#they're going to UMBAR

[sniperct]

Back on our LOTRO bullshit, Barud-dur and Mount Doom edition

[rohirric-hunter]

future & ghost for hathellang?👀

@isi7140 All these Hathellang questions kind of string together so I'm gonna answer them together. From this ask game. Also spoilers for all of The Song of Waves and Wind that's currently out. And also this got kinda long. And certain parts aren't set in stone yet, like how Léonys and Hathellang meet up again in Umbar. I'm still contemplating Umbar stuff and figuring out how I want to make my characters' story go.

Also I feel like I should say that Hathellang is not a reliable narrator, any more than Léonys is. Even less so, in some parts of this.

ghost: Who or what haunts your OC? What happened? How do they live with their ghosts?

Imagine you're Hathellang. You grew up alone. When people ask about your parents, you shrug, and don't say anything, and let them think that you don't remember them. The truth is, you do -- your mother, at least. You were just old enough to understand what was happening the day she took you on a trip to Bree-town, to go shopping, she said, and sat you down on the edge of the Boar Fountain, and told you to wait for her there. You waited there for five days, swiping food from a nearby vendor when the hunger became too much to take, though thinking back you believe he must have seen you, and let you take it out of pity. On the fifth day, you were caught by a guard, but let off with a warning, and when he let you go you had run off, leaving the plaza where your mother left you for the first time and hiding in the stables of the Prancing Pony. Bob had found you there sooner, rather than later, and asked you what you were doing and where your parents were, and for the first time, you had shrugged, too busy trying to hold the tears in for words. "I see," he'd said, and he'd gone off, and come back some time later with half a plate of stew and a cup of water and told you not to be spooking the horses and ponies.

You cried, once he left you alone, and then you never cried about it again. Crying is a lot of energy, energy that you needed to beg and steal and keep yourself on your feet. Locks are hard to pick with shaking hands. You're called far worse things than orphan; street-rat, gutter scum, thief. You can't afford to dwell on it, so you don't think about it, and by the time you're in a place where you can think about it, it's buried so deep that you think it's easier to let it lie.

fear: What is your OC's greatest fear? What do they do when confronted with it? Are they open with their fear, or do they hide it away?

People like Bob would give you clothes, or food, or little toys, but the clothes would wear out, and the food would only last so long, and the toys didn't teach you any useful skill you could trade for clothes and food, and none of them seemed to know or care that you spent cold winter nights in narrow alleys with only one blanket, or sometimes none at all, and some nights you went to sleep with no real idea if you would wake up in the morning. The moments of pity they have for you only go so far, and they're never as many as the moments of anger, when they catch you stealing and never wonder why, and the more it happens the more bitter and angry about it you become.

Then there's a guard who doesn't want to do paperwork, and Léonys, and she's angry just like everyone else, and she yells at you and tells you off for stealing, until eventually she doesn't. You think it's more boredom than actual acceptance, though. Everywhere in the Hackberry House you can only see bare tolerance -- the other children, who would never dream of stealing, tolerate you because Lady Hackberry took you in, and Lady Hackberry tolerates you because taking in children with nowhere else to go is what she does. You simply cannot bring yourself to believe that they actually want you, and to be tolerated but not wanted is more than you can bear, so you leave, slipping out of the House without saying goodbye one morning and running back to Bree, where you are disliked enough, but at least people are honest about it.

Léonys finds you on the hill behind the Training Hall in the late afternoon, where you have sat most of the day under an overgrown bush that no one has bothered to trim because they cannot see it, hugging your knees to your chest, and contemplating crying about it, though you hadn't really got 'round to it. "Are you coming home for dinner?" she asks shortly, pulling her cloak tight about her against the late October chill.

"What?" you ask, surprised to see her and not quite comprehending her words.

"Dinner," she says. "It'll be ready in a couple of hours. Are you coming? Gareth is making stuffed cabbages."

You think, as you follow her back up the road to the Hackberry House, that you might love her.

There's no call to be so angry, once you realize your new place, and in response the rest of the world seems to become less angry, and though you do not stop stealing, for now you have more mouths than just your own to feed, you can afford to pick and choose your contracts. Mostly you do work for the wealthy elite of Bree who have petty beef with each other that they refuse to resolve in a courtroom like respectable folk, instead choosing to hire people of your talents to prove esoteric points to one another. When such work is not available, and the only burglary jobs are ones you would prefer not to do -- taking food from those who have little enough already, or weapons from the guards who defend the town -- you are, for the first time, in a position to turn them down, for in Lady Hackberry's house you had learned the art of tailoring, and while there is not so much money in that as there is in burglary, it's honest work, and it's safe.

That safety slowly begins to have value to you, as you slowly learn to accept that there's a future for you, in a land that you love despite how difficult it can be to live in, with Lady Hackberry, who took you in, with the children, who you swear will never know hardship like you did, and with Léonys, who comes to love you as fiercely as you love her.

And then the Plot comes for you.

Léonys runs headfirst into danger, and you follow her, because of course you do, as if you could do anything else. The danger worries you, far more than it would have a decade before, but you worry more for her than for yourself. She has no idea of when it's wise to say no, and she feels so strongly for anyone in any sort of trouble. It's one of the things you love about her, but you know it will land both of you in more trouble than you can handle, eventually.

There is trouble, and plenty of it, but it all turns out to be worth it, and you find that the two of you are able to manage it, unbelievable as it seems. When it is all over, you promise each other, you will go home, and everything will go back to normal. But when it is all over you find that it is not all over after all. You find yourself accompanying a party of Elves south, to cover the trail of a company that had departed from Rivendell in some secrecy, and then you find yourself drawn into the deep dark of the Mines of Moria, and one thing leads to another and then you're storming Dol Guldur, and then following Nona to Rohan on a dream, and standing against invading armies and a wizard. When you see Léonys again at Helm's Deep, something is wrong, but there is no time to pursue it, and then you are off again, following Aragorn and the Grey Company to Gondor, and it is not until after the battle before Minas Tirith that you have a chance to ask.

You do not ask, though, because you can feel a shadow that hangs over Léonys, and you wonder why she has not told you herself. You find the truth out months later in Naerband, and it is a long time before you can bring yourself to leave her side again. You fear your worry might be overbearing; there are few things in the world more dangerous than Saruman, and she has already weathered that. But a tiny part of your mind has entertained the idea that something might happen, some swift and terrible evil that you will be powerless to prevent, and the thought will not leave you. If something were to happen to her -- to the woman who saw something worthwhile in you when it seemed no one else did, who tracked you down and brought you home when you didn’t even know that you wanted to be brought home -- it doesn't really bear thinking about. So you don't.

future: What's the worst possible future for your OC? Are they taking steps to avoid that outcome? Are they even aware it's a possibility?

Léonys and you have both agreed that it is time to turn your road homeward, but first you agree to one last favor for Elessar; he wishes for you and Candaith to briefly represent him in the lands of Gondor to the West, and Queen Arwen wishes for you to assess threats to her husband’s safety, when he travels there himself. You ask if two strangers are best suited for this task.

"Two strangers who have already aided them much," Elessar says. "And the gossip might flow more freely among strangers than it would before those with more permanent positions at court."

Perhaps he is right, you think later, as you look a woman in the eye and tell her that where you come from, marriages between different peoples are not allowed. "Especially Elves," you say, marveling that she appears to be falling for this patently ridiculous lie that you've concocted, "for they tell strange tales about the gods, and if we are too welcoming then we might lose the truth of it ourselves."

"That is what we fear as well," she says. "Losing who we are to outsiders."

You think about that, as a man of Gondor stands before you and swears he would cut down an unsuspecting emissary again, given the chance. Tumúldo's wife looks you in the eye and asks if you stand beside the Heirs of Castamir, and you do not hesitate. The small blade you keep hidden in your sleeve finds its mark in Trastadir's shoulder, and as Nakási stands you draw your sword and stand beside her.

Some members of the Heirs of Castamir beg for mercy. They should have expected this, you think, when they chose to support pillaging corsairs from Umbar over their own people. They should have expected it when they invited a close friend of the King into their ranks. They should have expected it when one of their own took a blade to Tumúldo's back in front of his wife. It was no small labor that dug the shallow grave they lie in, when you and Nakási leave the house, bearing Tumúldo's body between you, and all of it done themselves.

"Gondor will pay for the death of Tumúldo," Nakási says to you. "A thousand times over it will pay."

"The Heirs of Castamir are no Men of Gondor," you say. "They are traitors."

"Are they?" Nakási asks. "Do all the other Men of Gondor condemn them, then? Are all the other people united in their support for Elessar? No other Men of Gondor would stoop to such levels?"

You think on how easy it was to find members of the Heirs in broad daylight. You think of the rumors of a traitor in Elessar's court. You think of Parthadan, and of Mauthoi. You say nothing.

"Will the death of my husband go unavenged?" Nakási demands.

You say nothing.

The tone of Nakási's voice fills you with fear, but when you meet with Elessar in Imloth Melui he does not seem to understand the danger from your account, though he takes your warning with the gravity it deserves. And days pass, and your fear slowly wanes as you travel Gondor at Elessar's side.

Then Léonys is gone -- taken by Nakási, and your fear stirs to new and further wakefulness, for Nakási has taken a child as well. Not a warrior or a traitor, but a boy of less than twelve summers who poses no threat to her or her Kindred of the Coins or to Umbar, and the action speaks worlds of her and the danger that she and hers pose to you and yours. You hope that Léonys has the good sense to not let Nakási know of her connection with Elessar, or with you. You know she does not.

Bruidis will not be parted from Rossaran, and comes with him to the Wave-hunter, and the spike of jealousy, that she has that choice, is new and ugly. Carandolion presses a favor into Nauriel's hands, and you turn away and hurry to the ship.

Candaith waits for you there, asks after you with concern in his eyes, and you force a smile and tell him you are fine, that this is no different than the months you had spent parted from Léonys when you had been caught up with the Iron Garrison, and she had traveled south. Candaith is not fooled, but he does not ask again.

You do not expect to find Horn of Rohan in the Shield Isles, deep enough in his cups that he does not recognize you until you speak. You ask him where Nona is, knowing full well he does not know, and do not even try to hide your scorn when he tells you to call him Driftwood. "Why are you running from her?" you ask him. "Don't you want to be with her?"

"Want?" Horn asks, wavering. "It's not about what I want."

"It most certainly is," you say. He scowls, and does not answer.

Sirgon's tale of Belondor, the once-warden of Umbar, is of little interest to you. You are disappointed, but not surprised, by the rashness and anger of the former Steward of Gondor, but you have more important worries to occupy you -- that is until you find yourself staring down the cold steel of a blade held to your throat at his wife's command. Mêshka watches Sirgon stonily as he speaks, and you watch her, and then she gestures for her men to stand down. That is strange, you think, for in her place you would have done no such thing. Sirgon is a friend, but looking at him through Mêshka's eyes, you see no friend at all, but Saruman, and Thraknûl, and a name rises to mind like some gross flotsam bobbing at the surface of a tidepool, fouling clear waters; a name that Léonys thinks you do not know, but she has spoken it through tears in her sleep often enough that you do, though you have no face to match it with: Morflak.

Sirgon walks away from his encounter alive, and you consider, quietly, that if you had been in Mêshka's place he would not have. Indeed, had Mêshka resolved to slay him where he stood, you do not know that you would have drawn your blade in your companion’s defence. You aren't sure if this realization bothers you or not. (It would bother Léonys.)

When you see Léonys again, meeting eyes with her across the fountain in the Citadel, it is all you can do not to throw caution to the wind and run to her. But then Azagath is there, and you cannot help but notice the way she shrinks away as he approaches, though his eyes are not on her. When he does at last look at her, after Jajax enters and reveals you to your foes, and Léonys in turn reveals herself, recognition sparks in his eyes, and Léonys' voice trembles when she speaks, though she holds her head high and does not let him see the fear that is so obvious to you. It is not until you and she and Jajax and Thorongil and Nimrodel flee the Citadel, and they have all followed your lead as you duck into a quiet alley in the Fleet-fast where you will have a moment of privacy, that she throws herself towards you, arms tight around your neck, and you can feel the damp of tears on your shirt as you return the embrace.

"Azagath," you whisper, and she flinches at the name, "what did he do to you?"

"Nothing," she says, too quickly, you think. She hesitates. "Nothing directly."

Nauriel swears that she will see Azagath and Nakási dead, and privately you think she is going to have to get to them first, but neither of you get to them during the fraught pursuit through the depths beneath the Mâkhda Khorbo. Perhaps, you think later, this is for the best. When you all stumble out of the cave hours later, exhausted and drained and with nothing useful to show for your efforts, you find your head has cleared somewhat. You are still angry, very angry, but you see with a clearer eye that your mission has been a success. All the hostages are free. That part, at least, can be considered a success. It ought to satisfy you more than it does.

You don't have very much sympathy for Belondor as he struggles to come to terms with Azagath's betrayal. Nauriel wanted to kill him, seeing nothing but the coin he wears on his breast. She would have, if you hadn't grabbed her by the shoulder and hissed that he was the only reason her son still lived, that there was nothing you or Léonys or Jajax or anyone else would have been able to do in time to save the boy. You don't regret stopping her, but you wish he wouldn't act so surprised by the whole thing. Azagath was hardly subtle with his villainy -- you had been a little shocked yourself, at how willing the water-bearers were to not ask questions about your business in the Citadel, and then to eagerly point you in the Sea-shadow's direction once he fled, but it makes rather more sense as you consider what they had said about their companions vanishing when they saw or heard something they shouldn't have. And perhaps you are giving Belondor too much credit. After all, he had not noticed your presence or Léonys' among the water-bearers any more than the others had. Servants and slaves and ordinary people are just as beneath his notice as they are Azagath's, or Mordirith's, or the lieutenants of Sauron's that squabble still over the remains of his holdings.

It is Léonys who comes to Belondor's defense, as you start to voice this thought aloud. "He didn't know," she says, looking at you sharply. "None of them did. They thought he was a friend."

"Maybe they should have known," Candaith says, quietly. He knows something that you do not, that Léonys has not told you, for when you had returned from the destroyed temple and found him with Léonys and Thorongil in the room your group had rented in one of the city's many inns there had been a new tension in his shoulders, and a new darkness to his eyes, and his mouth had been a tight line. Nevertheless, his words are probably too quietly for Belondor to hear, which is more thought than you care to spare for his feelings. Léonys hears, though, from where she is sitting close by, and frowns.

Tatháta heals the same way as Belharen, and maybe a month ago you would have been a little bit ill to imagine it, you think, as you inspect Cruel Dancer's wounds and come to the same conclusion as Corudan, that she has mere hours to live. Now you think that Tatháta has good reason to want to know more about you and your crew, and by any means necessary. You wonder what tale the bounty hunter told, and if it is accurate. Léonys quietly excuses herself and hurries a little distance away, where she kneels on the ground and retches. You should go to her, a little voice in the back of your mind whispers. You wonder why the voice telling you to follow Léonys and stay by her side is so little.

Sigileth calls Cruel Dancer by the name she had whispered to you in her final moments -- Galatâni. She says she sees something of herself in the Umbari woman. And you slowly realize that you do as well -- and yet you do not. If Léonys were taken from you, gone without any hope of rescue, you know, with startling clarity, what you would do. There would be revenge, of course. Her killer would face justice. But then... you would return home, you suppose. Lady Hackberry and the children would still be waiting. There would still be Bree, and your friends there, and bright sunrises over the Bree-hill and spiced turtle soup. You would still be Hathellang.

That is not the danger, for you. For you, it is when there is still hope that you find yourself standing at the edge, and staring off it into the darkness. When you do not know.

How can you know, that little voice in your mind asks, when you aren't looking?

You slowly turn away from Galatâni, and you look at Léonys, who has straightened up and is wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. You would tear the world apart to keep her safe. You would tear yourself apart. You haven't considered, before now, just how awful that is. She had agreed, after some hesitation, to return with Candaith and Thorongil to the inn rather than pursue Azagath with the rest of you. But if she had not? The words had been in your throat already, not a plea, but a demand for her to remain far away from him. You don't know what he did to her, but it left something heavy and terrifying on her shoulders, and he will die for it, of that you are certain -- but you finally admit to yourself that you would destroy yourself over it. You would destroy her. You don't even know what it is.

You force one foot forward, and then the other, and you cross the little distance between you and wrap your arms around her, clinging tight. For a moment she stands surprised, and then she returns the embrace, wrapping her arms around you and resting her head against your shoulder. Behind you, the sun begins to rise, and you feel its warmth against your back, soft and comforting before the sands of Aradâr become hot and unbearable.

"Let's find some water," you say.

~*~*~*~

Okay so the last one is a little vague. Unfortunately when you write from a character's point of view and have them realize things about themself, you're still limited by what they actually know about themself. But trust me this is all important context to understand the actual answer, which is that, if pushed far enough, in the interest of keeping Léonys safe, Hathellang would absolutely betray anyone and everyone, including her. Not really at any given point, but in situations like the one I've gone and written him into with the Umbar stuff, he's dangerously close to this thing where his abandonment issues combined with all the insecurity he experienced as a child combined with the fact that he kind of does put Léonys on a pedestal as the first person who ever came back for him (again and again and again) launches him into a really weird fucked up sort of dragon sickness. He would eventually (not for a long time and not without more stressors at play) start disregarding her own wishes in the interest of "keeping her safe" and ultimately become himself the biggest danger to her.

Of course he doesn't know all that. He knows that after seeing her hurt in ways that he just can't fix during their adventure he wants desperately to keep her safe, and he's also starting to realize that he's been compromising his own morals to do that since Gundabad. And also that he's been doing that in a way that's going to hurt her sooner rather than later. This is what I mean when I say that while it's mostly a Beren thing, sometimes it is a Maedhros thing too.

As a foil to Nakási, he's kind of in the same boat as her (pun not intended but wholeheartedly embraced) in terms of, "will commit war crimes for the sake of hurt/killed lover." He'll probably have the whole, "looking at her and seeing himself," moment at some point. Later. When they meet again.

If he's lucky the lesson will stick before something really bad happens. But that kind of depends on how all this meshes with whatever comes next on this questline.

[edennill]

I'm not sure if this isn't actually canon, but in my hc Gondor and Umbar have this huge rivalry over who's the true heir of Númenor going on.

This is almost ridiculous on the rare days Umbar is not actually pro-Sauron (and when, on Gondor's worst, most imperialist days, they're on the verge of following in Númenor's footsteps themselves), but on others it's very much a rivalry between the two faces of the drowned kingdom.

Anyway, the apprentice diplomats of Minas Tirith have a field day at one point during some war or other, when once it's realised all chances at peace are over, they're given free reign over the content of some missives. Umbar signs their letter with "Heir to Númenor"; they address theirs to the "Heir to a Drowned Armada".

No, the chances for peace do not grow much after that.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

5, 17, 25, 29

For the ask game, please!

woooo! more asks! Thank you thank you! :D <3

5. What’s a fic idea you’ve had that you will never write?

Oooh probably a few of the ones listed in the previous ask about fic ideas that I have noodling around in my head.

Off the top, I'll probably not write "Grima Becomes King" even though it would be fun. Mostly because I know it would be the world's longest fic and the idea of writing it makes me feel tired.

17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

Oh man, many things. What comes to mind is how much I've learned about late antiquity/early medieval Scandinavia for all things Rohan & Grima related.

I think an interesting tid-bit was the gender disparity of infanticide. Not shocking, given how patriarchal Scandinavian society was at the time, but far, far more girls were killed than boys. Also skeletal remains show that in times of famine, boys were given more (and better) food than the girls.

(don't tell tumblr, they're very keen on thinking Viking (tm) society was a world of gender equality and other nonsense)

25. Have you ever upset yourself with your own writing?

I have! In different ways. For Grima stuff - the scenes where he's forced to eat his horse in My Land is Bare were just - I icked myself writing them. Degradation in general icks me and I always get in a weird headspace after writing it.

I have absolutely made myself cry writing bits of Thus Always. Particularly the death of Downey's father (that chapter has a banger of an ending line: So, in silence they look at one another, truly look at one another, for the first time in thirty years, and in silence Amos dies.) The eulogy appendix also gets me. Annnd this bit with Downey's mother:

Annette catches Downey at the door, squeezes his arm, says, ‘I never understood why you did what you did.’ ‘Why I left? Surely he told you the gory details.’ ‘No, no, I never understood why you chose to…to be like that. Did I do something wrong?’ Downey takes in her weeping eyes, her pain, her sorrow, the mad grief over things she has no words for, and he just shakes his head. Just shakes it and shakes it and shakes it.

the infamous "did I do something wrong and that is why you're a queer" conversation that many people have unfortunately had

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

Something from a follow-up fic to Swimming Through Fire world. Two years after the war, a year after Grima and Éomer came to some vague Arrangement, and Éomer's off to go get married. Lucky him.

They're on their way to Umbar as I have Eomer marrying outside Gondor for reasons of regional political cohesion. Safan, everyone's favourite main man from the ROTK installment of the Swimming Through Fire series, makes an appearance.

---

Of course, Safan could have other sources, Gríma reasons. About Éomer. About what he is like as a man. Safan is talented, clearly capable, and trusted—therefore, he is likely to have heard his fill about the future king of Éomarc.

Who is currently standing towards the front of the boat watching the horizon dip up, down, and again again again.

No storm, but the sea roils. Gríma was told it’s the wind, a beautiful day for the voyage, but choppy. Hold fast. Do you know how to swim?

He told the sailor: I can hold my breath for two minutes.

The sailor laughed: that’s a start, I suppose.

No, no, I can swim. I’d just rather not.

Then hold fast.

So, he’s holding fast. He’s watching the water. The surf kicked up, foam white as the froth of churning milk. He thinks he wants to be sick.

What did he have to break his fast? Sweet buns, fruit, cheese. They dine light in the morning in Khephanto, same as they do in Éomarc. A welcomed change from other parts of Gondor where it is blood sausages and eggs and liver and salted fish and fried mushrooms piled high with toast and hot milk and gods the memory makes him more nauseous than he thought possible.

He tries to lean over the railing, thinking it would make sense to be sick into the ocean, but the thought of being so suspended over water—only his head, his shoulders and chest, but still—it sends him skittering away.

Foolish, of course, he survived the river Isen when he fell in. He survived Limlight more than once as a boy. He’d be fine until they fish him out.

Provided they fished him out.

Gríma finds Éomer again—still at the helm. Golden haired in the golden sun looking at ease despite the tumult.

They’d fish him out, Gríma thinks bleakly. Surely. Éomer would make them. Surely.

He wouldn’t be left to drown. Horrorhorrorhorror—how the chest burns and everything’s upside down and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and————

A bucket.

Gríma looks up, realizes his hands are on his knees and he’s shaking. Safan stands before him, holding the bucket.

‘Didn’t realize you’d be so sour stomached,’ Safan says.

Gríma wrenches the bucket from his hand, turns around, and is promptly sick into it. Somewhere, someone laughs. He’s certain it’s at him. He would care if he didn’t feel like his stomach wanted to crawl up his throat.

‘Just lean over the side,’ Safan suggests, all fatherly.

‘Can’t.’

‘Alright.’

‘This is horrible.’

‘You’ll get used to it.’

‘Inhuman.’

Safan laughs.

‘Truly,’ Gríma insists. He hugs the bucket of his bile. ‘Horrible. I’m going home by land. I don’t care if it takes me three months.’

Safan pats him on the shoulder, tells him that he’ll get used to it. It’s only another two and a half days—two if the wind holds. Gríma pulls an ugly face: two days! He doesn’t have enough in him to throw up for two days of travel. Safan shakes his head, pats his shoulder again, insists that Gríma will be fine.

‘Horizon,’ Safan points, ‘keep your eye on that and your stomach should settle.’

‘It’ll settle when I’m dead.’

‘I love your optimism, I’m sure your future king does too.’

Gríma makes no response, save to turn away from Safan and sick into the bucket a second time.

/

Early afternoon, still the first day, they’ve yet to have the blessing of crossing the small hours into daybreak, they’re not even at dusk, yet, and Éomer finds Gríma who has found a rope pile to sit on, with his bucket, trying to stare at the horizon.

‘I don’t know how you’re not ill, my lord,’ Gríma whines.

Éomer makes no reply. His eyes are also trained on where sky meets sea—a beautiful greying line if Gríma was in the mind to admire.

‘Perhaps you are sick as well,’ Gríma suggests.

Éomer shakes his head.

‘Assuredly,’ Gríma insists.

Éomer smiles, taught it stops half-up his face.

‘Knew it,’ Gríma mutters.

Éomer strides to the railing, leans over, and vomits. Gríma laughs. His future king makes no response. Gríma needles: ‘Would you like a bucket? The bucket is wisdom itself.’

‘I’m fine,’ Éomer replies, as if nothing occurred. ‘I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.’ Slipping into the northern dialect of the Wold Éomer continues, ‘You’re not being very sympathetic for someone also suffering.’

‘My lord, you should know better than to come and roost upon my stoop in search of sympathy. It died in the womb. I might have eaten it.’

‘Along with your heart?’

‘To be sure. That shriveled, little thing.’

But his future lord-king is smiling, if not outright laughing, and Gríma doesn’t know how to stand in this moment. It’s been two years since the war—almost exactly. They’re just entering April, a fine month to travel in. It’s been fifteen months and a week since that first post-war winter yule when things between them became…sticky. Gríma isn’t sure how to term it, he isn’t sure there is a word for it. He is sure Éomer wouldn’t know and so has never made an effort to ask.

And what is there to ask about? Aside from Gríma’s commitment to burning down the entirety of the world should Éomer ask it of him. A bit of a rub, a bit rum, that the lord should instead ask him to create rather than destroy. Which is just like Éomer, to be contrary to Gríma’s desires whilst being, at the same time, precisely what is desired.

He thinks he might be sick into the bucket again.

‘Éothain told me about the creatures you’re concerned we’ll become victim to,’ Éomer says.

‘His investigations did little to assuage me. That said, their appearance could put me out of my misery, which is a boon.’

‘I think you’re over-reacting.’

Gríma turns away from Éomer, thinks he’s going to be sick, but it passes. He turns back around. On Éomer’s face is writ feint amusement. Gríma he thinks he should be sick on Éomer’s boots to make a point.

Some shuffling of feet as Éomer leans against the side of the boat to again stare at distant horizon as instructed by Safan. Gríma supposes he could try it, but doesn’t think standing wise at this precise moment.

‘Have you heard anything further?’ Éomer asks with a fantastical attempt at disinterest.

Gríma feigns confusion: ‘Further, my lord?’

‘About this—about Lady Dihya,’ he slides through her name in a chaotic fashion, it’s half Éothéod and half an approach to Umbar pronunciations. Good gods, Gríma cannot wait for them to meet if only to hear them butcher each other’s names in such a full-frontal fashion. ‘You were seen speaking with Safan.’

‘Safan and I are acquaintances of old.’

‘Shouting at each other over a wall proceeding a siege hardly makes one an acquaintance of old.’

‘Hardly a siege,’ Gríma scoffs. ‘Lord Aragorn lightly threatened them with ghosts and they saw reason and left.’

‘And the draugr.’

Gríma tilts his head skyward. Éomer follows suit asking if that brother of Gríma’s is around. Which brother would Éomer son of Éomund be asking after? Gods Gríma, the only brother who could possibly be present—the bog-drowned inhuman one that’s a crow half the time. It tried to peck the eyes out of a Meduseld mouser the other day. Hasn’t Gríma taught it manners, yet?

‘Baldir was never keen on following orders,’ Gríma replies tartly. ‘It is hardly my fault he is enacting the behaviours of his kind, now that he is what he is. He’s not eating people or horses. Nor goats, cows, hounds, most cats, and other such important creatures. I cannot vouch for poultry or hares. And no, he’s not around. I told him to fuck off back home before we left.’

Éomer mouths: fuck off back home with some mild astonishment. Gríma gives a desultory look: what?

Éomer tries another question, ‘Did Safan tell you anything useful? Are there things I should avoid saying or doing?’

‘I am not here,’ Gríma holds up a hand, turns away and vomits into the bucket. It’s all bile, at this point. He tried drinking water with ginger in it, recommended by Éothain, but it came to naught. He wipes his mouth, pushes hair out of his face, turns back around to Éomer. ‘I am not here in an advisory capacity. As I told Safan, I don’t know why I’m here. I hardly expected it.’

‘My uncle,’ Éomer glances at the men around them—all Haradrim or Gondorian, the Éothéod are generally seasick and showing it. He continues in the Wold dialect: ‘My uncle took you aside before we left. Éothain and Gundahar both saw it occur. You spoke for a good space of time, what did he say?’

‘Oh, that. He was telling me to mind myself and not get into trouble. That the first whiff of anything suspicious he’ll know whose door to knock at. As if I haven’t learned my lesson! truly I wish people understood that. I make mistakes, the lords know, but I tend not to make the same ones twice.’

Éomer, to his credit, does not believe Gríma—at least about the not knowing what his role is. Gríma hopes he believes him about lessons learned. He had assumed Éomer did—few others, but at least Éomer. Hama would believe him, if he were alive. This thought does a strangeness to Gríma’s chest, an emotion he is learning to name regret. He rarely feels it, if ever, but with Hama yes, it rears its ugly head.  

Gríma sometimes wonders what the percentage is that Éomer believes. Is it fifty per cent of what Gríma says? Eighty? Twenty? Or entirely situational? Probably entirely situational. Probably Gríma doesn’t want to know.

‘Surely you’ve been briefed,’ Gríma says into a long stretched silence.

‘Of course I have.’

‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’

Éomer gives him such a statement with his expression and Gríma would laugh if it were appropriate. Instead of saying: horseshit and you know it, Éomer replies: ‘For the sake of relations between countries I want to make a good impression. My uncle said he trusted me to represent Éomarc.’

‘I should hope so, as future king yourself you’re the embodiment of our people and our land.’

Grating, grating, grating—Éomer paces this through. Gríma wants to say what he always thinks in these situations, that Éomer is the better option to Théodred. One represents Éomarc more wholly and entirely than the other. Théodred was nice. Théodred would have tried. He would have done what he thought was the best. Gríma knows better than to sneer those sentiments aloud to the cousin and inheritor who sometimes goes morose and burrows into himself when the former heir is mentioned. The man who Éomer idolized, to some degree, and who did not live long enough to shatter those illusions.

Well, well, that is Éomer, sitting in the sun comparing himself to dead heroes who cannot be faulted in anything because they are dead.

Another wave of nausea comes, Gríma waits to need the bucket, but it passes. How is it so warm? It’s April, it should be the perfect temperature at all times.

-

‘A rat with a bucket,’ cheerfully calls a voice.

Gríma puts on a flattering smile, ‘my lady, it gladdens my heart to know you are not similarly afflicted.’

‘Not a whit.’

‘Truly,’ Éomer asks. ‘I can’t believe that.’

‘Sorry, brother, but alas that is the case.’ Éowyn does not sound entirely sympathetic. She then glances between them and to her brother asks: ‘What conference have you with Wyrmtunga?’

‘Trying to get information out of him about what we can expect. He chatted with Lord Safan last night.’

‘My how we’ve resurrected ourselves,’ Éowyn sneers at Gríma who continues, with great effort, to appear cheerfully nonplussed but gods gods gods he wants to be sick again. He knows he must be green about the gills for how she laughs. ‘Uncle said you were to behave.’

‘I am, on my honour.’ Gríma adds, ‘on the life of Stigr.’

‘Not nothing,’ Éowyn owns. ‘How do you know lord Safan? He seems above your station and rank, now that you are nothing in particular.’

‘The war.’

‘They shouted pleasantries at each other over the walls of Pelargir,’ Éomer explains, ‘before Aragorn reminded everyone time was of the essence.’

‘Lord Aragorn was just as party to the pleasantries, my lord.’

Éowyn’s keen eyes, sharp as knives, slice from brother to Gríma and Gríma knows a dissection is occurring, there will be a result from it, but it will not be accurate. He knows where her assumptions will lead her, and he is right when she asks: ‘Did you know him through Saruman?’

‘No, my lady, I never met him save that day during the war. I had assumed he died, until he showed up as ambassador.’ He adds, half-afterthought and undertone, ‘not everything is a conspiracy.’

‘I hear she likes hunting,’ Éowyn tells her brother, ignoring Gríma’s reply. ‘Stalking and the like. Talk to her about that and you’ll be safe.’

‘What else did you hear?’

‘Books—histories about seafaring voyages and distant battles, also political machinations. But she is not adverse to the occasional bout of poetry. Recite her something pretty about nature, I heard. She’s partial to birds and fish, also long descriptions of sand dunes which are, apparently, beautiful.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m doubtful too,’ Éowyn agrees. ‘But having never seen one, we could be wrong. Her favourite colour is red and her favourite metal is copper.’

‘See,’ Éomer snaps at Gríma, ‘this is useful information I can do something with.’

Gríma levers himself upright, a dangerous decision for it sets his stomach on edge again, bidding a well-rehearsed and beautiful good-day to them he stalks across the ship towards the prow. He read a book about ships while in Minas Tirith and tried to memorize all their bits and pieces. This is a long, round nosed, shallow bottomed galley. Predominantly used for trade and moving passengers and animals. Gríma marks the three masts, the place for the oarsmen, though as they’re “with the wind” it's just sail work.

In the stern is the—he blanks on the term—but it’s a built-up structure where captain and important guests stay in relative comfort. Everyone else gets shoved below deck with the lice and livestock.

Castle! That’s what the structure is called. A castle.

Daft name.

Or maybe not, he doesn’t know anything about ocean-going vessels. They must be defended, especially merchant fleets, so perhaps castle is apt. Defending the keep, except it’s your boat.

Nearing the prow Gríma grips the railing and stares forward. Fresh sea air helps keep stomach in check. By the time the breeze gets to the back where he had hidden himself there was nothing much left to it. Knuckles whiten as his hands twist on the wood. Well waxed, there are no splinters, but he can feel its course nature against skin. A grounding experience. He sucks in a breath, holds, exhales.

Marvelous, he tells himself, it’s all marvelous. His still being alive and in one piece, mostly. Also this. Boats, oceans, skies, new lands, languages, the many and varied people present in the world. Oh, no, not distracting enough, he leans forward, is sick into the water as he gets hit with ocean spray.

Well, he thinks as he wipes salt water off, at least he knows his face is clean.

[lesbiansforboromir]

I love LotRO so so much I love it so much none of you understand how much I love LotRO, they're literally going to do a version of Gondor without the shadow so we can see it in the light of day, we're going to UMBAR next expansion and I TRUST them to do that well, I trust them to be not weird about it!!!! IT'S INSANE, I LOVE THIS GAME SO MUCH

[lady-of-the-spirit]

Please tell me more about your Tolkien-verse OCs????

HAPPILY!!!

I've got Athalia, who's for The Hobbit trilogy, and Kiana and Annunel, both for the Lord of the Rings trilogy. They all exist in the same timeline, with Athalia's story meant to be a prequel to Kiana/Annunel's.

Athalia was originally written as the daughter of one of Bilbo's friends/neighbours and ended up raised by Bilbo after her parent's death. I scrapped that idea a few years ago, though, and made her his childhood friend instead, partly because her staying his niece didn't feel right to me anymore and partly so I could write them being snarky best friends.

Athalia's Not Like Other Hobbits. you know how the fandom characterizes Bilbo's mom as being an adventuring hobbit lady? Athalia is very much the same. She wants adventure in the great wide somewhere and - scandalously - actually goes off on a journey to see all of Middle Earth some 8 years before the start of the story. She comes back from her journey, reuniting with her best friend Bilbo, claiming she wants to settle down again, just in time for Gandalf to show up asking Bilbo to go on his own adventure. Athalia is immediately on board and claims that "surely two bandits is better than one!" And gets Bilbo on board (despite his many many reservations about the whole thing).

She has a lot of information on what she's seen of the world and is very eager to share and learn more, always, always jotting down notes in her journals (she has many) and collecting little trinkets when she can. Her enthusiasm, cheerfulness, and seemingly endless knowledge and opinions successfully seduces Fili after maybe a week on their journey.

Not everything is all sunshine, though. The background of her fic, most important, is that I was watching the Hobbit movies (for the first time) at the same time I was rereading Fushigi Yuugi: Genbu Kaiden, in which the main character 1) uses a spear as a weapon and 2 (spoilers) ends up getting tuberculosis. I was so compelled by this character and the tragic nature of prequels that it ended up factoring into Athalia's story a lot. I created my own little plague that affects only the hobbit community and is very rare, but has no cure, and Athalia is slowly dying over the course of the story. She's known since before she returned to Bag End - it's the reason she returned, wanting to see her oldest friend before she died. But she doesn't want a peaceful, quiet death, withering away to nothing. So Gandalf's quest is a way for her to have both some time with Bilbo and doing what she loves, seeing the world, and making her last little bit of time on this beautiful earth matter. She's accepted her death.

Until she falls in love with Fili, and worse, finds out he loves her back, which makes everything so much harder. because now she wants to live.

So yeah this fic and her character were VERY tragic in nature, as prequels often are. I never could decide on an ending - killing both her and fili, just killing her (through various means), or in an alternate ending AFTER the tragic one was posted, saving them both.

I totally meant to start writing this fic, but then covid hit, and it just seemed inappropriate to do so after that.

Now onto the happier ocs- Kiana and Annunel! Originally, Kiana and Annunel were supposed to be two separate stories. But then I went well why not put them together? And they ended up together, same story. And together as in they're in lesbians together 💖 because why not???

Kiana is unrelated to the rest of the main cast, princess and heir to the throne of a foreign kingdom in the south. I think canonically it's Umbar but I didn't know that when I made her and chose a random place on the map, and I've just stuck with that. Her kingdom was inspired by ancient Persia. Smth fun about her is that in her country's language their term for "King" is a completely gender neutral term so she's gonna be a woman king. she's very emotional but hides it behind her royal persona and only lets it slip the longer she's with the fellowship. She's also besties with Boromir because their countries are friends with each other and I was fucking sick of all the ocs hating on Boromir, my beloved.

Annunel is the twin of Aragorn. They used to be much closer when they were younger but as they got older they drifted apart. (They're both rangers though. Her nickname with the rangers is "West" which is a little reference to her name which means "west/sunset" in Sindarin. Or says the website I found years ago which I can't find now.) She gets herself tangled into the fellowship before Frodo gets himself stabbed, when she finds them in the woods - Gandalf called her. It's the first time she's seen her brother in years. It's weird. but hey. she's here. (and then she sticks with him when Frodo takes the ring because she's invested now.)

There's a little onesided beef on Kiana's part with Annunel because she and Boromir are both of the opinion Aragorn/Annunel abandoned Gondor and that's a big no-no in her book. But they get past that over time.

(Eowyn gets a little crush on Kiana and Annunel is jealous that's important to me.)

[dialux]

Flings myself into the inbox to ask about your Queens of Numenor fic, which. Okay there's so much I /could/ inquire about, there's so much crunch to that story, but- can I get commentary/director's cut on how you decided who each Queen should be?

(Ohtacare is 100% my favorite, but they're all just. So, so real.)

-crownlessliestheking

The fic in question!

Ask for a director's cut on my fics!

Oh yes, the Most Tragedique TM story I've ever written for Silm fandom lol. I started writing the story for Nienna in the Innumerable Stars fic exchange, and I need to give a lot of inspiration to that request summary, which set me off on a tangent re: dreams and magic. But as I started writing- initially the fic was going to be solely about Elros' wife, and maybe talk a little about the effect that being mortal and marrying someone who was effectively only mortal because he chose to be that way would have on a person- I also started grappling with what I've termed as the Tolkien Foresight Issue.

The TFI is very much a me problem, because I don't personally believe in predestination; the idea that elven mothers can genuinely hold their newborn in their arms and give them a name that describes something of their future genuinely frightens me as, like, a concept. I'd been wrestling with that idea for quite some time in my own head, but as I began writing this story I realized that this was a) the best medium possible for that tension, when unnamed/forgotten women are the primary povs (and of course, the unwanted and intrusive parts of the canonical narrative) and b) I was going to write about it one way or another, so might as well embrace it. Which led me to wanting to describe different reactions to the TFI- and for that, I needed more POVs than just Elros' wife.

Enter 24 other queens.

When I thought about individual perspectives, I started out by sketching out the queens whose characters I firmly knew; Eressecuina, for instance, but also Rilma, Ancalime, Tinolime, Vanimelde, Elenniel, and Inzilbeth. Then I started elaborating around those fixed points. For instance: Rilma has an antagonistic relationship with Almarian, who in turn makes an effort to be closer to Erendis, who in turn values freedom more than safety (i.e. the opposite of Almarian's choices), which influences Ancalime's perspective.

Elenniel's storyline was inspired by me wanting to explore what could have inspired a sharp break from the Quenya to Adunaic between Ardamin and Adunakhor: I just think that having it be a product of this one woman's (unnamed, forgotten, erased) actions made a lot of sense. Elenniel herself is one of my favorites in the story, tbqh; she's so secure in her love for her husband (and, in turn, his love for her) that she can bear to be more rebellious than many of the other queens. But she's also seeing the degeneration of Numenor from its heights- which began with Herucalmo, who usurps the throne and lets his son/grandson grow up in Umbar instead of Numenor-proper (thereby letting more rebellious anti-Valar sentiment foster)- and she loves Numenor enough to want more than what it has. But I also wanted someone to have gone through what she went through before while making the opposite choice, which is why Ohtacare exists at all lol.

The rest of the story just flowed from those fixed queens I mention above- apart from that, I knew I wanted a warrior queen, and a scholarly queen, and that the majority of the legacies of the queens would be tapestries; I also wanted at least one queen from Umbar and another from Harad. I think it's fairly obvious which ones were central to the storyline- Meluviel, for instance, doesn't play that much of a role, and neither does Gimileth or Handasse- but they were valuable to portray other nuances re: the TFI.

And, really, even more than the character itself, I defined the queens by their reaction to the TFI (which, in-story, is the nightmare of the destruction of Numenor). I a) thought it was INCREDIBLY sexy to think of Numenor's drowning to be inevitable, bc what does that say about the Valar, that they could see the ending but still chose to put Numenor in sight of Valinor? Abt the ppl that follow the Valar even after the destruction of the entire island? Abt the idea that even if something is to die one day, there is something beautiful in it now? and b) to picture the queens fighting against it, accepting it, furthering it, ignoring it, etc etc. 25 POVs of different women having wildly different reactions. I have an excel sheet somewhere where I described some of that lmao. That and the dates. Of people's birth dates, death dates, ruling dates, age when ascending to the crown........ yeah. Idk if I've ever worked so much to make a fic canon compliant tbqh!

[zangetsusundelion]

3, 9, 18, 22

3: How do I feel about my current WIP? I'm going to skip my Whumptober fills because they're always changing and talk about my longfic, Elenion Umbar. I'm proud of it. I haven't worked on it in a while and will need to reread it to get myself invested again, but I'm really proud of its concept and creativity.

9: Start to finish, how long did it take you to write the last fic you posted? Less than 24 hours. It's not very long, it wasn't super hard. It went well though.

18: Share a deleted scene from a published fic. Hope this is interesting, it came from Collected Soul. Originally I was going to have Szayel ask to have Ichigo's hair cut in chapter 12, but I couldn't justify why so it got the chopping block.

~~~

I’m not doing the surgery with all that ugly fluorescent hair hanging in the brat’s eyes, Lord Aizen,” Szayel drawled; a rather rich insult coming from a man with (presumably natural) hot pink hair. At least Ichigo’s was a natural shade.

But his mind wasn’t in snark mode. All he could think was that this big scary pink Arrancar wanted to cut his hair all away, touch him.

He sniffed like a child, barely registering the snot that had dripped out of his nose by now with all the sobbing he’d been doing. 

“Is he going to be cutting my hair?”

“Shhhh.” Aizen’s voice was calming, something that was fundamentally wrong but scratched Ichigo’s brain in just the right way so he couldn’t object. “It needs to be done, sweetie, but if you want I can do it instead of Szayelaporro. Would you like that?”

Unable to speak, Ichigo simply nodded. 

Aizen got up and took a pair of scissors. At first Ichigo flinched away like a frightened little bird, but after some more soothing from Aizen he loosened just a slight bit, letting the blades shear through his hair.

“Don’t move, little one.” Aizen’s tone was almost melodious as he cut closer and closer to the scalp, thick ginger hair falling lifeless to the ground in lines radiating outwards from the poor broken child and the man who was systematically destroying him in every way he knew how.

~~~

22: Do I ever worry about public reaction to what I'm writing? ...yeah, I do, unfortunately. Some fics more than others, and there's some I get pretty nervous to pull the trigger on--Hellebore niger, the fic about Ichigo's disastrous coming out, is a recent one that comes to mind--but in the end, somehow I hit the publish button most of the time. Some fics that I'm too iffy on don't make the cut, but that's more often that they're not finished.

Thanks for the questions! 🖤🍓

[alieisntdead]

I love this actually, this is shit that got me into my current LOTR obsession. Everyone knows the whole Evil Men thing is racist af, some good old English-style civilization and savagery rhetoric as well as "the whole world East and South of Europe was seduced by evil from their very beginning". So I found it really interesting to go in with the perspective that LOTR's historical backdrop is written based heavily on the records of Gondor, and sympathetic to the perspectives of Numenor's successor colonies both from the canonical Gondorian editor and Tolkien's biases.

And.... yeah pretty much everyone hates Gondor and their allies for a Reason. They've been waging wars to try and control the richest parts of Harad for centuries, and the only military power strong enough to oppose Gondor is Sauron. The Haradrim don't have to be evil if heart or wtv and there really isn't much evidence beyond bigotry from their age-old enemies. Their reason to side with Sauron is found in the fact that they can't sustain independence in the face of Gondorian aggression, accepting the rule of Gondor would mean forgoing their independence and probably religions and being integrated into Gondor with the eventual goal of assimilation. Sauron however is actually strong enough to defeat Gondor, and he lets his subjects retain independence with his influence, demanding tribute and soldiers instead of total subjugation.

Meanwhile everything West of the Misty Mountains used to be a huge old-growth forest, but the Numenoreans who would later establish Gondor and Arnor logged so aggressively to build their fleets that they began destroying the homes of the indigenous Mannish populations, who made war with the Numenoreans to protect their forests. These people are said by the Numenoreans to have attacked because they were evil and swayed by Melkor. Riiightt. These proto-Enedwaith people seem to have composed a significant portion of the Dunlendings, who settled an empty province conquered by Gondor during the plague/watchful peace and then were violently driven out of even the lands east of the Isen that they likely already inhabited. Remember it's not like this is Gondorian land: those members of the original inhabitants of Calenardhon who wouldn't assimilate and accept the laws of the kings of Gondor were driven out violently and many likely went on to form part of the Dunlendings, who see Isengard as the only chance to get revenge and get that land back.

And then for a side note my favorite dudes the Drûedain were hunted for sport by Gondorians/Rohirrim as late as the War of the Ring.

Anyways Tolkien's whole Men of Evil thing sucks, it's a value judgement made by Gondorians in which Good represents all that Gondor is and Evil represents that which opposes Gondor. When we look at it critically the men of evil have legitimate political grievances stemming from the violent Numenorean colonization, and in some cases turn to Gondor's rival superpower for protection from continued invasion (either Aragorn or his son picks up with the conquests moving south towards Umbar again after reuniting Arnor ao they were RIGHT too).

Also regarding the whole 'but they're still evil' thing: Black Numenoreans were also Numenoreans like the rulers of Gondor and Arnor. They weren't Haradrim, just a different political group within the same hereditary elite that still rules Gondor and used to rule Arnor. Still colonizers, and more brutal than the Gondorians, but that was a long time ago so the Gondorians are Harad's main concern. Not Op's fault bc Tolkien has Way Too Many Named Groups of People.

this is all kinda interesting to dive into... like, there's a middle east equivalent in lotr that tolkein never developed, and the writers for the game wanted to make them a bit deeper... but they still went with "they were colonized and thus act violently towards their colonizers, but they were even worse before that happened, so they're still evil" like c'mon dude. really?

[sleepyowlwrites]

I had an idea and then it got worse, right? and then it got WORSE

last line tag! from @writer-on-time @author-a-holmes @zmwrites and @kaiusvnoir

from 2 of 3 but also any of 3 because I'm not sure how they work yet, if they're a trilogy or if they're the same book or if they're concurrent - it's very confusing and my brain is unhelpful.

from House of Swords:

The blood was blooming at the edge of the wound, creeping down [Idrian's] tawny skin to meet the silk lapels. Yashel bit his lip to stop audible dismay from coming out of his mouth. Idrian ignored it, but no one else was.

“Perhaps your Sword should find you a skinstitch,” Lord Santar rumbled, reaching for his wine.

Idrian flashed a thoroughly non-convincing smile. “It’s not serious.”

“Still,” said Lord Tavis, his off-putting laugh following the word. “We’ve reached an impasse for the day, I think. Umbar was going to tell us his recent developments with the mines, so you needn’t force yourself to stay.”

Yashel winced at the choice of words. Sure enough, Idrian smiled once again, this time with more visible distaste.

“Then I’ll take my leave.” With the tiniest salute to the room, Idrian spun on his heel and left, Yashel following immediately after.

“I’ll go get Mareye.”

“Don’t bother.”

“You might be my lord in name but I still outrank you,” Yashel said, shielding Idrian from the sight line of lingering, young skars near the front of the building. “You’ll see Mareye and if I don’t see you looking significantly less pale by supper, I’ll give you armory duties, see if I don’t.”

@ashen-crest @asher-orion-writes @avrablake @thetruearchmagos OR ANYBODY

[ceescedasticity]

Random thought: Late Third Age Gondor had zero maritime trading partners -- not a very good environment for piracy. (I'm not sure how much maritime trade it ever had.) It sounds like the Corsairs of Umbar did a fair amount of coastal pillaging, but if they're actually corsairs they were also doing some proper piracy, and they basically had to have been doing it farther south.

Which would mean they spend a lot of time hitting Harad ships and probably raiding and looting coastal Harad, too, and then they go back to their city, the northernmost of nominally-southern polities, where no one can pursue them in force without potentially attracting unwanted attention from Gondor or, far worse, Mordor.

Therefore I suspect: Everyone hates Umbar. Few tears were shed when Gondor trashed the place a while back. None of the men attacking Minas Tirith is sure whether to hope for their arrival as reinforcements or dread their arrival as people likely to backstab you to steal your wallet and loot everyone's corpses.

[lesbiansforboromir]

the black numenoreans are so confusing to me like their whole thing was technically being "pure of numenorean blood from anarion," yet at the same time they canonically married haradrim women like literally a few generations from castamir so rlly quickly yet they're also the group subjugating this country of poc like i'm so confused with where tf tolkien was going w this ... it's just such a mess and i hate this look of poc being seen as these brutal colonizers and hurting other poc

So now! Black Numenoreans are not just from Castamir’s line. Most of them aren’t actually. Indeed, Beruthiel can’t have been, because she lived long before Castamir’s birth. Beruthiel came from the many lines and families of direct Numenorean descendents. Because Umbar was a Haven built by Kings-men numenoreans who began the slave trade there in the first place towards the late second age. And it’s remained a strong hold for kings-men since then, hence why the animosity between Umbar and Gondor. 

It’s always confused me what the exact population size of Numenoreans in Umbar was supposed to be after the Akallabeth. But it was a thriving Numenorean settled city, just like Pelargir, and I can’t imagine it was small in population. We also get no inference that the akallabeth harmed the city in any way. So the apparent lack of Black Numenoreans towards the latter ages always confuses me. It’s also confusing when the sons of Castimir seem to just take over Umbar, surely they have their own ruling line that Beruthiel was a part of? Was that destroyed during the Ship-Kings? Actually I think I just answered my own question. I presume Umbar’s Numenorean population was significantly reduced in the wars and various sieges and eventual Gondorian take over of the city. And I suppose that it’s numenorean overlords at the time were killed. 

I... hmm.... well now I’m coming to a rather unsettling narrative of ‘Gondor ousts the black numenorean’s regime and replaces it with their own, holds Harondor as a province of Gondor for some hundreds of years until another set of Numenoreans (Castamir) come in, stir up the surviving numenorean lineages within the city to support them and then they once again take over the city and the lands surrounding with the support of Sauron??’ 

Anyway, I am honestly not convinced that the Black Numenoreans as a whole were meant to be seen as people of colour, even if I fully agree there are elements to them that are very much coded that way. But yeah, Tolkien’s intentions with them are aggravatingly murky. Numenor began the slave trade but the ethnicity of Numenoreans has always been difficult to place sensitively. 

[essenceofarda]

okay!! ~ *rolls up sleeves*

(also thank you so much for indulging me 🥹)

So, immediately after posting this i realized i actually have at least four "girl falls into middle earth" ideas that I wanna write. Apologies bc this is gonna get a bit long, but i hopefully it's okay bc it'll get shortened by the dash anyway lol so,,

FIRST STORY is one that takes place maybe a decade or so after the events of the war of the ring. About a girl who falls into middle earth, and ends up becoming the maid of a baker in Minas Tirith. It's a story exploring the daily lives of the average person in Gondor/Rohan. Notable things (imho) about this fic is that while canon characters are featured, they're featured mostly from 'afar', aka, she's not going to go up to the king of Gondor (aragorn) and be like "yo we're best buds now!" she just kinda,, lives her life and tries to adjust and makes friends and falls in love. Also, like i said, this fic focuses on the normal and "non-hero" (but no less *essential* and important) people that inhabit middle earth. Very slice of life, although there is a plot in mind.

My SECOND story is an old one of mine, that is basically a girl falls into middle earth, and when she's there, she's a horse. A meara to be exact. She spends some time as a wild horse, then kinda gets like, 'captured' by Prince Elfwine of Rohan, who makes her his steed. It's sort of gives Beauty and the Beast but like,,, platonic instead of romance? At least between the main oc and Elfwine.

THIRD story is ALSO a spin on beauty and the beast but is also VERY Eustace Scrubb inspired lol. Rich and spoiled trust fund young woman with a fiery temper and a nasty attitude falls into middle earth, and naturally arrives as a dragon. She has a clue that a 'prince' is the key to turning back human, and so she kidnaps a prince (i think it was either Elboron or Eldarion) and they become friends, and then kinda fall in love. Has more comedy than some of my other fics/fic ideas lol. Anyway, eventually, she learns to become a better person, through her friendship/romance with the prince, and through just like,,, not being a total ass to people lol, and that's what allows her to turn back human.

FOURTH story is a more recent idea. In this story, Aragorn and Arwen's son Eldarian has just been crowned king of the reunited kingdom, and agrees to marry a princess from Harad/Umbar in an attempt to establish peace between the lands. They have an... interesting relationship. His wife, while a good queen, is adamant that they never consummate their marriage, and has given her full consent to him begetting his heirs by a mistress. Mainly bc not only is she a giant lesbian, but, unbeknownst to Eldarion, her partner/lover had just been brutally killed not long before Harad/Umbar agreed to marry her off to him, with the threat of killing her mother and sister, too, if she did not comply with the marriage. Devasted and mourning the loss of her lover, plus the fact that she's a lesbian, she's just plain not interested romantically or otherwise in her husband. So... anyway, a year or so after they wed, Eldarion is returning from a battle with some eastern nations, and stumbles across an odd young woman. This young woman is our main pov character, and is the "Girl" who y'know "Fell" from a strange far off "place" into middle earth ;)... Eldarion quickly falls in love with her, and, knowing that he has his wife's consent to do so, even if he's always been reluctant previously to take lovers on principle, he takes this woman he found as his lover and she ends up getting pregnant. He assumes she knows that he's married, but she doesn't bc she's technically 'not from around here', and when she finds out, she's horrified that she's pregnant with a married man's child. She's also, ever since she's arrived in middle earth, been having dreams and visions of memories she doesn't remember actually experiencing of a female lover that she doesn't recognize but apparently was VERY, uh, close to ;) They arrive in Minas Tirith, where Gondor's queen is prepared to graciously receive the two, and... well, isn't this interesting? The pregnant lover the king happens to be the exact spitting image of the queen's former lover, and the queen matches the image of the lover's "dream lover". Which kinda complicates things. As you can imagine ;) this fic is a love triangle (with a possible 'she has two hands' kind romance solution lol) and political fantasy vibes :)

Anyway! I'm really fond of this story ideas and hope to write them one day! I'm curious, if any of y'all made it to the end of this post,, which story intrigues you the most? Might help inspire/encourage me to write it next :)

no,, sadly i am not immune to the strong desire to write "girl falls into middle earth" fics 😔