#the lady of ithilien au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

searchingforserendipity25 · 11 months

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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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greypetrel · 1 year

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Hi! 34-"You're covered in blood, need to tell me something?" for Aisling (or any character that you think may fit best)? ✨

Hello! Long time waiting, uh? Sorry, got lost with other things and… Well, I had some doubts on how to decline this prompt. And then… Well, a certain AU happened and bam.

Let’s go back to Middle Earth, shall we? Fluffwings is a very very good girl and there's an extra dose of sugar.

Tis the prompt list.

Dream a Little Dream of Me. (🎶)

"You're covered in blood, need to tell me something?"

The Ithilien wasn’t dangerous, per se. Or well, it wasn’t if you were the Dark Lady and all the orcs of Mordor knew you and respected you well enough. Being a Maiar with a tid bit of magical talent helped for all the rest, even with just one arm left.

As much as Dorian and Cassandra insisted that she shouldn’t stroll around on her own, she wasn’t afraid of much of anything she could have met there. She knew the place well to find her way back, and was more than capable of defending herself, she got the hang, by now, of casting spells and fighting with one arm. Her prosthetics was crafted exactly to help her casting, as a staff would have.

No matter, then, if she was late to their usual meeting exactly because Dorian and Cassandra had some right in being worried about her going around on her own. They didn’t need to know, since nothing happened. She should bathe before going back, tho, she mused rubbing her hands on her skirt. Not that the gesture did much of anything, since her clothes too were dirty. Still…

The main issue right now was that she was running late.

They usually met an hour after sunrise in a specific clearing he passed into in his patrol. The same they randomly met three months ago, and she walked with him, pretending she needed to be accompanied and protected as she took some cuttings that hopefully would have caught inside Mordor as well. She technically took all she needed a good month ago, but no one needed to know. What she told everyone was that it was convenient to have an insight in whatever the Gondor garrison was doing and the areas outside the fortress. Incidents and fightings decreased considerably in that last period, as she could glimpse at patrols and redirect her own people elsewhere with the new informations she got in her mornings, far from the Captain’s reach. She had to admit that he was good, too clever for his own good. He didn’t know that his Lieutenant was feeding informations directly to the Enemy, tho.

The truth, and it was something she struggled a little do admit with herself, was that she enjoyed the man’s company in a way she hadn’t in centuries. Ever since she met the Nine, at least. And somewhat more: all of the Nine had known who she was from the start. Lieutenant Rutherford had no idea. He treated her as a normal person, with respect not because she had a title and power, but just because she was her. It was endearing, it was a respite from a crown she bore gladly but had never really wanted. She didn’t need to tell Dorian this, he understood well enough, and always let her go.

And now…

“My Lady!”

A very worried Gondor lieutenant exclaimed, paling considerably at assessing her poor state, hand jumping at the hilt of his sword, under his cape, and striding towards her.

“Where’s the enemy? Please stand beside me. If the worst happens, run north and follow the river, someone will find you. Tell Captain Faramir-”

As she was saying: endearing. She smiled, in spite of herself, in spite of the fact that she should really tell him that she was the last person on Middle Earth he wanted to reveal the hideout of his group to, and that he shouldn’t be so trusting. Instead, she shook her head, standing still where she was.

“No need, ser, thank you. The woods are quiet this morning, no sign of the Enemy.” Except the one in front of him explaining why she was late today. “I was just… delayed.”

He squinted his eyes at her, with suspicion, taking her figure up and down. His hand didn’t leave his weapon, and for a minute Aisling thought he may have finally realized. It would have been plenty of time, after all.

“I’m sorry I made you wait.” She told him, amiable as she could muster.

“Nonsense. Are you hurt?”

“I am not. Why would I?”

He considered her for a minute, raising one eyebrow at her. As if he thought she was not making sense.

“You’re covered in blood, my lady. Do you need to tell me something?”

Ah, yeah, that. She looked down on herself and well, she indeed was, and it wasn’t a nice image she put on herself. She won’t hear the end of it from Vivienne if anyone home knew. Vivienne, luckily, wasn’t there with her: she was the one that disagreed the most with this adventure of her. As she usually did: their relationship had started the rockiest of all, but she came to enjoy having a counterpart to her thoughts greatly. But in this case, she was glad she didn’t have it at hand.

“Ah. Well, I’m sorry for my poor appearance, I… had a too close encounter with a boar.”

Cullen’s eyes opened wide in disbelief, but still he somehow didn’t find anything particularly weird about her words. She carefully omitted that the boar was bigger than a war horse and definitely something that had lured around from way longer than your average wild swine. Nonetheless, even if a lonely girl even if one of elven descent defeating a wild animal that put in danger the most experienced hunters was weird per se, the man just looked at her, hand finally lowering from his sword and looking her up and down, worry clear in his face underneath a vein of admiration.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt? Boars can be dangerous, and… and that’s a lot of blood, my lady.”

“None of it is mine, ser, I swear. It looks worse than it is, I just… Was too close when it fell.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He sighed, absent-mindedly placing a hand on her shoulder. He did seem relieved, but soon enough realized what he did, and was quick in taking back his hand, cheeks flushing red and going as far as taking two steps back, clearing his throat embarrassingly. “Ah! Sorry, I- Ah, I heard of elven agility and valiancy in a fight, but I never imagined- I mean, I’m glad you’re safe.”

That was it. The exact reason she kept coming back here. The bashfulness, the gallantry, the way he had of thinking that touching her shoulder with a gloved hand through a jacked soaked in boar’s blood was something too forward, too brash. And not because she was the dangerous one, but because he thought she would have thought bad of him. She felt young again, fought the urge to grab his wrist and bring his hand back where it was, tell him she didn’t mind, he could touch her, she wasn’t going to break or take offense. But it would have probably been considered offensive, wouldn’t it? She had to learn more about modern human customs, definitely. For now, she just let him do.

“You’re too kind to me, ser. And you have nothing to apologise for. Now if you would excuse me, I would like to suggest a deviation from our usual path…”

“What? It’s not safe, not with boars around… If we stay on the patrol path, someone would reach us if needed.”

“I really need to wash up, and I would feel mortified with your fellow soldiers around… A lonely girl between so many men? I won’t feel at ease…”

“They’re the most honourable men Gondor has to offer, my lady, I swear… The Captain is a noble man, he won’t let anything happen to you.”

An honest man that slaughtered her people on sight, without being provoked first, she would have liked to add. But, she just smiled at him, shaking her head.

“I know… But I know a hot spring not far away from here. I don’t want to take you away from your patrol, ser, we can separate here and meet again in two days’ time? I am just happy to know you’re safe and you waited for me.”

He seems to consider, looking at her and at the usual path they take, the one that runs against the hilltop and grants a view of the road that leads to Minas Morgul, protected by the trees. The patrol of a trusted warrior, he wouldn’t have it on his own if he wasn’t good. Aisling felt a pang of guilt at the thought: she wasn’t technically lying… Just giving him a partial, carefully chosen version of the truth. He didn’t deserve it, but she was sure his sympathy would end in knowing who she really was when she wasn’t with him, and why exactly orcs never showed up when he was with her.

“Lead the way, my lady, I couldn’t leave you on your own.”

So galliant and kind. He really deserved better, she mused, as she smiled brightly and turned to step gingerly in another path that opened from the clearing. This one led them against the side of the hill, sloping mildly down amidst pine trees and sycamores, myrtles and junipers bushes. They made a good chat out of it, it had turned out in the last months that they had some things in common and to talk about. They both liked animals, Aisling told him of Pork Chops’ litter, of the seven little puppies that brought her so much joy and that she hoped to introduce him as soon as they’ll be able to sustain a long walk, Cullen told her about the farm he grew up with, in Rohan, of his siblings and the horses they breeded. She carefully chose some details about her life she could share, and he spoke of life in the garrison and of the other scouts he made friends with - it wasn’t spying, she repeated herself, he was just a friend. That he also gave her informations about what path her orcs should avoid when they needed to resupply, was an advantage that benefitted them both. Less fights and less casualties and wounds for everyone, everyone was happier.

The hot spring pooled in a shady corner below a rocky slope, the spring bubbling and steaming, the surroundings filled with mist that smelled a little like sulphur. Not the best of smells, but the water was safe for bathing, if not for drinking, and pleasantly warm.

“Thank you for walking me here, ser, I won’t keep you any longer. Shall I see you in some days? I hope we could spend some more time together…” And she really did.

“Nonsense.” He scoffed, cheeks colouring pink again. “Clean up, my lady, I will guard you.”

“There’s really no need!” She laughed.

“Of course, there is. You’re covered in blood.”

Well she couldn’t object to that, at least. Clever.

“Well, do as you wish. If you sit on that log, we can talk.” She laughed again, seeing him flush three different and progressively deeper shades of red as he noticed that the log she spoke of was separated by the pool just by a very sparse bush, doing a poor job in screening the water. “I am sorry, I am sorry! It was just a bad joke.”

Nonetheless, he stood guard as he told, facing away from the spring but not so far away that they couldn’t talk raising their voices a little. She just left him her prosthetics to keep, and he was very casual about it, not making questions. Explaining that would have been a little difficult, allegedly, without outward lying about it. And she didn’t want to lie to him any more than she already was. Omissions were needed, outward falsities… She never liked them, as much as everyone was so adamant in saying she did. She splashed around and got herself and her clothes cleaned with a couple of small spells.

And yet, when she declared she was done, he offered her his cape -stepping back to the log, one hand pressed firmly on his eyes and the other outstretched to offer her a makeshift towel. She insisted she could dry both herself and her clothes with magic, there really was no need, but managed to convince him only by stepping in front of him, gently lowering his hand from his eyes with hers and showing she was dressed and proper again and very dry, loose hair before her shoulders: without anything to brush it with, she dared not braid it, all but ready to put up her prosthetic before the jacket.

“I am sorry- Ah, I guess I’m not used to magic.” He told her, smiling bashfully as she held his hand, squeezing his fingers minutely in encouragement that it was all right.

“That’s all right. It’s not as bad as everyone portraits it, if one knows how to use it. It saved me from the boar, today.”

“I guess it must be so.”

“You have nothing to fear from me, you know it, don’t you?”

“I trust your word, Lady Aisling.”

Shily, very shily and probing, he closed his fingers on hers, smiling down at her. Trusting. Too trusting, and it let a bitter sensation in the back of Aisling’s throat. But for now, she just concentrated on the good. On how good it was to be trusted and cherished without wanting nothing in return. How good it was a friendship that didn’t ask for nothing, didn’t spark out of some mutual need or alliance. They held hands for a little longer than it was proper for human custom, looking at each other in the eyes. Or at least, judging by how Cullen jerked up again all of a sudden after a while, grumbling and offering his help with her arm. She laughed, in amusement and endearment, and just because she was happy, and let him tie the straps on the empty shirt sleeve, around what was left of her left arm.

Some day, she would need to test if he really believed she truly didn’t mean him no harm, and if he would have looked at her the same way if she was sitting on her throne, surrounded by her inner circle and advisors. For now, tho, she could forget and choose to live just a speckle of her existence, carefully chosen and selected, but not for that any less true than the version of her that bore an iron crown. Just for a little while, she could be what the name she chose meant: a dream. And a happy one.

#aisling the dark lady au #dragon age #lotr #crossover #ficlet #writing petrel #dragon age fic

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tough-girl9 · 11 months

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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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anghraine · 6 years

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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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zaraquinn · 3 years

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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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roqueamadi · 3 years

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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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viva-el-belt-libre · 4 years

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Today is MirSan day on @inuvember so I decided to share a few fanfic recommendations to anybody who wants to get in the mood! Note that I'm usually not a fan of modern-AU settings, so there won't be much of that.

Also it was getting long, so I decided to maybe leave the lemons for another post. No lemons here, but please check the ratings and warnings, some of these can get heavy.

And please reply with your favourite MirSan fics as well!!

One-shots:

"Pieces", by Griddlebone

A reflective piece on Sango choosing Miroku.

"Home", by Griddlebone

Set right after the well closes, before babies. Sango and Miroku decide where they want to make their home.

"Damage Control", by Griddlebone

Did you notice I like Griddlebone? In this one Sango decides to train Miroku after the whole incident at the oni-women village.

"Come undone", by Griddlebone

Some angst. Sango discovers Miroku's shouki wounds.

"Springside Shift", by Griddlebone

On Kagome's suggestion, Sango helps Miroku with a massage.

"The Priest and the Warrior", by ScribeFigaro

Collection of drabbles and one-shots.

"In Vino Veritas", by Starzki

Sango gets very very drunk and Miroku tries to get her back home in safety. It's a comedy.

"The Simplicity of Marriage", by Lady of Ithilien

Starting a married life is hard.

"Getting Evens", by Scribe Figaro

Sango decides to get even to Miroku with a game of dice. It does not go as planned. Some naughtiness, but nothing explicit.

"Of Earings", by Lucinda the Maid

Miroku reflects on his curse and legacy.

"The Peephole", by Starzki

The gang is forced to find shelter in a brothel for the night.

"The Worst Sort of Nightmare", by PeculiarPie

Don't let the title fool you, this is so sweet my computer is now sticky from the sugar.

Ongoing:

"Consigned to Oblivion", by Griddlebone (rated M for violence)

It's basically "Inuyasha" without Inuyasha, told in the point of view of Naraku, Kikyou, Miroku and Sango. The jewel is there, but Kagome never went through the well. How the hell does it work? Well it does, and a lot, for some reason (the reason is Griddlebone is fricking awesome).

"Small Moments", by Griddlebone

It's the whole story of "Inuyasha". But retold in the point of view of Miroku and Sango. I have to say this is one of my favourite fics currently. It explores their dynamics so well, it's a great companion piece if you are reading the manga.

Dark fics/Horror:

Careful with these, they are all amazing but they are also very heavy on violence, including sexual violence. Even though the rating is higher for these, I didn't feel right saving them for the NSFW list.

I'll put them all under the break so you don't have to even look at them if you don't want to.

"Season of Sorrow", by Griddlebone

Very dark, canon divergent. Major character death, TW: rape. Sango realizes too late Inuyasha was not to blame for her village's destruction. She is made captive by Naraku and Miroku is forced to be her caretaker.

"Withered Butterfly", by Icefelis

TW: rape, child abuse, incest, grooming, gore. This fic was never finished, but the good news is that it does conclude an arc, so to speak, so if you ignore the beginning of the next arc it kind of feels finished. Also it has zombies.

#Inuyasha #mirsan #miroku #sango #fanfic recommendation #inuvember

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annab99awritersdream · 1 month

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Feeling major anxiety at the idea of writing my original which is basically a Lady of Ithilien Real World/Renaissance AU. Obviously I'll have to change the names of the characters, but what scares me the most is that I won't be able to do Elenwë justice by thrusting them into a completely different context (and changing their background). They are who they are because of what they've been through and, though I really want to write it someday, I feel like it will be a failure because...it wouldn't be Elenwë anymore (I wish at least the names could stay the same but unfortunately they're copyrighted and...ugh, it makes me mad. Elenwë is a perfect ship name)

Am I being too dramatic? It's my first time writing an AU of my own stuff and...I don't know, I'm confused. And scared even though there's really nothing to be afraid of. Just so you know, you can leave a comment down below. I love and need encouraging comments and you'll make me very happy.

Thank you to all of my mutuals who put up with me every day. I love you so very much 💗

#the lady of ithilien #lady of ithilien poll #the lady of ithilien au #i have written like 400 words and i dont even know anymore #am i being dramatic?#am i being paranoid for no reason?#you tell me

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annab99awritersdreamsideblog · 23 days

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Names for Venier family

Lorenzo & Elena Venier

Children

Piero Venier (Mírion)

Cecilia Venier (Wyn)

Giovanni Venier (Boromir)

Margherita Venier (Eglantine)

Maddalena Venier (Elanorellë)

Caterina Venier (Vanya)

Giuliano Venier (Faramir)

#ties that bind #names #lady of ithilien au #the lady of ithilien au

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morwensteelsheen · 3 years

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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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unnamedelement · 3 years

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even the WORDS studio ghibli steampunk inspired 4th age au is intriguing to me - I’d love to hear more about it!

I am so pleased you asked and I will talk about it forever. Basically, the idea is just something I write on--a paragraph or two here or there--when I'm feeling down and need a pick-me-up, though I haven't done so since May now as I've been so busy! It's set in a 4th Age Middle-earth in which all the basic things are the same, except that the technology advanced slightly differently, as if every major cultural and intellectual hub in history hadn't been wiped out in the first two ages. I mean, they have been, but the ideas were revisited and propagated instead. Which puts us in a bit of a steam era, a bit more modern warfare, I suppose (I imagine it as, like, Legend of Korra equivalent technology, but subtracting the radio broadcasting). I call it Studio Ghibli inspired because, in my head, thats the way its "animated," with similar color palettes to, say, Howls' Moving Castle, My Neighbor Totoro, and Spirited Away. The same sort of observational attention to detail, but not overwrought, and an air of the magical in the every day... It's really just a domestic sort of thing, with an added twist of the Straight Road being shut for purposes that aren't entirely clear to me yet but, somehow, tie into the technological aspect. It, at least, explains to me why the elves are so goddamn committed to technology and Middle-earth in the 4th age, in this universe, in a way that aren't in non-AUs because, well, Tolkien. The lore of this ridiculous sandbox is only very slowly evolving, but giving elves unresolvable sealonging is a certain type of hurt/comfort that is highly attractive to me. Whoops. And it is Legolas- and OC-focused, of course, because that's just who I am as a person. There is also a university in Minas Tirith because I say so, and because I need to project my woes about academia somewhere, but I try to justify this to myself by tying it into that preservation and propogation of knowledge aspect. Anyway, that was way more than you asked for! Ah well. Here is the first scene I ever wrote in this AU, because I've never actually shared it publicly, I don't think. I believe @roselightfairy has been the only one privy to my nonsensical AU drafts thus far! I usually just ramble about it in tags, but you caught me this time, ha. Thanks again for asking!

Legolas twisted the ring on his index finger distractedly as he waited for the train. It had been a long day in Minas Tirith and he was ready to return to Ithilien, to take in the rolling plains that edged the river as they flew past, for it was always only then that he could reflect, in uninterrupted silence, without hobbit tourists at his heels or the accidental shove of an impatient lady in the shops.

There were too many people in Minas Tirith for Legolas. Accordingly, and much to Aragorn and Gimli’s chagrin, it was not his favorite place.

But they understood, and that was all he could ask. He tried to schedule all of the city errands on the same day or two, because longer than thirty-six continuous hours in Minas Tirith and he became an absolute nightmare with which to coexist. For the most part, his friends and family had accepted this and he was trying, after all, but that did not make it any less obnoxious for the rest of them.

It did not help that the only place in Gondor with Sealonging-certified healers was on the fourth level of the city. A wildly insensitive choice, in his opinion, though he kept that perspective well enough to himself after Ithildim and Gimli had tried to advocate, a few years before, for the relocation of the clinic to the Healing Houses on the Sixth, in a string of rejected proposals at City Council.

Gimli would not look at Aragorn for a month after that, and so Legolas had quit his whingeing and suffered in silence the abrupt buffeting that occurred in the busy streets after his appointments. He made it his own prerogative to schedule at the end of the day so he could spend the morning with enough wherewithal to do his errands and take care of whatever sundry things he had managed to commit himself to. It kept him relatively sane and it kept his friends on speaking terms and, so, that is what he did. (And it was not as if any of them had control over the West-way being shut, so there was no point in any of them falling out over it.)

Legolas heard the heavy-huffing of the train approaching long before its lights rounded the bend of the river. He preferred to walk to the stop at the Docks than get on at the Gates because it gave his mind time to settle. Waiting that close to the river after therapy was, perhaps, not his brightest idea, but the pros outweighed the cons and what Ithildim didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Besides, it was Summer, and the cattails were up again all around the station, and a family of osprey had made the light pole by the river their nest, and it did lift his spirits to watch these things alone as the world moved on about him...

A few more people rushed the small platform as the rumbling of the train on its little steel bridge above the banks increased. Legolas only readjusted his ring, unbuckled the satchel in his lap and rummaged around for the hardtack he had bartered for Ewessel. (She would have no idea how many pieces were there originally—what she didn’t know also wouldn’t hurt her). He was just tugging on the pair of oversized leather earmuffs Gimli had given him a few years prior when he started taking the train routinely when two pairs of very familiar shoes suddenly appeared in his line of sight, and he froze—

There was no point in hurrying—he had been found out so he adjusted his earmuffs and tucked the hardtack into his cheek, noticing vaguely that the sturdier pair of boots were well-shined and dirtless, while the more slender, elvish ones were caked in mud along the edges and splashed up the shins.

He had thought Ithildim was in the Emyn Arnen buildings today. He had seen him head off that way through the trees and he had obviously been there for that was forest mud and yet here he stood with Gimli, clearly just come from their Minas Tirith office so...

He had apparently been wrong. It would not be the first time he had lost track of other people’s schedules.

The train rolled up slowly, then, and Legolas finally looked up from his seat on the bench to find Gimli at eye level—glaring at him with arms crossed—and then, looking further up, was Ithildim—hair neatly pinned back despite his other uncharacteristic untidiness—and he looked down on him with a bemused and mildly irritated expression.

Legolas did his best to offer a guileless smile.

It did not work, and Ithildim pulled him to his feet. “I thought your appointment was at 4(?), auren.”

“It was,” he said, and he shrugged. He was tired and did not want to talk yet. “I prefer walking the plains for an hour or so after, to calm my mind. I did not know you would be here.”

“You do this every time?” Ithildim asked with eyebrows raised, and then Gimli was chivvying them forward as the train doors opened and the inward-bound commuters poured out and the outward-bound ones moved forward.

“I did not know you would be here,” Legolas only said, shrugging, as they found a small table in the back of the car and piled around it.

Ithildim opened his mouth to ask again but Gimli interrupted—

“That is answer enough, Ithildim,” he said softly. “Leave him be, hm?”

“But—”

“He is always back to himself by the time he gets home, is he not? Let him do what he needs to do. He is his own keeper, Ithildim.”

Legolas was no longer watching them, and he instead stared out the window as the train moved forward and he was rocked slightly as it picked up speed. He did not notice the sound of a crinkling bag or the half sandwich Gimli slid in front of him. He did not notice Ithildim watching him wearily but intermittently as he arranged his notes on the small table, comparing a neat chart to x’s drawn on a map spread across its surface.

Outside, the sun was dipping dark but his mind was far away, and his mouth felt dry as he finally blinked and turned away from the flashing landscape.

Gimli had placed a reassuring hand by his thigh as he leaned over Ithildim’s map, and Ithildim was watching him unashamedly, silver eyes narrowed as Legolas glanced at him.

He pulled a travel mug from his backpack and handed it across the table to him.

“I take medicine for this now, you know,” Legolas said quietly, and he considered the coffee and tilted his head, waiting for Ithildim’s reply.

“I know,” he said immediately. “But you have that look in your eye that you get when…”

“Ithildim, he is his own keeper,” Gimli interrupted firmly, and Ithildim looked away. “That being said, Master Elf, it is summer again—“

“I know that—“

“—and the weather folks are predicting a mighty storm this week, which is probably why you are like this.”

Legolas picked up the coffee without a word and reluctantly drank it, and he twisted his ring again as Gimli continued:

“I’ve told Aragorn again and again that he would be much better served employing you lot for storm prediction than the fellows he has but…” he trailed off, and Legolas smiled.

“But he thinks it is unethical to use a bunch of Sea-longing elves for the protection of king and country, yes,” Legolas finished. “Honestly, those of us who are afflicted are going to suffer whether or not he consults us, so I’ve never understood his reticence.”

Ithildim looked up again and was finally smiling. “You are a bit like a barometer, in that,” he admitted. “Gimli has a point here.”

Legolas laughed. “So, what? We wait until I become uncommunicative and morose and a general pain to be around, and then we send Aragorn a warning letter? What, set smoke signals?”

“This is our stop,” Gimli was saying as he folded up Ithildim’s map and notes and shoved them into his hands. He stood up and gestured at the elves to join him. “Normal people would use the message systems, Legolas, but since you refuse to—”

“Really, Gimli?” Ithildim had pulled Legolas to his feet and was dragging him by the hand out the door. The wind was heavy beneath the eaves of the trees that overhung their stop. “We are lucky he only uses birds. Otherwise it would be constant updates about the exchange rate of rye, or flash-pictures of bread, or flowery descriptions of some lady he met in the gardens!”

As they started down the side path to the houses they shared with Saida and the children Legolas laughed again. “It is mushrooms I am fascinated with right now, Ithildim. It is painfully obvious sometimes that you do not listen when I speak.”

“Mushrooms?” he asked, turning to Gimli.

“That is his current passion project, yes. Have you not been in the downstairs bathroom recently?”

“Thank you, elvellon. I am so relieved someone listens to me.”

“Eru, Legolas, you know the downstairs bathroom is supposed to be for Ewessel so she doesn’t slow anyone else down in the mornings.”

Legolas had walked past them now and was several feet ahead as the main house came into sight. He shrugged and turned, walking backward. “It was her idea, Ithildim. You can take it up with her. I am in her good graces now, and I am not playing with the fire of adolescence to tell her no on your behalf.”

Gimli was laughing now and then Legolas had turned and took off toward the house. By the time they arrived a few minutes later, the lights had all been turned on or lit and Legolas was at the kitchen table with Ewessel herself, helping her with her schoolwork.

He barely looked up as they entered. “Stew on the stove,” he said quietly, and Ithildim sighed to hear the distance in his voice.

The door swung in again as Saida came in with Alfirinion at her heels—

“Smells like rain,” she announced as she slipped off her shoes and dropped her bag to the ground.

Alfirinion was just unloading his bag and armful of books onto the table inside the door when the house shook with a loud crash of thunder, and the building sound of rain—gentle to pounding and persistent—began to beat at the house.

Ewessel looked at Legolas, who had gone still beside her, and turned to her family. “I have known for days it would rain tonight. He is better than any weather report, if you are paying attention.”

“Ewessel,” Saida said with quiet admonishment, and she walked up and pressed a kiss to her niece’s forehead before settling down beside Legolas. “How about an early night?” she said to him quietly. “We can talk about our project tomorrow evening.”

Legolas cleared his throat and looked at his hands. “Yes, I think that would be good. The table isn’t…”

“Ewessel will set the table, won’t she?” Saida said lightly, and Ewessel closed her ledger and sprang to her feet. The dining room and kitchen were suddenly in motion and Legolas sat silent in his seat, until he dropped his head, defeated, into his hands, waiting for the sound of the rain to stop sounding like the crashing of waves at the shore.

“Tell us next time you notice, child,” he could hear Saida saying from the stove, and there was muttering under breath before Ewessel and Alfirinion were back in the room, placing a bowl at each seat.

There was the scraping of chairs around him, and then the feel of a cool glass pressed against his hand.

“It is just water, Legolas,” Ithildim was saying at his shoulder. “Drink, auren. The wide world is still here.”

And so he drank and ate and listened to his friends talk.

Alfirinion had had an argument with a peer at Rangers (though he had won, because debate team and shadowing Arwen over the summer had apparently paid off), and Ewessel was displeased no one wanted to see her forestry project (which, to be fair, was a log covered in mushrooms she had taken from Legolas’ project in the bathroom, so no one was particularly empathetic). Saida had made progress on curriculum redesign in her department at the main university, and Gimli and Ithildim had gotten clearance to start a project they were partnering on, to bring heated, running water to a new town outside Osgiliath.

Legolas, however, had only made stew. Had run errands for the family and for his business. Had gone to his appointment. Had lost himself to the wind and left his family fumbling.

But the stew was, at least, enjoyed, and that was better than nothing...

After dinner, everyone gathered in the sitting room to listen to Alfirinion practice his closing arguments for his competition and, eventually, Legolas fell asleep between Ithildim and Gimli on the couch. The last thing he was aware of was someone slipping headphones over his ears and dropping the needle on the phonograph so his senses were flooded with crackling birdsong, and then there was a blanket about his shoulders, and he was gone.

#nerysvevo #asks #my au #my fanfiction #this fic has accidentally gotten a plot tho which made me mad #because i was writing it to be comforting #but it is fun #and i wish i had the art skills to illustrate it #because it is absolutely and unbelievably a beautiful little world in my head!#long post #sry

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