colonel (the highest rank you could purchase), Faramir is a Major (because there's no way in hell Denethor would fork out for a higher rank than that), Theodred was also a Major before he died, Eomer and Legolas are both Captains. And they all go off to fight together, mainly so that Boromir can get injured and give us the opportunity for some h/c xD

Problem 7: So, what happened to Aragorn (and Cin) after his parents died, then? How come Sauron is able to step in and take over?

Sticking reasonably closely to the canon storyline, I decided to make it that Elrond (ALSO a distant relation of Aragorn - second cousin once removed, making Arwen Aragorn's third cousin, which is far enough removed to be okay, I think) stepped in to take care of Aragorn. My idea is that his parents were killed in the same 'accident' as Cin's, so Elrond takes both in as wards. He hides them from society in order to protect them both.

Problem 8: If Aragorn is the Prince, Denethor must be a sufficiently senior peer in order to hold the Prince Regent position (for a time, at least) - even though in Jane Austen most characters are not this senior in rank.

I mean, there's Lady Catherine de Bourgh and a few other mentions of Knights and Earls, etc. But I'm okay with adding peerage titles into this fic because it's fun and I think it fits - the various families must be sufficiently senior otherwise it's not realistic that they're all hanging out together. So I've made Denethor a Duke, which is the most senior rank in the peerage without being actually royal (I went with 'Duke of Osgiliath'). Dukes normally have secondary titles which they lend to their son and heir, so for Boromir I picked 'Earl of Ithilien' (as I mentioned above). I made Elrond a Marquess, and his heir Elladan a Baron, and I made Theoden a Viscount. So all those characters get to be referred to by weird titles!

So, this is becoming a crazy long post, but here's the result of my work:

I think this is going to be too small to see in one image, so I've broken it down. Here is the key and a helpful 'cousin chart', because this gets complex:

And here are the segments.

Here is the line of kings, including Aragorn and Cin (my protag) plus Sauron:

Here is Denethor's line, with our main love interest:

Here is Elrond's line - things are getting a bit awkward for anyone who really deeply knows the canon family trees, but I'm saying that Dior was the younger brother of Argonui (who was Aragorn's great grandfather):

And finally, here is Theoden's line, separate from the rest at the start of the fic, but obviously they ultimately join up in two places (Eowyn = Faramir and later Eomer = Lothiriel:

So that's it. Let me know what you think guys, I had fun thinking through all this. Now I just need to actually write it :p

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zaraquinn · 4 years ago

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So This is Love

Faramir - Falling in Love

Word Count: 1,265

Faramir x Fem!Reader (Witch) - LOTR

Requested: by my dumbass

A/N:

Y/N - Your Name

Additional Notes: Inspired by @meganlpie ‘s oneshot “disappearance”

Bc that cinderella au with Faramir (+ the rest of the lotr characters) was too wholesome, I needed to contribute to another one of the same vibe. Also, it’s in the works, but I just might make some oneshots that are my own oc! This was one of them but i obviously changed it from my oc to reader (hence why she is a witch). Lastly, enjoy Gandalf being a matchmaker! Anyway, hope you guys like this!

Song: so this is love - Ilene Woods & Mike Douglas

———

Aragorn’s crowning ceremony had ended, and the city on Minas Tirith was once again reunited with their King. Filled with happiness, the entire city celebrated; Aragorn had declared the entire day to celebrate peace, and shall henceforth do nothing but celebrate the victory over darkness and gather in the light. Everyone was happy that day.

As the day grew weary, there was a feast and a ball held for festivities. The Fellowship and a few other important companions all a part of the One Ring’s demise had gathered with Aragorn in the halls of Gondor. The table long and gracious, the food was almost eaten by the four hobbits themselves, but luckily there was going to be more to come, and the new King had kept his promise for the four darling hobbits once the ball started. The halls of Gondor were then filled with wonderful music and celebratory dances. Smiling faces and of course, for the hobbits, food that even made Pippin jump in excitement. Y/N smiled at the very sight. Finally, peace had been restored, it felt nothing like she’s ever felt before.

She watched over from the corner of the party; Aragorn and Arwen dancing together, even Frodo and Sam enjoying the tunes as they danced too. Merry and Pippin feasting on some food at the tables and Legolas and Gimli were on their way with another drinking game, with Eomer and Eowyn on opposing teams helping the elf and dwarf of their team to win.

“I see you are not dancing with the rest of the party,” Gandalf said, all of the sudden, appearing behind her. His white robes glowing ever so lightly, as he settled beside her. She looked up at the Mithrandir with a small smile. “A witch always observes.” “Ah yes. Observing every step she takes.” He smiled back down at the young witch, joining in with humouring herself. Although, Gandalf’s eyes found themselves across the room beyond Y/N, to see a lonely Faramir also observing. “You’re not the only observer beyond these festivities.” She looked up at the Great Wizard with confusion; a brow furrowed and her head titled slightly.

His eyes flicked on behind her, and she turned around, seeing the lonely Prince of Ithilien. A small blush crept on her face as the two made eye contact and she shyly waved. Looking back at Gandalf, she knew exactly what he was doing. “Gandalf!” He knew of the young witch’s crush on the certain Prince, and thought this was a good time to humour Y/N but also entertain himself. “It is not common that a witch falls in love.” She looked at him almost shocked and quickly blushing madly in embarrassment. “How did you know about that?” She glanced down at her shoes but tried to focus on the festivities around them. “Young fools in love never realize how much they are in love. Even Peregrin Took could tell between the two of you.” She nervously swallowed “Between the two?” She looked at Gandalf with hopeful eyes. All he had to do was smile, as he saw Faramir quickly approaching them. Following his glance she turned around, being met with Faramir’s tall figure. Gandalf took the opportunity to walk off, and leave the fools alone.

“My Lady.” “Your Highness.” They gave a bow to each other, only to meet each other’s eyes and grow a smile—the formalities still fresh but ridiculous to both. “Faramir.” The young witch broke the formalities as the two shared a chuckle. “Y/N.” Oh did she love the way her name sounded on his lips. “I see you’re not enjoying the celebration.” She looked at him with a confused look, meeting his ocean eyes. “And what makes you say this?” She quipped as she crossed her arms. “Well, you’re not dancing. Or drinking. Or...eating.” Faramir stretched the last point, his attention going from the drinking game between the Elf and the Dwarf to the two hobbits going through the food at one of the tables. Y/N had also turned her attention to the hobbits at the food table, and a smile grew on her rose lips. Pippin stuffing his face with more pieces of chicken and Merry just about to dig into another roasted lamb. Glancing back at the woman, Faramir continued; holding out his hand and bowing slightly. “Care for a dance, my lady?”

A pink blush spread across the charming woman’s cheeks as she quickly leans her hand into his, looking behind her nervously. She met with Gandalf’s gaze as he smiled and nodded, and that was the green light she needed. Turning back to the handsome prince she glimmered—hand sliding into his as he gently took her soft hands and brought her to the dance floor. The two got into position quickly, smiles meeting each other and seeing familiar faces start to join the pair. Faramir wasn’t always the best dancer, nor was Y/N, so the two had more enjoyment of just being in each other’s company rather than focusing on their fancy routine.

The pair danced and talked, feeling their already strong bond become bigger and closer than ever. The music of the night kept going, and both Faramir and Y/N found themselves retiring from dancing for a while to meet each other in the courtyard of Minas Tirith. The beautiful moon shone down on the white city, and for once in a very long time, the tree still sprouted the white petals in the air. Both had each others’ hand in hand as they walked to the tree. The feeling of Faramir’s hand in hers felt so natural—pure. Like it was meant to be. Like it... was love.

So this is love. Settling just beside the tree, the pair bathed in the white moonlight. Faramir finished retelling a story from his childhood, about him and Boromir, and it successfully made the maiden laugh.

That laugh was music to Faramir’s ears; something that he could listen to forever. It felt right being with Y/N—he knew it in his heart that it was love. So this is love. This is what makes life, divine, the prince thought. “What?” Y/N’s soft voice echoed in the empty courtyard as she caught Faramir staring at her face. “You glow in the moonlight.” He said all dreamily. Y/N smiled, failing to contain the blush rushing to her cheeks and the smile forming on her rose lips. Faramir pulled her closer, gently laying his hands on her waist as he knows now, that she was the key to heaven. Looking back up, she felt the certain prince bring her closer, and soon enough, his lips descended onto hers; those rose-coloured lips soft as a cloud.

Y/N could feel her heart grow wings as Faramir kissed her—the moment their lips touched. She could feel like she could fly high as the eagles, or touch every star in the sky. Departing from the kiss they looked at each other with pure adoration, and Faramir taking her face into his hands ever so gently. Who knew that she was the prize to peace. After all the effort and death that plagued the war, her love, was the prize. “So this is the miracle that I have been dreaming of.” He said, and she mirrored his actions, bringing her hands to cup his cheek. “So this is love, my lady, Y/N.” The Prince of Ithilien said, looking at the witch maiden and seeing his entire future in her brown eyes. “So this is love, my Faramir.”

They shared one final chuckle before taking another kiss underneath that moonlight.

———

MASTERLIST 🌕

LOTR REQUEST POST 🌙

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annabthesolitarywriter · 6 months ago

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Get to know me

Thanks for tagging me @saurongorthaur9

Last song: I wanna be yours by Arctic Monkeys

Currently reading: Nothing specific. I'm currently just trying to get through a law book I'm supposed to finish studying which I fear will be the end of me. Ugh.

I actually need to study it but I just can't bring myself to pay attention to what I'm reading. I'm actually trying to retain information, but I feel like my brain is fried and I want to give up. I'd like to re-read both LOTR and The Hobbit though. And some history books about the Ottoman Empire.

Currently watching: Clips from Magnificent Century. I will watch all the 139 episodes one day. I checked out the first two a few months ago before I stopped watching the show altogether, but I'm obsessed with the characters (ah, Nurbanu, my Venetian Sultana, my queen).

Currently craving: More LOTR/Silmarillion fics involving the Maiar.

Coffee or tea: Tea. Most definitely.

A hobby you would like to try: I'd like to play guitar again and stick at it this time around. I first tried to learn how to play it a few years ago and got bored/mad at myself because I wasn't making any progress.

An AU you’re working on or thinking of: I have quite a bit of LOI snippets and one-shots I'd like to finish before I die (LOI being my main LOTR/Silmarillion WIP The Lady of Ithilien) and I also have a scene from its sequel Estel i Hína that I would like to try and jot down sometime.

No pressure tagging: @emmanuellececchi, @evenstaredits & @lucifers-legions

Get to know me

Thanks for tagging me @flameunquenched

Last song: "Love Story" by Indila

Currently reading: Deal with the Elf King by Elise Kova, because I have a current hankering for enemies-to-lovers with a happy ending and bad boy gets the girl stories. Can't possibly imagine what's been causing that *side-eyes Saurondriel suspiciously*

Currently watching: Nothing at the moment really. Want to go back through Rings of Power Season 2 for a complete re-watch now that the whole season is out, but I'm still Processing the Emotions.

Currently craving: Stories where my evil fire Maia boy gets a happy ending and some therapy :`(

Coffee or tea: Not a fan of either. My hot drink of choice is cocoa, but I will drink tea socially.

A hobby you would like to try: I really want to learn to play the ocarina. I have a beautiful one I got at a comic con a few years ago that came with an LOTR songbook, but I haven't made time to make an effort at learning to play it yet.

An AU you’re working on or thinking of: Two that I've got my mind on recently. One is my massive WIP Gorthauro Estel, my Second Age Sauron redemption/romance where he takes Eonwe's advice and returns to Valinor to seek judgment.

The other is a ROP one-shot called That Hate That Binds (a sequel to my first Saurondriel fanfic The Truth That Binds) that would be my AU take on their duel at the end of S2, where Sauron does a better job at tempting and the two deal with their complex mess of emotions as well as their desire for each other *winkwink*

Tagging @annabawritersdream @squirrely-wraith @lanthanum12 @theriverwild @frotu @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @haladriel

#get to know me #tag game #annabawritersdream answers

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morwensteelsheen · 4 years ago

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Do you have any advice for someone who wants to write Éowyn x Faramir fanfic in a way that remains authentic to who they are/how Tolkien envisioned them? Of all the fics I’ve read on this pairing, yours just stands out to me as being most in character, whether you’re writing them in Middle Earth or a modern!au. I agree with you about Faramir being gentle but NOT a crybaby and Éowyn not a loose cannon and actually somewhat frosty! Any advice you have would be appreciated. Cheers!

bro... 🥺❤️ that is so kind of you, thank you so much!!!! Like holy moly I am going to be riding high on that compliment all week hahaha, i’m giddy thinking about it.

i’ve been fretting about how to answer this question because i think i still struggle quite a bit with their characterisations. also i’m terrible at framing advice, so i’m going to try and answer this by giving my interpretations of certain things and how that effects how i write about them, and hopefully that will be helpful? also i’m so sorry, this is literally 6,000 words, this totally got away from me.

To start quite generally, i think it’s super helpful to realise that almost all of the characters in LOTR are devoid of any significant internal life because the book is structured as a retelling of historical events to frodo, which are later written down and then “translated” by tolkien. unless a character is explicitly telling frodo/someone else what they’re thinking, we don’t really know what’s going on in there (except éowyn and i’ll come back to this later). But the other reason we don’t really get a sense of most characters’ internal lives is because they function as, essentially, heroic/fantastical archetypes and responses to other elements of literature. People tend to shy away from this because of this weird postmodern backlash against tropes, but it’s, i feel, extremely important to remember that these characters aren’t in the books because they’re fully-fleshed out human beings, they’re there because tolkien needed characters to fulfil certain narrative roles. this is not a value judgement, but acknowledging that’s what’s going on here is helpful for us as we try to figure out what these characters would be doing when canon doesn’t explicitly tell us what they’d be doing (or what they’d be doing in an au/a rewrite/whatever).

All this to say: all of these characters are born out of a specific literary and historical context, and i think in the first instance its suuuuuuuupa helpful to go back and figure out what that context is, because it helps you to build out a character profile in your head that feels true to character even when you’re operating in the great canon unknown.

Okay so for some general thoughts on each of the kiddos:

Éowyn

I’ll start with éowyn because i think i’ve spent the most time thinking about her lately and i feel like i’m finally starting to get in her head a little better. I’m not super confident in my take yet, but it’s getting there, i feel.

éowyn’s metatextual character history is really fascinating and really important for understanding who she is. éowyn is, essentially, a direct response to the character of lady macbeth and what tolkien saw as a massive disservice to her character at the end of the play. I had a much better pull quote from tolkien talking specifically about that, but i can’t seem to find it right now so you’ll have to use this really brief overview instead — sorry! I will update this if i come across the quote again.

understanding that foundation in lady macbeth, we can start to ask certain questions about éowyn vis a vis lady macbeth. What are the things that we know — in text — make lady macbeth and éowyn similar? Quite a lot, actually. They’re both ‘fully realised’ women (and i’ll come back to this in a sec), they’re both not naive about the mechanics of power — lady macbeth is a conniver, éowyn is left in control of a whole ass kingdom while the menfolk are away etc —, they’re both hindered by their gender (this is obvious for éowyn, but i HELLA recommend reading lady macbeth’s come you spirits/unsex me here speech and thinking about the relationship between womanhood and violence, especially in light of éowyn’s experience of battlefield violence and later decision to give it up to go be a hippie in ithilien), and they both have to deal with men being frustrating. I love and will defend théoden quite explicitly, but it’s important to realise that he did, in essence, fuck éowyn over entirely and abdiate on his familial responsibilities to her, before you even get to his abdication of duty to the crown etc.

The other big — very big, i feel — similarity between éowyn and lady macbeth is that they are both tremendously emotionally distant and restrained. But éowyn, unlike lady macbeth, is capable of camouflaging her emotional distance when necessary. Here, from ROTK, is a passage of crucial important to understanding éowyn:

‘Alas! For she was pitted against a foe beyond the strength of her mind or body. And those who will take a weapon to such an enemy must be sterner than steel, if the very shock shall not destroy them. It was an evil doom that set her in his path. For she is a fair maiden, fairest lady of a house of queens. And yet I know not how I should speak of her. When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not, Éomer?’

‘I marvel that you should ask me, lord,’ he answered. ‘For I hold you blameless in this matter, as in all else; yet I knew not that Éowyn, my sister, was touched by any frost, until she first looked on you. Care and dread she had, and shared with me, in the days of Wormtongue and the king’s bewitchment; and she tended the king in growing fear. But that did not bring her to this pass!’

‘My friend,’ said Gandalf, ‘you had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonoured dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on.

‘Think you that Wormtongue had poison only for Théoden’s ears? Dotard! What is the house of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among their dogs? Have you not heard those words before? Saruman spoke them, the teacher of Wormtongue. Though I do not doubt that Wormtongue at home wrapped their meaning in terms more cunning. My lord, if your sister’s love for you, and her will still bent to her duty, had not restrained her lips; you might have heard even such things as these escape them. But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?’

Emphasis my own.

there’s a whole hell of a lot going on here, but i’m going to try and boil it down to a couple main things:

1. gandalf and aragorn immediately see misery in éowyn, but they are both very good at reading people. faramir (later, in the steward and the king) also senses the misery, but he is explicitly talented at reading people, and even he takes a while to fully understand what’s going on in her head

2. Éomer, who éowyn feels obligation and duty to (both as her brother, but also her superior in rank) has no idea that éowyn is suicidal. he knows she’s not happy, but he thinks it’s not until aragorn shows up that she finally becomes despondent and is amazed to hear that that’s not the case, to which gandalf responds, essentially: you weren’t meant to know, she was working with a will of steel to hide her emotions from you because she wanted to protect you from it. So éowyn is well versed at controlling her emotions when she needs to, and is not prone to showing them where she doesn’t want to.

3. Gandalf describes éowyn first as wrought from steel (which, short of an incredibly hot fire, is not easy to break), and then amends it to say that she is made of ice. Ice, compared to steel, is far easier to melt. Maybe inadvertently on tolkien’s behalf, i think this speaks to the nature of éowyn and faramir’s relationship — first she is melted by fire (battle, the witch-king, etc) and the she is warmed by the sun (faramir! Minas anor! The winter has passed, etc).

4. Earlier i said the characters in lotr don’t really have a huge internal life, except for éowyn. This is where that comes in: éowyn, we are supposed to understand, has a really intense internal life, because her mind is really all she has. We are meant to understand that she’s got a lot going on internally, but there is a very specific reason we’re not privy to it. That’s important to think about.

what this does is widen the gulf between what éowyn’s thinking and feeling, and what she’s actually saying and doing. If you’re writing (as i tend to prefer) in a way that deals with her inner life quite intensely, building that gap up is much easier to do. She’s going to have a lot of thoughts, and almost all of them are going to be hindered by either other people’s expectations of her, or her own expectations of herself. And that’s going to cause problems for her — maybe not always throwing-herself-at-death level problems, but certainly problems.

so there’s that. Then i think there’s a lot to be said for widening the net on éowyn inspirations. I’ve looked to joan of arc (which i kind of hinted at here) quite a bit. I feel like the joan of arc comparison is easy to understand so i wont waste too much time on it, though i will say i’d actually recommend reading catholic interpretations of joan of arc, not later protestant Girlboss interpretations because i think those miss the point of joan of arc entirely.

I was going to try to comment more on the gender element but i feel like i’m not on great footing with that yet so i will leave that to the side for now.

Faramir

tbh i was kind of dreading getting to this because i still find it exceptionally hard to get into his head, so wish me luck lol

I’m going to be a total bore and recommend you check out this article. Bear in mind that that was written by a dude at the citadel so it’s going to stray into the realm of Military Brain at points, but i think it’s a worthwhile read anyways.

ah christ, faramir. okay. cowabunga.

faramir, more so than aragorn, is the platonic ideal of a romantic hero. Both in the genre sense (as in, romance novels) and in the sense of the artistic movement of romanticism, i know i’ve said exactly this before but it’s worth reiterating. I’ll start with the romantic influence and then go onto the romance.

So the romantic movement is a really important intellectual, cultural and political movement, and you will have to forgive me because i am only loosely a modernist and more a contemporary historian, and not at all an expert in literature or art history, so this is going to be, like, a 101 level understanding of what was going on.

The romantic movement is kicked off as a reaction to both the emphasis on rationality and quantifiability promoted during the enlightenment, and the bourgeois economic revolutions (this is the french revolution, mostly, but the later revolutions across the european continent in 1848 and the kickstarting of the industrial revolution in england). Romanticism was, essentially, a return to intense emotionality, reverence for nature, and appreciation of that which is, ultimately indefinable. Not necessary for writing a fanfic, but reading about the idea of the sublime is kind of a fun rabbit hole to go down if you’ve got time to spare.

A lot of present day writers will talk about the romantic movement as a break with the past, which is, i guess, kind of true, but is also not really true. The romantic movement — as much as the enlightenment — took its inspiration and logical from classic art and thought. But it interpreted the classics differently to the enlightenment. Whereas the enlightenment era thinkers were fascinated by the rationality and mathematical precision of the greeks and romans, the romantics were more interested in their emotional liberty, and the epic (in the truest sense of the word) shows of emotion and experiences of human life.

but what does this mean for faramir? A lot!

The first time we’re introduced to faramir (if not in name) is in fotr, when boromir talks about the destruction of the bridge at osgiliath, when he describes an epic story of war and heroism, wherein only four total people survive swimming from the bridge: two unnamed others, boromir, and faramir. right from the off we know that, if nothing else, he’s not a limp-wristed little lordling, he has the fortitude to survive what few others can.

Then, barely half a breath later, we get a description of faramir’s premonition, the fact that it came to him repeatedly, and that he immediately volunteered to go blues clues his way through it. We get the sense that he’s a guy who doesn’t back down from a challenge. And then faramir goes away for a while, until two towers, when we meet him again in the brilliance that is ithilien. And here i’m going to go back to our friend from the citadel for some interesting character insight:

the rangers under the command of Faramir are armed with long bows, giving them the capability to wage war over distances greater than most of their foes. This is the same type of warfare deemed cowardly and dishonorable by the chivalric knights, but is far more effective and less perilous than the face-to-face [...] This tactic also reveals Faramir to be a conscientious leader, minimizing the risk to his subordinates while maximizing their effectiveness in battle. Faramir was considerate of the risk he put his men to and sacrificed the idea of glorious face-to-face combat in favor of a weapon system that would be less desirable in the eyes of men such as Boromir, but also much more efficient. [...] Using camouflage and stealth, the warriors un d er Faramir's command set themselves apart from all other military units besides the elves in The Lord of the Rings and ultimately align themselves more closely with the soldiers of modern warfare than with the ancient heroes prevalent in the work of Tolkien.

Okay enough of the military history because it’s soul-crushingly boring, but the gist is that faramir is, (whatever else he is) a very unique figure. Taking this as a value neutral statement, we get the sense, before we even hear him own to it himself, that he’s a man apart from the rest. I think it’s important also to think about the extent to which he is situated as a part of nature when we first meet him, even if we later know that he is from this big, awful stone city, we are meant to immediately associate him with nature. And not nature in a primitive sense, i’d argue, but nature in the romantic sense, where it speaks to the beauty of creation etc etc etc

Then there’s the bright sword speech, which im not going to say anything on because cleverer people than me have dealt with it much more efficiently, but i would say that the takeaway from that, besides that he loves peace yada yada yada, is that he likes talking about peace. He has opinions on the war, perhaps even a controversial opinion, and by god, he wants people to know it. So thinking about what that level of immediate and almost impolitic honesty says about him is worth thinking about as you try to write him.

Later, we get to see faramir in the white city, and what we see is that he’s kind of a drama queen! I say this lovingly, but it does correspond to him going off on one immediately about how the war sucks ass and how he’s above it and how all the other people of middle earth are shit, including his own, and how much better life was In Númenor (which is, essentially, the crux of a lot of romantic poetry. And my headcanon of faramir’s connection to romantic poetry is here).

The other thing we learn in the white city is that faramir is very aware of himself as a person, and is actively altering whatever his base inclinations are to fit his desired personality. Here’s what i said in a comment on swaddledog’s excellent hearts and minds:

When Denethor hits him with the "ever your desire is to appear lordly and generous as a king of old, gracious, gentle," he's not saying it because he thinks that sort of behaviour comes naturally to Faramir but because he knows he has to work really, really hard at it. I think inherent in that desire is also the failure — he tries, but sometimes he comes up short (often, even — that kiss on the wall wasn't exactly gracious and gentle!), and it's because he sometimes comes up short that Denethor knows it doesn't come naturally to him. And you get that perfectly, just so, so perfectly.

That gap between what faramir thinks he is and whats to be versus what he actually is is very important for understanding him. Though, as i say, i really struggle with writing faramir, so it’s definitely not an easy thing to work into a fanfic.

I realise i’m probably not articulating this as well as i should, but that’s because dealing with faramir is a tremendous arseache for me, lol. I think basically my advice here is to familiarise yourself with a lot of these romantic figures and try to bear them in mind as you write. pierre bezukhov from war & peace actually fits quite closely to what i imagine young (as in, pre-ring war) faramir is like, with some necessary alterations for canon, and the fact that faramir seems like he’d be slightly more responsible than pierre. And certainly far, far, FAR more confident.

So that’s the romantic, and then there’s the romance. I saw a post a few months ago that identified faramir as, essentially, a love letter to women. And he totally is: he’s this fucking baller guerrilla warrior who quotes poetry and reads widely and falls in love deeply and sweeps a woman off her feet because he finds her beautiful and incredible and worthwhile even when she’s at her absolute worst. emotional intimacy is real, hallelujah! And so i think any time you’re writing faramir you’re going to have to keep that in mind, because he is this sort of breathless romantic. He’s a character that exists (inadvertently because tolkien couldn’t predict the future) to act, outwardly, as an antidote to the All Men Are Shit mindset. How much you actually keep him on that pedestal is up to you. I like to nuance his character with a bit more chaos, let him be a bit of a shameless flirt in his younger years, let him be so high and mighty in his romantic behaviour that he doesn’t realise that sometime éowyn just wants to fucking chill, that sort of thing.

There are lots of other character moments that stick out to me that i dont want to say a huge amount about, but will instead link to this incredible meta about faramir’s númenóreaness, with the disclaimer that dealing with that sort of capability in any serious way scares the shit out of me, so i have mostly just Pretended I Can’t Read every time i think about it, except for a super brief reference at the end of this fic.

Okay onto the meat of this (oh my god, i’m so sorry for how long this is)

Faramir + Éowyn = true love

Before i start, i just want to point out that in terms of seeing their relationship, we only really get it in the steward and the king, which is significant for a lot of reasons. For one because tolkien got a huge amount of shit for how quickly they fell in love (people accused it of being war-bride stuff, which typically was not a great arrangement for those involved) — tolkien himself said ‘shut the fuck up dude’ to that, and this is probably because tolkien married his wife, edith, right before he went off to war. I’ll come back to that in a sec because it’s important.

The other reason it’s important is because the steward and the king features some of the most consistent lofty and high-fantasy prose of the entire series. Tolkien does this magical thing where he weaves high brow purple prose in with deeply casual, familiar (for the early 20th century) vernacular, and to great effect. And he does this for a reason, he wants to create the sense of this deeply developed, fantastical world that extends well outside the bounds of what we are allowed to see in text while also allowing us the rhetorical space to relate to the characters we see. It is, then, significant that there is almost none of the “low-brow” vernacular speech in the steward and the king. It means tolkien’s got all thrusters on full, so to speak, in terms of the romance. He wants to evoke arthurian romances, courtly/chivalric love, the sort of fated-by-the-stars love that nobody would think to deny because of the time constraints because it seems so abundantly obvious that this love is Meant To Be.

But that’s just what he’s doing tonally. In terms of content, he’s weaving a more complex picture.

We’ll start with the obvious. Emotionally, both éowyn and faramir are at their worst. Sort of. éowyn’s worst might have been when she did her suicide run on the pelennor in terms of self-destructiveness, but i think her real low point is actually when she wakes up in the HoH, basically immobilized, prevented from dying, and now aware she’s going to have to do the One Thing she refused to do, which is watch everybody she loves go off to die, and then sit about and wait for her own death. faramir, meanwhile, went off to a hopeless battle (expecting to die) after mouthing off at his father, then wakes up to find out he’s not only alive, but the only surviving member of his family (for some reason! because don’t forget gandalf is very clear that he shouldn’t find out about denethor’s death until Later), is now the fucking steward of gondor, and also this mythical king is Back. also he too has to sit around and wait for death. So emotionally neither of them are doing too great.

Their first impressions of one another are very important.

faramir, of éowyn: “and he turned and saw the Lady Éowyn of Rohan; and he was moved with pity, for he saw that she was hurt, and his clear sight perceived her sorrow and unrest.”; “He looked at her, and being a man whom pity deeply stirred, it seemed to him that her loveliness amid her grief would pierce his heart.”

So he knows who she is, and he can see that she’s physically hurt, but also can see she’s feeling all kinds of fucked up. And the first emotion he feels is pity. He’s assessing her in terms of pain and sorrow, and all of these sorts of emotions éowyn seems desperate to divorce herself from. And he offers her pity. That’s significant.

éowyn, of faramir: “she looked at him and saw the grave tenderness in his eyes, and yet knew, for she was bred among men of war, that here was one whom no Rider of the Mark would outmatch in battle.”

She doesn’t know who he is, not really, but she does immediately think he could kick ass. And that’s her first and only real assessment of him. That’s also significant.

And éowyn is miserable, and she’s so miserable she’s actually willing to openly talk about if (if only to a limited extent) and faramir does what is, I think, one of the most incredible things in the entire book. He functionally disarms her, lets her down gently, and places them on equal footing with a single joke:

‘What would you have me do, lady?’ said Faramir. ‘I also am a prisoner of the healers.’

There’s merit in interpreting this straight, but I actually think it's quite funny to relate the safety and security of a hospital in wartime to a prison, to a cage. And I think tolkien’s aware of this, and not really intending us to read it straight. What this does is soften éowyn up enough that she asks for what she wants, but also seems to make her more interested in dealing with him, even if she reacts badly to his compliment of her.

And then they fall in love, and whatever. The chapter’s there, there’s a million fanfics out there about it, whatever.

But faramir’s proposal is Big, and deserves thought for what it says about their relationship. People like to bitch about it because they take it to mean that éowyn has had to change all this stuff about herself, give up her desire to be a firebrand or whatever to go off and be a lovely prince’s wife in this noble hippie commune over those hills yonder. I think that’s totally wrong.

I think what’s going on in faramir’s proposal and éowyn’s response is a really fascinating illumination of the accord they’ve reached with one another through their (admittedly brief) courtship. Here’s why:

First, faramir tries to approach the conversation with a bit of subterfuge. Not in the weird negative way, just in that he’s not hitting it head on at the start. He obviously still doesn’t understand what’s going on inside her head fully, so tries to ask around the question (‘why aren’t you at the cormallen?’) instead of asking the question he’s obviously interested in. éowyn has no time for this, and tells him to nut up or shut up. And he does!

But then there’s this line:

But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten.

Two things going on here: one, faramir’s rescinding his initial emotional reaction. He felt pity for her, but has now come to know her well enough that he realises she doesn’t need pity, and isn’t dumb enough to try and force it on her. But the second thing, almost more important, is that he assesses her in the terms that she prefers, which is that she has won herself renown and has shown her valour. These are not the things Faramir values, we know this, that’s the whole point of the bright sword speech. But they are the things éowyn values, and he loves her, and is willing to acknowledge what her desired self image is. That’s a huge concession she’s won off him, that’s big.

And then éowyn responds:

I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren.

here’s my potentially controversial take. I don’t think she’s giving up on her desire to be a fighter of some sort, but she’s giving up on some specific traditions, which is that of the mythical (but, let’s be clear, functionally nonexistent, save for éowyn) shieldmaidens, and of the riders of the Mark, who, as we have been told throughout the books, are given to valorising warfare and martial acts above all. This is supported by her saying “nor take joy only in the songs of slaying.” she’s not saying she won't take any joy in it, or that she won’t still praise it when it earns her admiration, but that’s not going to be her only raison d’etre anymore. Her life is going to move beyond the realm of death and killing and battlefield survival to growth and life and the future. That’s also a concession on her behalf.

And then there’s this hella romantic kiss on the walls, which is fucking brazen behaviour, but is also i think representative more of the unique situation than setting a trend for them. It is, i think, the positive equivalent of éowyn’s slaying of the witch king in terms of its uniqueness. In the same way that she’s not going to keep going around throwing herself headlong into fights she’s not meant to win, she’s also not going to be publicly playing tonsil hockey. This is the big moment, and then it’s back to the reserve from there.

Really, their entire relationship is, to me, about a series of negotiations. One culture and another, wives and husbands, old and new, war and peace, life and death, etc. they are similar in a lot of ways — both are intensely headstrong — but they’re similar primarily in character, not necessarily in belief, and so much of what they’re going to have to do as a pair is work to find their harmonious accord, if that makes sense. Sometimes they’ll do it peaceably, sometimes they’ll have blow up fights, but their entire relationship is going to be predicated on negotiating the space between, if that makes sense?

Okay i said i’d say some stuff on the relationship of tolkien and his wife edith to faramir and éowyn. Tolkien was adamant that they were beren and lúthien (that’s on their tombstones), and i’m full willing to grant him that. But i think it’s complicated by the fact that faramir is, in some senses, tolkien’s self-insert. Obviously authors can have stand-ins for their opinions without the character having to be them exactly (and i think there’s more merit certainly to saying that tolkien’s 100% self-insert is tom bombadil) but i think there’s something worth exploring to the connections between beren and lúthien and faramir and éowyn. I know the morality issue makes B+L more closely comparable to arwen and aragorn, but, as I argue for here, the mortality issue (or lifespan issue) isn’t totally alien to faramir and éowyn.

As i write them, there are some core themes i’m pretty consistently thinking about, so i’ll just list em here in case that’s any help to you.

Family

This would be: life after orphanhood, life as the last of a family, what your obligation to your family is, how you go on and have your own family after having had a less than ideal childhood, etc.

Duty

Here’s what I said about their differing approaches to duty in a now-abandoned draft chapter from willow cabin:

Faramir has said, not in as many words, that she should not begrudge him for following orders. This, she knows, is a crucial difference between them. They each hold duty above all other charges, but their interpretation of what exactly that means is different. It comes from the differences in power they wield: he has ever been empowered to change the course of decisions before they are made, while she is forced to react to them after. To him, then, it would be unreasonable to disobey direct orders, given that a failure to change them in advance is a reflection upon his skills, not the legitimacy of the command. She, however, has rarely had control over how and when orders are given, and so sees no inherent legitimacy to them, and thus no reason not to disobey orders that are unjustly given.

Time

As I alluded to above, éowyn is going to live a significantly shorter life than Faramir, and she is no doubt very aware of this. But this also means that they’re going to experience time differently, and that will have an impact on their behaviour. What might seem like foot-dragging to éowyn seems like impatience to faramir, etc

Healing

We never actually see faramir’s reaction to finding out denethor tried to burn him alive. That’s a lot. We have no idea if he knows when he proposes to éowyn. When does he find out? What does that do to his mood? Etc. but also, éowyn says she’ll become a healer — what does that really mean? Is she going to be nurse/doctor éowyn from now on? Will she broaden the definition of healing (for my part, i say yes, which is what i’ve been trying to do in willow cabin, though a little less successfully than i’d hoped)

Gender

This is a slightly less popular theme in the bookverse fics, but i think as part of éowyn and faramir’s relationship of negotiation, they’re going to have to deal with éowyn not feeling one hundo thrilled about being a woman. And i think that raises some interesting questions about what faramir’s response to that will be. men/manhood is often treated as the historical default — so what happens when someone like, say, éowyn, starts challenging the notion of gender and gender roles around faramir? How does he react? What does that do to his own self-image? Etc.

Okay. yes. That’s all i can think of right now. I am so, so sorry this is so long, i just totally brain dumped there. If you have any questions at all though please please do hit me up and i’m super happy to read whatever you’re writing (literally gagging for farawyn content rn lmao), if you’re comfortable sharing etc.

#oh my god this is ridiculously long i am SO sorry #asks #faramir #Éowyn

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