#and Denethor is now setting fire to Faramir :')

[thekenobee]

TURN + Text Post (Part 10)

[onestevetogo]

Lord of the Abridged : Revenge of the King

Flashback Sméagol- I just love Deagol!

Flashback Deagol- I just love Sméagol!

Ring- Hey

Flashback Sméagol- Gollum.exe

Later

Merry- We boss.

Pippin- We totally boss.

Gandalf- This place is wet af.

Gimli- I ran all this way for soggy hobbit.

Pippin- Come at me bro, I’ve had like four breakfasts today.

Saruman- My house has water damage.

Grima- He says your momma was a balrog.

Saruman- Stfu.

Grima- Sorry.

Gandalf- Tell me how to turn Sauron Sauroff.

Saruman- Saurin your dreams.

Grima- PAIN!

Saruman- Egad!

Gandalf- Lmao.

Theoden- We’re alive!

Aragorn- We’re alive!

Soldiers- We’re alive!

Eowyn- ManFlesh!

Aragorn- She wants my manflesh.

Aragorn- *hides*

Gandalf- This is my seeing stone. Not for Pippins. Don’t touch.

Pippin- Okay.

Gandalf- Time for a nap.

Pippin- Shiny!

Sauron- WHO DIS?

Pippin- Oh no! Consequences!

Sauron- OH NO! A TWINK!

Gandalf- Steward Denethor, we gotta fight.

Denethor- King Denethor.

Gandalf- I didn’t vote for you.

Denethor- Make Gondor Great Again.

Pippin- Congrats! You get a free hobbit!

Gandalf- Pippin wtf.

Denethor- Can never have too many hobbits.

Gollum- Look! Stairs!

Frodo- Omg.

Sam- Omg.

Witch king- Let’s go everybody!

Orc leaders- If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!

Orcs- *not clapping*

Gandalf- I need you to set some private property on fire.

Pippin- Say no more.

Aragorn- Fire!

Theoden- Fire!

Soldiers- Fire!

Orcs- Row row row your boat gently down the stream!

Faramir- They’re rowing their boats down the stream. What are they planning?

Orcs- Merrily merrily merrily merrily, make the soldiers scream!

Faramir - Oh no.

Pippin- *Watching Denethor eat tomatoes*

Pippin- I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Gollum- Sam ate all the bread.

Sam- wtf?

Frodo- That makes perfect sense.

Sam- wtf???

Frodo- Go home Sam.

Sam- WTF??????????

Elrond- My daughter wants your manflesh.

Aragorn- :)

Elrond- But she’s also dying.

Aragorn- :(

Elrond- Here’s a cool sword.

Aragorn- :)

Eowyn- I want your ManFlesh.

Aragorn- The world is literally about to end.

Eowyn- …

Eowyn- So is that a maybe or…?

Denethor- Why can’t you be more like your brother.

Faramir- My brother is dead.

Denethor- Exactly.

Faramir- :,(

Pippin- omg I’ve made a horrible mistake.

Aragorn- Yo Ghosts.

Ghosts- We’re going to kill you.

Aragorn- Look at this cool sword.

Ghosts- We will follow the keeper of the cool sword.

Orcs- This little piggy went BOOM.

Soldiers- *Fighting*

Orcs- *Fighting*

Denethor- This defeat was totally unavoidable and not at all my fault.

Gandalf- Time for a staff adjustment.

Gandalf’s staff- *Adjusts Denethor’s face*

Nazgûl- *Finger in car door screeching*

Gandalf- PAIN!

Witch King- PAIN!

Gandalf- What the canon?

Orcs- Eat all the ManFlesh!

Theoden- We ride at Theodawn!

Orcs- Theodang!

Gandalf- *Having a blood rage*

Pippin- Denethor is turning his son into nice crispy bacon!

Gandalf- Egad!

Denethor- #blazeit

Gandalf- Jousting!

Denethor- I’m gonna fall off this cliff and really ruin someone’s day!

Theoden- We’re Theodone!

Witch King - You’re Theodoomed.

Theoden- *chewtoy noises*

Eowyn- It’s time you Fell, Beast!

Witch King- PAIN!

Eowyn- I’m in pain!

Witch King- Haha, I’m immune to manflesh.

Eowyn- I am no ManFlesh!

Witch King- Oh shit.

Witch King- *Dies*

Theoden- Oh shit.

Theoden- *Dies*

Aragorn- I’m here now.

Orcs- Hey cool sword!

Ghosts- We thought so too.

Orcs- Oh no!

Orcs- *Die*

Eowyn- Hey I’m not dead!

Faramir- Hey I’m also not dead!

Eowyn- *gasps* ManFlesh!

Faramir- *gasps* Acceptance!

Gollum- Hey check out this cave.

Frodo- I don’t like this cave.

Shelob- What? A friend? Hello new friend!

Frodo- Oh no! A disgusting spider!

Shelob- Wow, rude.

Gollum- She’s going to eat you!

Shelob- Not my friend!

Frodo- Must run away!

Shelob- Poor friend! I’ll make a nice cozy sleeping bag for you!

Sam- Oh no! A disgusting spider! I’ll take him from you!

Shelob- No, he’s tired! Don’t take my friend!

Sam- *Stabbing noises*

Shelob- But my friend :(

Sam- *Opens sleeping bag*

Sam- This boy dead as hell.

Sam- *Loots the body*

Orc- This boy dead as hell.

Other Orc- Nah he’s just tired. Let’s get him into a bed.

Sam- Must follow them!

…

Shelob- My friend :,(

Orc- Shiny!

Other orc- My shiny!

More orcs- Our shiny!

Sam- I’m about to commit so much aggravated assault.

Frodo- Hey I’m not dead!

Sam- Oh. Then the ring is yours. I guess.

Aragorn- Knock knock.

Mouth of Sauron- Who’s there?

Aragorn- Chop.

Mouth of Sauron- Chop wh-

Aragorn- *Chops*

Orcs- Oh my god! He killed Dave!

Orcs- You busturd!

Aragorn- Oh no.

Soldiers- Oh no.

Legolas- That’s a lot more than seventeen.

Gimli- I am no longer racist.

Sam- We’re almost to the cave!

Gollum- It’s hobbit season!

Sam- Suplex City!

Gollum- Foul!

Frodo- Home stretch!

Sam- Toss the bish, make a wish!

Frodo- No.

Sam- That’s a terrible idea!

Gollum- That’s a great idea!

Frodo- *Finger food noises*

Gollum- *Trips*

Gollum- I’m melting! What a world! Oh, what a world!

Frodo- Oh shit!

Sam- Oh shit!

Pippin- Nice crispy bacon.

Sauron-…

Sauron-…

Sauron-AAAAAGHBLAGHBUGMAGUGA!!!

NAZGÛL YOU HAD ONE JOB!!!

Frodo- I want some bread.

Sam- I really wanted to pick Rosie’s cotton.

Frodo- Oeugh Sam!

Eagles- *Coming*

Aragorn- Theoden and Denethor are dead. I rule unchallenged. All hail the king. ✨✨

Elrond- You are now barely good enough to date my daughter.

Arwen- MaleMeat.

Aragorn- *Happy king noises*

Later

Frodo- Retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Sam- I’ve picked so much Rosie Cotton.

Frodo- I’m out.

Bilbo- I’m out.

Gandalf- I’m out.

Galadriel- Wait for me Beard Daddy.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Except Shelob.

[anghraine]

I’ve been following you for years now and my dumb ass just put together Míriel and Faramir. Between that and the wave dream it’s making me a bit emo I won’t lie lol

Aww, that's totally fair! And I appreciate the long-time follow :)

Miriel/Faramir anon, I just had another thought that just clicked thinking abt your aging post and Miriel remaining youthful/ageless while Pharazon ages and decays also foils with youthful Faramir contrasted against prematurely aging Denethor. One ends with drowning while the other (almost) ends with immolation. Ok bye lol

YES the water/fire youth/age visual imagery is so interesting, I think!

I've often vaguely associated Tar-Míriel and Faramir through the combination of the jewel imagery and the Akallabêth, yes. I don't think I've ever written about Faramir's dream/vision/ancestral memory of it without assuming that Míriel figures in some way, even though Tolkien never said so. Partly that's because the final image of her drowning on the Meneltarma is so much the image of the Akallabêth for me, but also the echo of the jewel theme.

One of my first fics ever (for any fandom) was about Faramir dreaming of Míriel drowning, and then waking up beside a pregnant Éowyn and adjusting. And it is not only for the coincidence of name elements that Faramir becomes Míriel in my f/f Aragorn/Faramir verse. I think that in canon, Faramir already has some intriguing associations with water:

fára in Quenya means 'shore' (though in fairness, he may have been named for his distant cousin, Prince Faramir of the House of Anárion, rather than meaning)

Faramir's first remembered grief is a dim memory of his dying mother, who "withered in the guarded city, as a flower of the seaward vales set upon a barren rock ... she turned her eyes ever south to the sea that she missed." He was five when she died, but pretty blatantly resembles her as well as Denethor in character.

Faramir often dreams of Númenor being drowned for completely unknown reasons (I mean, it actually happened, and it's Tolkien's dream, but we don't know why he gets the dreams about it in-story—though he's also particularly receptive to the prophecy-dream-riddle). Everyone knows his description of the Akallabêth dream, but the description is still pretty harrowing: "the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable."

Faramir is standing by the water when he has the vision/not vision of Boromir's body floating down to the sea.

So it's even more interesting that Faramir's "case" of the Black Breath is different from everyone else's—the others grow cold/icy while he burns. Of course, that's potentially linked to his near immolation by Denethor, but the contrast with Míriel's death and the (metaphorical)(ish) shadow of the sea over him is really intriguing. When I was trying to figure out how f!Faramir-Míriel would get the Boromir vision, I was like "well she wouldn't literally be keeping watch by the river, but maybe it could reach her through some other water association, like ... oh! like the Akallabêth dream! and then I could have her relationship with Tar-Míriel's legacy and everything in it too..."

[warhornofgondor]

Beyond shrouded windows, the day was dim and soot-streaked, cast in the bruised light of a sky still troubled by smoke. The City of the Kings, so long unyielding in stone and pride, now wept openly from a hundred wounds. Its towers fractured, its shattered gates gaping wide.

Faramir lay half-propped in a great carven bed, his body sunk into pale linen like a body laid out for sepulture, though his chest yet rose and fell, each breath shallow and slow. He had known fever and fire and the black clasp of death’s shadow – he had wandered half-willing in the borderlands of Mandos, where voices he could not name had murmured of sleep eternal and unshaken peace. He had heard weeping in those fields and turned back.

It was in this twilight of sense that the door opened.

He did not turn his head. The air changed – did not stir, but changed – as if a great weight of memory had stepped into the room. Faramir knew, before he saw, that the shadow in the doorway bore the shape of the fallen tower of his life.

Boromir.

At first he seemed a spectre, but no, his figure did not flicker.

How wrong the world became for the space of a single breath, for his beloved brother had died. The horns had blown for him. The river had borne his broken form away like a silver bier, and songs had been sung beneath the vaults of their house. The dead did not come back, not in flesh. Not bearing the dust of travel, nor the cold light of sorrow in their gaze.

Lips parted, but he did not cry out. It was as if the breath had been struck from his chest anew. His brother stood there, tall as ever, though the light of old wrath no longer burned so brightly. What dwelt there now was stranger, wearier. The cloak he wore was rough and weather-stained, and his hair unbraided, as though he had come not from the field of battle but from exile.

Faramir reached a trembling hand, his fingers curling faintly, as though to beckon, to beg.

“I should have known,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, cracked almost beyond use. “Had you gone beyond my reach, I would have known.”

He was too late.

In the shadow of the Rammas Echor's south gate he surveyed the carnage. Bodies of men, orcs, and beasts had turned the golden fields dark with ash and blood. Machines of war stood silent, their giant arms pointing towards the city. His city.

Minas Tirith remained standing, but not without new scars of her own. Boromir absentmindedly set his hand over his chest where his were still healing. Underneath the borrowed tunic the rough linen crossed over his chest and abdomen. Even though she argued against it, Ealith had done her best to prepare him for the journey.

Slowly, the son of Gondor guided his horse across the battlefield, toward a home he had believed he would never see again. As he passed through the shattered gates, no one hailed or even recognized him. Countless strangers had flowed in and out of the city since the battle's end. He was simply one more poor soul.

With every tier he climbed, the disturbing sights multiplied, and fear ignited within him, burning steadily until he came face to face with a citadel guard. "What news of the steward and his son, Faramir?" The command had left his voice, replaced by a ragged hoarseness. The guard looked at him questioningly before telling him of the passing of Denethor and the grievous wounding of Faramir.

Worse than the bite of any arrow was the guard's tidings. All breath had vacated, leaving him unable to say anything except nod and wheel the horse back down the ramp to the sixth tier and the Houses.

To whatever ancient deity deigned to bargain with mortal men, Boromir began to silently plead. He would endure any hardship, offer any sacrifice, if only Faramir might live. He would dwell in exile, a hermit of the forgotten woods, clad in pauper's rags, if it meant his brother would draw breath for years yet. He would even brand himself a coward, if it ensured Faramir's life. No price was too great.

Upon reaching the Houses of Healing, it took but a breath to inquire after Faramir, and even less time to reach the door. There, he paused, a heartbeat of dread, to fortify himself against whatever lay within before opening the door.

His shoulders slumped at the sight. Faramir could have been an effigy placed next to their mother if not for the movement of his hand. With unsteady steps, Boromir drew near, collapsing to his knees beside the bed. The impact sent a jolt through his fresh stitches, but the pain was lost, drowned by the shattering of his heart. Their cold hands clasped, a firm touch against the lingering fear that this was only a dream.

"I promised to return to you, little brother. Not even Mandos's halls could keep me from your side."

[ashortcuttomushrooms]

[Image Description: Excerpts of text from two different parts of The Lord of the Rings.

1: 'I was going to find a way into Mordor,' he said faintly. 'I was going to Gorgoroth. I must find the Mountain of Fire and cast the thing into the gulf of Doom. Gandalf said so. I do not think I shall ever get there.'

Faramir stared at him for a moment in grave astonishment. Then suddenly he caught him as he swayed, and lifting him gently, carried him to the bed and laid him there, and covered him warmly. At once he fell into a deep sleep.

Another bed was set beside him for his servant. Sam hesitated for a moment, then bowing very low: 'Good night, Captain, my lord,' he said. 'You took the chance, sir.'

'Did I so?' said Faramir.

'Yes sir, and showed your quality: the very highest.'

2: They will have need of some stout captain there.'

'There and elsewhere in many places,' said Faramir, and sighed. 'Alas for my brother, whom I too loved!' He rose. 'May I have your leave, father?' And then he swayed and leaned upon his father's chair.

'You are weary, I see,' said Denethor. 'You have ridden fast and far, and under shadows of evil in the air, I am told.'

'Let us not speak of that!' said Faramir.

'Then we will not,' said Denethor. 'Go now and rest as you may. Tomorrow's need will be sterner.'

End Image Description]

faramir catching frodo as he sways but needing to be the one to catch himself as he sways... if you even care

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Farawyn prompt

Dearest anon, you've sent this in some time ago...

and I said I wrote it and wouldn't post it because I'm a scaredy-cat and a mess...

My lovely friend @legolasbadass was so good as to read the story and assuage my doubts, so if you still want it...here it is 🙈

Sorry for taking so long...

Words: 1,9 k

Characters : Faramir x Éowyn (yes, canon x canon...)

Warnings: trauma, mention of the military, mention of Denethor

Éowyn stared at the display of allegedly edible items for a long moment before squaring her shoulders; after everything she had seen and done, cooking dinner for herself would not bring her to her knees.

Unfortunately, she was the first to admit – in silence and only to herself – that she was not the best of cooks, blast it, she detested her own cooking, but – after a friend had teased her about it – she had sworn that she’d cook dinner and send said friend a picture of her masterpiece as proof.

Stubborn, her beloved uncle’s voice echoed in her head, and she had to swallow hard against the surge of self-pity; the way Theoden – king amongst men – had loved her and how bitterly she regretted his passing every day defied words, so she didn’t even try to explain.

She would resist the urge of aiming beyond what she could possibly achieve and envision a solid, filling dinner; hence why she moved away from the exotic produce and ‘new products’ section with a sigh.

“You…cook…Are the times so dire and the end so nigh?” 

Her brother’s text made her roll eyes that many a man had called ‘beautiful’, an assessment she had answered by stating rather firmly that they were sharp and observant which was more important by far than being nice to look at, and she simply tucked her phone into her pocket before turning back to the legumes she knew well enough to prepare them appropriately. 

Éomer’s mockery – devoid of malice – set her teeth on edge; unfortunately, there were very few things as motivating to her than to be told that she could not do something, even – or especially – when she had to admit herself that her chances of success were looking rather bleak. 

Ah, since she had to cook, she would go all the way and make something healthy or, at least, that had been the plan; as it stood now though, she would have to scale down to a stew or something similar. How hard could it be to simply cut up vegetables and toss them into a pot with a piece of meat?

Her inner monologue was interrupted by a discreet clearing of the throat and Éowyn whirled around – the military training in her bones revving up immediately even after years of civilian life – to face whoever dared interrupt her in this monumental moment of supreme concentration.

“Doctor? Oh, I…I should not have disturbed you; this might be strange…hello!” 

Her blank stare warmed into joyous recognition.

“Faramir, how have you been?” she asked, extending a slender hand for him to shake.

After leaving the force to care for her ailing uncle, Éowyn had decided to resort to making a living by following her other great passion: helping people, so she had become a psychiatrist, and a rather good one at that.

Ambitious, studious, and diligent, she had done her uncle and – despite his tender teasing – her brother proud, but it was also often tiring. She was never free of the demons of other people, which was especially hard on days when her own plagued her relentlessly.

Éowyn was a passionate woman who took things to heart (after all, it often seemed to her that it was the biggest part of her) and so she was as selflessly invested in this new venture as she had once been in combat. No man left behind, whether that was under literal fire or in the pits of one’s own torment, that was her credo and remembering her own beliefs, she smiled, no longer daunted by something as mundane as cooking dinner.

Faramir had once been entrusted to her for assessment – even though she had been far from having seniority or the necessary practical experience – because he had been due to leave active duty and her superior had thought that she would be able to relate to him more easily.

To this day, he was one of her favourite case-studies and a person she wished she had met outside of work.

“What do you remember about your mother?” 

“Not much, unfortunately.” A minute side-glance before those startingly clear eyes returned to her face.  Regret and guilt, Éowyn wrote down in a neat even though rather simplistic hand, but too polite or too controlled to give in to the pain – might be lying about how much he remembers as if shielding me was the right course of action.

“How about your father?”

The flinch was almost imperceptible, followed by a detailed description that was full of praise but sounded a lot like he was talking about a celebrity he had never met in his whole life.

Mother dead, problematic relationship with the father, she scribbled underneath her first observation.

The mention of his brother, another sore subject for he was ‘missing in action’, made his eyes sparkle with open, honest, and intense affection though and Éowyn had to admit that this look of pride and hopeless longing was one she had seen in her own mirror once too often.

It was unprofessional, but she shared that tiny titbit, that single morsel of information, with him: she too had a brother who was loved and revered…and whose protective wing underneath which she had grown and thrived cast a shadow so huge and dark that she could understand only too well how love – even the purest and deepest form – could be laced with the poison of envy.

In the end, her assessment reflected her own personal conviction: despite having suffered trauma and neglect, Faramir was intelligent, sensitive, and well-adapted; he had a keen mind, a good understanding of situations and their possible outcomes, and a gentle heart that was able to reach depths of empathy that were rare and precious.

Her professional mind was quite satisfied with this, but her wild heart had resented the fact that such a favourable appraisal meant that she wouldn’t see him again, and Faramir did not strike her as the kind of man who would seek out therapy on his own, convinced that he’d be bothering her when she had better things to do and other people to tend to.

What she had not written down in her professional evaluation of a man going back to civilian existence rather than life was how handsome he had been, or how sweet and genuine his slightly hesitant smiles were.

“So, what are you doing here?” Faramir asked, pulling her back into reality rather abruptly by the charming inflection of his soft voice.

It struck him that this was a particularly unfortunate question to ask in the middle of a supermarket, so he tried to specify and explain at the same time as Éowyn burst out “Because this is where I live.” 

“I meant, what brings you to this supermarket in particular, but yes, I guess…” Faramir smiled, a little embarrassed.

“Yes, clearly, I don’t live in the supermarket. My flat is just around the corner though and I’m getting supplies to cook myself dinner,” she replied and wanted to melt into the floor never to be seen again when he explained that he had been living in the area for a few months now and had never met her before.

He was an ex-patient, she reminded herself, he didn’t need to know that the reason why he had never encountered her was that she rarely went grocery shopping because she didn’t cook as much or as well as she should.

“So, what are you making?” Faramir pressed on, evidently having overcome his initial embarrassment about approaching her in the vegetable aisle.

“Erm…stew?” she said, cursing herself for sounding so insecure; insecurity was deadly, insecurity led to hesitation, and hesitation led to mistakes and fatalities.

“You don’t sound convinced,” he laughed, nodding at her cart in which only non-edible items were neatly piled; one could take the girl out of the force, but one could not take the military training out of the girl.

The soft smile of recognition and empathy on Faramir’s face felt like a physical caress; of course, he understood how strange some of their habits might seem to people who had never even set foot where they had been encamped for months and who had never relied on those little things to make sure they’d see another sunrise.

“I am not a good cook,” she confessed quickly; it felt good to say this out loud and – the man was good at his job – her superior had been right when assuming that she would find it easy to build a rapport with Faramir, so she didn’t feel half as ashamed as she thought she would.

“Ah, one cannot be good at everything,” Faramir waved her words aside with an easy grace that he never granted himself, and Éowyn did not hesitate to bring this to his attention which made him avert his gaze in the same way he had done the first time they had met.

“You are right,” he then – to her surprise – admitted after a second of silence in which both wondered if that was the end of their conversation, “I am still working on focussing on my talents and skills rather than my shortcomings. Actually, while on the subject, I am quite a good cook, so, why don’t I prepare dinner and you give me some more pointers on how to adapt to civilian life again?”

He had not made many friends, Éowyn thought, she did not doubt for a second that he was well-liked by everyone he met, but he still had trust issues.

“Faramir, you know as well as I do that your problems do not stem from your time on the force,” she sighed under her breath.

“I do,” he nodded slowly, “but one step at a time?”

“Alright,” Éowyn agreed, strangely elated at the thought of not having to cook and eat alone after all, “I’ll help you, because I have sort of sworn an oath to cook myself dinner tonight.”

“Cheeky,” Faramir commented, but was already grabbing several vegetables confidently from the shelves and putting them – in a clean, ordered fashion as expected – into his own shopping cart, “but I’ll take this as a sign. I have been thinking about calling your office for some time now.”

“Oh,” Éowyn sighed, “I think it would be great for you to come back to therapy. You deserve to be happy, you know?”

A small chortle of awkward emotion escaped his lips before he admitted that he had also been thinking about his own happiness and the potential healing, but that therapy per se had not been the way to go about it that had come to his mind.

Éowyn cocked her head inquisitively while her heart sped up in her chest and her hands grew deadly still with concentration.

“What did you have in mind then?” she asked.

“Dinner?” Faramir laughed and held what looked like it might have been a cabbage aloft.

“Dinner is a good start,” she agreed and when he beamed at her, she realised that she no longer felt as tense and miserable as she had been upon entering this place anymore either; maybe, she thought, they would be good for each other in ways nobody could have predicted.

After all, her boss – a man with decades of experience and oodles of published papers – had believed that they’d get along well, and he was never wrong. 

“Yup, cooking…and it looks like I have a date.” 

Her message to Éomer sent, she turned off her phone and smiled up at her companion; brave to the extent of recklessness, Éowyn was ready to see where this new adventure would take her.

I am trying to go out of my comfort zone and write the things I believe I cannot write...

I am trying hard for y'all!

Lots of love from me <3 If you liked this, please drop me a line or so...

And never feel shy sending me an ask :D

@fellowshipofthefics guess this is another one for the May Challenge lol <3

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - March 15th

Today is the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and it’s hard to know what to say about it because all the events are already so well-known to readers of The Lord of the Rings. But I’m going to try to situate things more clearly in time, because one of the things I noticed on this read is how fast everything happens - when Aragorn arrives it is still only mid-morning.

It should also be noted that the Battle of the Pelennor Fields is not the only battle of the day: Thranduil and the elves of Mirkwood defeat the forces of Dol Guldur in the Battle under the Trees, and Lothlórien repels the second assault by enemy forces.

Pre-Dawn

In the night, Frodo and Sam gather gear and food and make their escape from the Tower of Cirith Ungol. Their escape from the main gate produces a cry from the Watchers, and a Nazgûl dives down in response, but they are not spotted by it and escape down the road, then jump off a bridge of stone into thorn-bushes. They rest a while and then move northwards alone a ravine; they are in the Morgai, the foothills of the mountains of Mordor.

Aragorn with the ships of the Corsairs comes near the city:

“At midnight hope was indeed born anew. Sea-crafty men of the Ethir gazing southward spoke of a change coming with a fresh wind from the Sea. Long ere day the masted ships hoisted sail, and our speed grew, until dawn whitened the foam at our prows.”

The assault on the main gate of Minas Tirith begins:

Far behind the battle the River had been swiftly bridged, and all day more force and gear of war had poured across. Now at last in the middle night the assault was loosed. The vanguard passed theough the trenches of fire by many devious paths that had been left between them. On they came, reckless of their loss as they approached, still bunched and herded, within the range of bowmen on the wall. But indeed there were too few now left there to do them great damage, though the lught of the fires showed up many a mark for archers of such skill as Gondor pnce had boasted. Then perceiving that the valour of the City was already beaten down, the hidden Captain put forth his strength. Slowly the great siege-towers built in Osgiliath rolled forward through the dark.

At the same time, the news that the first circle of the city is burning and men have abandoned the walls is the final straw that drives Denethor fully to despair, and produces his choice to burn both himself and Faramir to death. Pippin follows him to the tombs of the stewrads and kings, and when Denethor gives the orders for the pyre Pippin at last understands what he intends. He first tells one of the servants on guard to move slowly and not bring fire, then tells Beregond what is going on, and then runs to find Gandalf. He has to run a long ways, since the Silent Street is in the sixth circle and Gandalf is at the Great Gate in the first circle. And as he arrives the gates of the city are broken.

In rode the Lord of the Nazgûl. A great black shape against the fires beyond he loomed up, griwn to a vast menace of despair. In rode the Lord of the Nazgûl, under the archway that no enemy ever yet had passed, and all fled before his face.

All save one. There waiting, silent and still in the space before the Gate, sat Gandalf upon Shadowfax: Shadowfax who alone among the free horses of the earth endured the terror, unmoving, steadfast as a graven image in Rath Dînen.

“You cannot enter here,” said Gandalf, and the huge shadow halted. “Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!”

The Black Rider flung back his hood, and behold! he had a kingly crown; and yet upon no head visible was it set. The red fires shone between it and the mantled shoulders vast and dark. From a mouth unseen there came a deadly laughter.

“Old fool!” he said. “Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!” And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade.

Gandalf did not move. And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard of the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of war was coming with the dawn.

And as if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin’s sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last.

This whole passage is exceptional, but I have to draw attention to that third-last line, heralding the coming of the Rohirrim with the same alliteration (“In dark Mindolluin’s sides they dimly echoed.”) that is characteristic of their poetry. This is Tolkien at the height of his craft.

Dawn

The Rohirrim ride from the forest to the city during the night. The arrangement of the battlefield is as follows: first the out-wall of the Pelennor, the Rammas Echor, with breaches in it from the army of Mordor’s attack; then enemy armies; trenches of fire around the city, with gaps in them for siege engines; more enemy armies; and then the city wall. The Rammas Echor is largely unguarded, its forces having been drawn off for the attack on the city. (The Rammas Echor here is still about 3 leagues, or 9 miles, from the city.)

The Rohirrim, split into three groups for easier mobility, pass the Rammas Echor, and hear the ram break the gates of the city, and at that moment they blow their horns and charge.

Morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and darkness was removed, and the hosts of Mordor wailed, and terror took them, and they fled, and died, and hooves of wrath rode over them. And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the City.

Frodo and Sam also see the darkness break:

Away to their left, southward, against a sky that was turning grey, the peaks and high ridges of the great range began to appear dark and black, visible shapes. Light was growing behind them. Slowly it crept toward the North. There was battle far above in the high spaces of the air. The billowing clouds of Mordor were being driven back, their edges tattering as a wind out of the living world came and swept the fumes and smokes towards the dark land of their home. Under the lifting skirts of the dreary canopy dim light leaked into Mordor like pale morning through thr grimed windows of a prison.

“Look at it, Mr Frodo!” said Sam. “Look at it! The wind’s changed. Something’s happening. He’s not having it all his own way. His darkness is breaking up out in the world there. I wish I could see what is going on!”

Morning

It would be far too long to describe in detail all the events of the morning - Théoden’s victories and death, Eowyn slaying the Witch-king, the battles against the mûmakil, and the arrival (still at mid-morning - about 9am, “the third hour of the morning” as Gimli later tells it) of Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, the Dúnedain, and the men of South Gondor in the ships of the Corsairs, suddenly displaying the standard of the King of Gondor to the dismay of their foes.

Pippin brings Gandalf to the tombs of the kings, and Denethor burns, and Faramir is saved. All this happens rapidly too; it is all over by the time they hear the death-cry of the Lord of the Nazgûl. Pippin find Merry and brings him to the Houses of Healing, and Eowyn too is brought there, and Faramir is there already.

Frodo and Sam follow an orc-path northward from the ravine, and almost-miraculously find water.

Afternoon

The afternoon is much more briefly told than the morning. The Battle of the Pelennor Fields continues until sunset, while Gandalf waits with the patients at the Houses of Healing. Frodo and Sam move east through the Morgai, and then rest and eat.

Evening

Gandalf bring Aragorn to the Houses of Healing, where Aragorn heals Faramir, Eowyn, and Merry. And then through the night he goes to the houses throughout Minas Tirith where there are wounded people, and heals them, as do Elladan and Elrohir.

Frodo sleeps, and Sam keeps watch for a time.

Far above the Ephel Dúath in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the Tower had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master’s, ceased to trouble him. He crawled back into the brambles and laid himself by Frodo’s side , and putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Aragorn and Boromir: one of them was late to/forgot about an event for the arguments thing!

Alright! They didn’t argue-argue because they REFUSED. Idiots. But they did have some weird emotional conversations so that’s as good as we’re going to get. I hope you enjoy! 

Title: Sweet is the Air

Pairing: Aragorn/Arwen/Boromir - basically. 

Summary: Set in the same time-line/AU World of Naming the World & My Land is Bare. So, Boromir survived Amon Hen, to everyone’s great joy. The main plot-points remain mostly the same. Barring some people living who died in the canon. 

This is post-ROTK. Denethor remains alive, the ghost at the banquet. 

--

‘Did you forget?’ Aragorn asks.  

‘I didn’t,’ Boromir says. 

Aragorn repeats: But did you? It’s alright if you did.  

‘I didn’t,’ Boromir insists.  

Aragorn wishes the man would just admit to it. Yes, he forgot. How hard is that to say? Yes, it slipped his mind that they were going to have a Talk with Denethor about The State of the Stewardship. Or, more truthfully, Yes, he forgot because he wanted to forget because he doesn’t want to talk to his father about The State of the Stewardship. 

‘Do you know how hard it is to corner your father?’ Aragorn asks, attempting to not be annoyed. Because he isn’t annoyed. This is only the third time this has happened, after all. And the first occurrence of Boromir’s lateness to the Denethor Conversation had a legitimate cause; the second - well it could be argued to be legitimate. A third time though? 

But he’s not annoyed. 

(Arwen, last night, You’re annoyed. Aragorn, insistent, I am not annoyed. Arwen raised an eyebrow and therefore looked eerily like her father, For some reason I remain unconvinced. Have you told him you’re annoyed? This made Aragorn scowl and so he therefore looked like a statue of one of his dead relatives, Why should I do that? I’m not annoyed. There’s nothing to talk about. Arwen, I’ll tell him if you don’t. To which Aragorn tried to forcefully declare: You will do no such thing but that merely prompted Arwen to pantomime opening a window and hollering out, Boromir, your king is frustrated with your inability to manage your father. Aragorn became horrified, You wouldn’t dare. At which Arwen smiled and said, Just watch me.) 

‘I promise I didn’t forget - it was only, I was tied up,’ Boromir states. 

Aragorn swallows: well that is a terrible excuse. Because that is not a kind thing to say. It is not a worthy thing to say. Boromir deserves better than Aragorn being missish. Because they are no longer on the road. Because the Fellowship is over. The Four Hunters has long been disbanded. 

Gods, Aragorn thinks bleakly, I’ve been king for ten months now. 

‘Well, it’s terribly difficult to force him to have ten minutes of time. Your father is wily.’ 

Boromir nods slowly. Picks at his nails. Looks at the sad bushes, the dismal remains of summer roses, jasmine climbing up columns, the naked trees. Aragorn isn’t sure how to proceed. He should have practiced. Arwen told him to practice. Aragorn despairs. 

‘He is,’ Boromir finally agrees. ‘He is very wily. A puppet master. I don’t -’ he stops. Aragorn waits with great expectation. Boromir works his jaw for a bit. Does more scanning of the environment so Aragorn can’t see his eyes resting still for more than a second. Aragorn worries Boromir is going to leave. He does this when he wants out from a situation. When he wants to disappear into captain-hood and slide sideways from duty as, essentially, regent-steward.

‘I can’t do this,’ Boromir finally whispers. 

‘You have to.’ 

‘I can’t, Aragorn. I really can’t. He’s my father.’ 

Aragorn makes a sympathetic face. He wants to say that he understands but that would be a lie so he keeps quiet. He cannot imagine Elrond no longer firmly grasping the world in front of him. He cannot imagine Elrond forcing this situation upon himself. There is no dignity to it. Aragorn cannot imagine Elrond without dignity. 

Boromir is silent which causes Aragorn some small anxiety. 

‘It would be a kindness, I think, in the long-run,’ Aragorn tries after another minute of muteness from the future-steward passes. 

‘Yes. It would be. It is.’ 

‘No one need know the reason of why he is being set aside.’  

Boromir looks at him with a sidelong expression. It is almost a sneer. ‘Everyone knows.’ 

‘Is that what frightens you? That people know and will think less of you for your father’s - um-’ 

‘Madness?’ Ah yes, here is a Boromir sneer. ‘Insanity? Lack of mental stability? Gone off with the birds?’ 

Aragorn nods. 

‘No, that doesn’t frighten me,’ Boromir says. ‘I can handle it well enough. It’s more that - well, it’s demeaning to be relegated to old, doddering man. It takes a person’s pride from them and gods, I feel like he’s lost so much already. All the things that matter, too: his position, his son to a certain degree, his father’s affection, my mother. I think, in many ways, pride is all my father has left.’ Boromir draws breath to continue only to deflate. Aragorn wants to comfort him but isn’t sure this is the time or place or, indeed, the best approach. 

It’s hard to know how to handle Boromir. He has more walls than Aragorn can fathom, at times. When he thinks he’s through one, there will be another five he didn’t anticipate. All of this alongside Boromir’s dislike of receiving reassurance. Comfort. Vulnerable affection, as Arwen calls it. There is such a deep fear of being seen as weak or, Aragorn thinks, being thought to be a burden. 

Aragorn tries, ‘Your father has more than that. And he hasn’t lost you.’ 

‘I was speaking of Faramir.’ 

‘Ah.’ 

Boromir’s humourless smile. ‘It’s all a bit of a mess, isn’t it? I’m not sure what I thought would happen after the war, but it wasn’t this.’ 

‘It’s hard to know how people will take things. And, I mean,’ Aragorn shrugs helplessly. ‘There were extenuating circumstances. No one knew about the palantir.’ 

‘No.’ 

‘And, well -’ he stops. Shrugs. Boromir raises an eyebrow, but otherwise he is still as stone. As a king of old, the ones whose names are lost to time but their faces are committed to rock with paint, with chisel. To Aragorn, Boromir has always conveyed more of the regal air he thinks is expected of a king. That he, himself, should display. 

What a thing, to walk into a room of foreign dignitaries, have the King of Gondor be announced and everyone looks at Boromir. Which Aragorn cannot blame them for, because he too would look at Boromir. Honestly, he thinks not for the first time, their roles should have been switched. Boromir should be king, Aragorn can be steward. 

‘Yes?’ Boromir prompts. 

‘I was just thinking, is your father truly mad or merely desperate?’ 

Boromir opens his mouth then closes it. 

‘Sometimes, it can look like the same thing,’ Aragorn continues, gently. He is so desperately trying to be gentle. ‘It’s as you said, he has his pride. He was raised to be Steward of Gondor. To be the sole ruler of this land and then I went and showed up. He’s desperate to hold onto what is, at the end of the days, is rightfully his.’ 

A dismal nod from the future-Steward. 

‘Perhaps there can be a compromise--’

‘No,’ Boromir shakes his head. ‘Not over this. It’s all or nothing with the Stewardship. I know my father, he does not share power.’ 

‘But you always seemed to have a position of influence --’ 

‘Of his making and of his control,’ Boromir shrugs. ‘So, you will either have him as Steward or me. It won’t be both.’ 

A bird’s screech ricochets through the courtyard that is empty and feels so desolate, like they are in Hollin or on the empty steps of Emyn Muil. Boromir has turned and begun a slow, meandering tour around the garden. He pauses where an arch looks out over the city, the River Anduin snakes its silver body through the eastern land of Gondor. Osgiliath shines in the distance. Boromir’s back is to Aragorn and the Future-Steward who is essentially acting-Steward, rests a hand on columned archway. Robes drape in such a way that he is a shadow against white marble, dappled grey. Aragorn wants to go to him but suspects it would be unwelcome, at this exact moment. 

‘My father once told me that he couldn’t remember what happiness was and I said that there would be brighter days yet, that he would live to see them. And he has, there is sun and the clouds of Sauron are gone, but he is not better.’ 

Aragorn thinks that a monstrous thing to tell one’s son. To say: I can’t know warmth, so light the fire and if you do not, then all my coldness is your fault.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says instead. He suspects Boromir won’t take kindly to having his father be called monstrous. 

‘Why?’ 

Aragorn stalls in thought then just shrugs and says that he is sorry because that is a lot to say to a child. 

‘I wasn’t a child.’ 

‘Still,’ Aragorn says, if a bit lamely. 

Boromir sighs, turns to face Aragorn. ‘I can’t do it. I can’t be the one who tells him that he is being pushed aside.’ 

‘Would you be able to be present?’ 

Boromir’s lips thin out into a line and his unhappiness at the prospect is a wave how it rolls from his shoulders. But he nods in agreement, as Aragorn knew he would. Still, it is a relief to have a firm agreement. 

Or, as firm an agreement as he is going to get at this juncture. 

He had asked Faramir: What should be done about your father? And Faramir had gone a little wide-eyed and said, I don’t know. What do you mean? And Aragorn had sort-of motioned as if that could contain everything that had happened. Faramir had then shaken himself out of whatever place it was he went when the question was posed and declared that the person to ask is Boromir. Boromir always knows how to handle our father, Faramir said with confidence. If you want to get Denethor to do things he doesn’t want to do, you have to have Boromir do the asking. 

Later, Aragorn relayed this to Arwen who said, What family have you gotten us tangled into? And Aragorn had replied, primly, I’m absolutely sure it’s worth it. And Arwen had laughed and said she agreed and that she trusted him. It’s just, really, that was what said? 

‘I’m glad you’ll be there,’ Aragorn says. ‘I’m happy to do the talking it’s only, your father is quite fearsome. Like a tempest. Or a sandstorm.’ 

‘Don’t be mean.’ But Boromir said it with a smile so Aragorn feels he can continue. 

‘Just, this time, don’t forget.’ 

Boromir mocks becoming affronted. ‘Excuse me, your royal highness, I did not forget. I got tied up in other very important affairs of state and therefore was merely late. By just five minutes, mind you, and you had already scarpered.’ 

Aragorn takes his arm and steers them towards the covered archway that will slowly weave back to offices and studies and rooms of state. ‘Tempest,’ he says. ‘Remember that.’ 

‘Right. Or sandstorm.’ 

‘A deluge.’ 

‘I’m going to make a record of these.’ 

‘You don’t need to do that.’ 

Boromir grins, ‘I absolutely do.’ 

Aragorn shakes his head, ‘If this is the sort of treatment I am going to receive from you I shall pass you over in favour of Faramir.’ 

‘Oh thank the gods,’ Boromir dramatically sighs. ‘Finally, the man has a good idea. The first time I’ve heard one from him since we met.’ 

‘I wouldn’t go that far -’ 

‘Let us run across Rohan for a week, he said. It’s a good idea to chase two thousand Uruk-Hai with only four people, he said. Trust the former-traitor-witch of Rohan to be of aid on the paths of the dead, he said. Let’s hike across a mountain in February with no firewood, he said.’ 

‘These were all brilliant ideas, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ 

Boromir laughs, then, a full one. And Aragorn grins because it is a pleasant sound to hear and these are sunny days. Despite the shadows that linger in them and the ghosts of still living men who haunt the halls of this palace, there is sun and there is warmth and there is, at the end of it all, something like hope for a new start.

[theartofbeinganeldar]

The Art of Being an Eldar: Legolas x Reader Chapter 2

Summary: You're a fantasy-loving, LARPing human from this world, who's the black sheep of society because of your obsession for the unreal and alienation of what's real. When you're in the middle of a LARP battle with some pretty phony boars, you fall out of a tree and bust your head. You wake up, alone, and are suddenly attacked by some very pissed-off, very real wargs. Without any idea of how you got there, you got dropped into Middle-Earth, with only bits and pieces of memories of Tolkien's masterpiece, though your recollection of everything else is perfectly clear. And of all places in Middle-Earth, you got dropped into Mirkwood, with some suspicious, potentially hostile, Woodland Elves...

Chapter No.: Chapter 1

Key: [Y/N]=Your Name [F/N]= Friend's Name [B/N]= Bro's Name [S/N]= Sis's Name [M/N]= Mom's Name [e/c]= eye color [h/c]= hair color [s/c]= skin color

Notes: Listen to Medieval Pagan Music, Runestones when reading this chapter.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, graphic depictions of gore and violence (Cuz of orc battles y'know?), more angst, slow burn, some light depression in the first few chapters, some amnesia about Middle-Earth because the Valar say you're not supposed to have foresight, hard-core language, feels, lots and lots of feels, mentions of NSFW content, maybe some eventual NSFW content, LGTBQ+ characters, Thranduil being a jackass at first because he's fabulous, Legolas being a hot edgy prince that nobody can handle, Kili being an innocent bean, Hobbits being smol innocent beans, except for Bilbo 'cause he's been through some tough shit, Bard being dad of the year, Thorin being one dumbass boi, awesome dragons, awesome Nazgul, awesome scenery, awesome stuff in general, Elrond isn't listened to by anybody, confused Aragorn is confused,  Denethor's a bitch as always, Boromir lives, brace yourself for creepy as fuck Cream of Worm Tongue Grima Wormtongue, Gandalf. (yes these are all legit warnings don't judge me)

Pairings/Ships: Legolas x Reader, Legolas x you, Aragorn x Arwen, Faramir x Eowyn, Thranduil x Elvenqueen, Galadriel x Celery Celeborn, Boromir x OC, Thorin x OC, Fili x OC, etc. general LoTR standard shippings plus some of my own cuz I can't stand my boys being lonely

Word Count: I try to keep my chapters short, under 2000 words.

Rating: Teen (14+) for now

When I said I hated reality, I didn't mean I wanted to be ripped from it without my family.

How they'd healed you so efficiently was beyond your comprehension, and nobody came to visit you. You couldn't bring yourself to eat much of what they brought you. To think you'd finally gotten your wish, you'd finally, somehow gotten sucked into some alternate reality where fiction was fact and what you'd known and lived in for your entire life was nonexistent... It was amazing. Surreal.

But you couldn't stay here. Not without your family. Not without your mom, not without [B/N], not without [S/N]. [F/N]... You wished you could've at least said goodbye to him. Life without the only people you'd ever had seemed unreal, incomprehensible, and too nightmarish. Too... Alone. You couldn't lose them.

For hours, you waited, pacing the ten-by-ten cell furiously. You had to find some way to get out, some way to find whatever portal you'd triggered... A sound at the barred door made you freeze in place, whipping around like a meerkat. It was Blue-Eyes, and some of his guards, one of which was unlocking the door. "Are you letting me go?"

Blue-Eyes stared at you as if trying to figure out whether or not you were desperate or stupid. Finally, he shook his head, probably deciding it was most likely both in your case. Well, screw him. "My father wishes to see you."

You glanced to each of the guards that came to grip either of your arms. "Is that... Bad?"

Blue-Eyes smirked. "It depends on his mood."

You glared at him as the other two Elves ushered you out of the door, onto the precariously thin ledge just outside of the cell. "You're trying to freak me out, aren't you?"

Blue-Eyes didn't answer, but took up the rear of the procession. They lead you to a platform overlooking all of the mazelike bridge-sets of the dungeons, and opened a pair of elaborately crafted doors. You balked, your jaw fell, your eyes widened as far as they'd go, stunned by the view.

The building you'd thought was surrounded by trees? It was a palace-city, which stretched back from the front wall as far as you could see. And it was made entirely of trees. Bridges of wood, twisting trunks, curling pillars of wood holding up a vaultrf ceiling which opened up to the orange-gold canopy, and beyond, the cloudless blue sky. Huge, arched windows with stained glass of amber filled the front wall, framed in wood, every few dozen feet, letting in a golden light that made the entire place seem more surreal than it already was. Leaves fell too slowly here, as if afraid that touching the ground would destroy their fabulousness. Elves inhabited every floor, sailing gracefully around like gorgeous swans that glared down at the sudden ugly duckling in their midst.

You felt tiny.

"This is your home?" You breathed in amazement, going where the guards took you on autopilot as you drank in the magnificent sight. "It's bigger than the town I live in!"

"This is just a small portion of it," Blue-Eyes had a hint of pride in his voice. You glanced over your shoulder to see him taking in the view with a faint smile on his face. "This part is my father's palace. Only nobles and militia reside here."

"It's beautiful..." You surveyed the palace in awe. I'm here. I'm really here! This is where I'm supposed to be! "Do you all have different floors? Is it flameproof? What happens if there's a forest fire? Can you even get forest fires here?"

"Why would you like to know?" Blue-Eyes demanded sharply, all kindness gone just as suddenly as it'd arrived, replaced with obvious suspicion and disdain.

You sighed, and dropped the subject. You wouldn't be finding anything out about this place today. The guards lead you up a short flight of stairs, which stopped at a huge circular pavilion, lined with a different type of guard in silver armor and navy-blue masks covering their lower faces. They stood almost impossibly still, and each carried a deadly spear.

More stairs, curving upward from each side of the pavilion, lead to a massive throne of carved wood. A regal Elf lounged on it, holding a curled wooden staff. He wore silver robes lined on the inside with a deep crimson, and a crown of thin branches styled like an elk's antlers --or maybe a thornbush-- sat atop his head of snow-white hair. Piercing blue eyes watched you from underneath strangely dark (And thick.) brows, but his catlike face was drawn into an unreadable expression.

Blue-Eyes stepped before you and the guards, and put his right arm over his chest, fist resting over his heart, as he bowed at the waist. "My king, we have brought the prisoner."

Inwardly, you winced. What kind of father forced his son to call him 'my king'?

The Elvenking flicked his fingers toward the guards on either side of you. "Leave us."

As they left with barely a clink of armor, Blue-Eyes grabbed you roughly by the shoulder, forcing you to your knees. His grip was like iron. He leaned down to snarl in your ear, "Show respect. His majesty has shown you a great kindness in allowing you to live."

Aw, fuck. You forgot that these guys had healed you. If Lord Fabulous over there had decided that by even so much as breathing near his lands you didn't deserve for your wounds to be healed, you'd be dead right now. "O-oh..." You quickly fixed your position, and even bowed your head with an arm over your chest, like Blue-Eyes had done. "Sorry..."

"My son tells me he found you trying to escape from warg-bound orcs on our northern border," Elvenking drawled slowly. Wargs... Those big dogs... Why does that sound familiar? Were they in a book? Mythology? A game? You couldn't remember, and Elvenking didn't give you time to. "You were found near-death, and without any apparent recollection of how you came to be there. Is that correct?"

You weren't sure how to adress him. "Yes, sir. My lord. Your majesty. I'm sorry."

Elvenking continued. "Would you like to elaborate on what you do remember?"

His tone wasn't kind. It was "Tell me bitch or I will throw you off into the chasms below."

And there were lots of chasms.

"You won't believe me," You started, and risked a glance; Blue-Eyes and Elvenking watched you warily. You could easily say you were from this world, but you didn't know anything about it. You couldn't lie believably. And even if you could, Elves can sense lies. You figured you'd get some extra points if you were totally honest. "But I'll tell you anyway." So you started out with your explanation of coming from a place called Earth, and that you'd been having a battle against some pretty fake boars played by unconvincing actors in Live Action Roleplay, when you'd fallen out of a tree, banged yourself up, and knocked yourself out. You then proceeded to explain about the big dogs and the orcs.

Elvenking lifted his chin slightly for the sole purpose of glowering at you. "Tell me more of this... Earth." You told him all you could. About cars and trains and jets and phones, then on to TVs and movies, and the huge skyscrapers, and how modern slang was different from what it had been, and how where you came from, Elves and orcs and dragons were all part of a genre known as fantasy. You even tried, for a brief period of time, to explain the subject of eMail and social sites like Tumblr and Twitter, but you gave up at their odd looks as they tried to comprehend the concept. You told them about all seven continents, presidents, world leaders, endless wars, hunger, trashing the planet and all other shit that was wrong with Earth.

You could've been there for hours explaining it all. When you were finished, Elvenking regarded you like he'd just came to the conclusion that you just weren't normal. "It seems, [Y/N], that your world is poisoned."

"It is!" You agreed excitedly. "Nobody cares about it anymore! It's why I grew up to be so... Un-normal, by my world's standards."

"I see..." Elvenking blinked slowly. "Then you are, since you are a spawn of this Earth, equal poison to this world, are you not?"

All the blood drained from your face. "What?"

He looked to Blue-Eyes. "Kill them."

Blue-Eyes gripped you by the back of the head, and your hands flew to his wrist as he yanked your head back. With a flourish, he drew one of his ivory-handled knives and pressed it to your throat. "Wait!" You screamed, and Elvenking raised a hand.

"Last words?" Blue-Eyes sneered.

"I don't know where I am," You choked out quickly; the cool steel of the blade was digging into your neck, cutting a fine line. "I don't know how I got here, but usually when stuff like this happens in movies, there's always a portal. Let me find it-- send an escort if you want! Take me back to where you found me, and I'll find the portal and go home. You'll never see me again!"

Elvenking dropped his hand, and your heart jumped, expecting your head to go with it. "Do you really think that is wise? I sense no dishonesty from you, but you could very well be a spy from your world, which seems so intent on conquering and destroying peace. I will not let this world, much less my own land, fall prey to yours."

"I won't tell anyone about you, or this place, I promise! I don't even know where this is!" Tears of frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. "I'm not a damn spy! I don't even know how I got here! Give me a couple of days to find the portal. Then I'll leave. What if there was a way for you to know I'll keep my word? Like a blood-oath, or something!"

"And if asked where you had gone?" Blue-Eyes countered, cocking an eyebrow.

"I'll tell them I went to Narnia, dammit! They never take me seriously anyway!" Your eyes widened. "This isn't Narnia, is it? Narnia didn't have Elves!"

"No, this is not... Narnia." Elvenking replied. "And you will not know the name of this land. You have three days to find your portal. You will be accompanied by a small assembly of my best warriors. If you do not find the door to your world within the given three days... I will give the order to kill you."

You swallowed hard. The steel dragged across your throat painfully. "Th-that sounds fair." It didn't, but, you just rolled with it.

"Legolas, you will go with them," Elvenking said; something clicked in your mind. You knew that name... You knew that name. But... Why?

Blue-Eyes-- Legolas-- nodded and finally removed the blade from your throat. Lord Fabulous inclined his head once, and you vaguely thanked him, too concerned with how you knew Blue-Eyes's name. He kept a tight, painful grip on your arm, actually digging his fingers in until you were pretty sure he cut off most of your circulation.

When you reached your cell, he thrust you in roughly, making you stumble forward. You whipped around to glare at him. "Could you be careful, Blue-Eyes?"

He paused in locking the door. Confused, he brought his sapphire eyes to meet your [e/c] ones. "What did you just call me?"

"Blue-Eyes," You suddenly felt a little embarassed about picking a nickname for him. Shit, you'd never let that bother you before. He could screw off. "I didn't know your name until a few minutes ago, so... I just picked something to call you."

He raised an eyebrow incredulously. "And you chose to call me after my eyes." It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

You flushed a little, glancing to the side with only your eyes nervously, then back to him. "Uh... Yeah. That's pretty much it."

He rolled his eyes and walked away. Before you even realized what you were doing, you'd ran to the bars and grabbed hold of them, pressing your cheek up against them to watch him walk away. "Blue-Eyes!" He stopped, but didn't turn around. "Your name... Legolas. I think I've heard it before."

He turned his head slightly, like he might be interested, but your hopes fell through the floor when he just continued walking. You immediately wished you'd've said something to get his attention, so he'd come talk to you. Like, Hey, I'm really a spy for Earth, MWAHAHAHAHAHA.

Ok, maybe not that drastic...

But you did wish he'd stayed to talk to you. Even if he'd tried to kill you. Legolas... You slid down the bars, sitting on the floor. Your knees came up to your chest of their own accord. Legolas... What do your Elf eyes see? You knew that you knew his name, but where did you know it from?

They're taking...

Aw, damn. It was right on the tip of your brain. Lord Fabulous looked really familiar, too. He reminded you of Ronan the Accuser from Marvel. Why couldn't you remember? Was it a side-effect of being tossed to another reality? What else did you not remember...?

You sat there for hours, until one of the guards brought you some food. You picked at the meal, as a tune got stuck in your head that you couldn't quite place...

Home is behind...

The world ahead...

Here, the song fizzed out like a radio signal, then you got another bit of it...

All shall fade..

All shall...

...Fade...

~ominous time skip~

You, Blue-Eyes, and a team of Elvish warriors like the ones who'd helped you escape the dogs and orcs set out at dawn, which was way too early for someone used to getting up at noon most of the time. All the Elves showed off their glowy perfect selves by leaping gracefully to pebble to pebble like the regal shits they were, including Blue-Eyes.

Actually, scratch that. Blue-Eyes was the fucking king of being a show-off.

They moved fast, and you were surprisingly able to keep up with them. Not one of the Elves wanted to speak to you; they seemed to consider you an abomination.

You kinda seen what they were getting at, though. You were still in your bright white, blue, and black sci-fi Elf outfit from yesterday, complete with the latex ears and bright blue faux-hawk, which had become much less faux-hawk-y after sleep. You were covered in dried blood, dirt, and parts of your outfit were ripped. You'd tried to clean up as best as you could when you were woken up by using the water from the cup you'd been given to scrub your face and arms with the stunningly clean sheets on your cot.

In other words, you stuck out like a bright blue flower in a field of dark grass. You didn't know the way back to the river, so most of the Elves surrounded you discreetly while Blue-Eyes took the lead. Every one of them had a bow or sword or knife out and ready, so one wrong sniff and you were dead.

You traveled for about an hour before anyone spoke. It was Blue-Eyes, to your surprise. "Why is your hair blue?"

"Huh?" Of all possible questions, that one hadn't been expected. Though, that was kind of dumb of you, to just assume they wouldn't eventually wonder if everybody from your world had crazy hair colors.

"Your hair," Blue-Eyes specified, sounding condescending, like his hair was much better than yours because it was long and perfect and almost white. "Why is it blue?"

"Oh," You cleared your throat. "It's dye. My real color is [h/c]. Lots of people do it where I come from. You can dye it a natural color, or an unnatural color, like so. Some keep their natural color and just add streaks that aren't their natural colors. Some dye their full hair, like me, for the sole purpose of cosplay--uh, dressing up as made-up characters for events--and others dye it just for fun. Or to stand out, I guess. But I wouldn't advise it. It ruins your hair. I just don't care, though."

"Why would anyone want to do that?" One Elf asked in horror, then sneered at you. "I suppose those of your world simply do not appreciate the naturalities of the body."

You shrugged. You should see the LGTBQ+ community... But you didn't feel like explaining any of that to these people right now. Especially when they obviously looked down on stuff like that.

"And what character are you meant to be?" Blue-Eyes asked in a challenging tone.

You flushed. "... A sci-fi Elf."

"...Sci-Fi?" A different Elf asked. "What is that?"

"Science fiction," You specified. "Basically, I'm supposed to be an Elf from another planet. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Is that why you have pointed ears?" Blue-Eyes questioned, and you nodded.

"Yeah. They're latex-- a kind of rubber. Wait, do you even have rubber here?" You waved a hand. "Nevermind. They can come off pretty easily, though. Speaking of which, I'd better take them off before they cause damage..." You reached up to one of your ears, despite the looks the Elves gave you.

Blue-Eyes stopped for a minute, halting the whole group. He looked at you like you were crazy. "Whyever would you put something on your body that could cause damage?"

You blinked. "That is a very good question, Blue-Eyes, and one I don't exactly have an answer for. Almost everybody does it at some point." You felt for the flap of latex, but you couldn't find it. Hell, you couldn't even find the edge of the prosthetic. "Oh shit..." You breathed.

"What is it?" Legolas huffed, and turned around impatiently.

Your eyes widened; you couldn't let them think you were panicking, but, well, you were, and shortly after, you did. "I-I can't get it off."

Blue-Eyes's brow furrowed. "Will it cause permanent damage if they are not removed?"

"Maybe? Yes? My skin goes red and itchy and starts to swell up if I touch latex for too long, so, I'm gonna go with a definitely on this one. Just keep walking. I should have them off by the time we get to the river."

But you didn't. There was no flap, no edge of the latex. If it weren't for the fact that you did put latex ears on, you wouldn't have known you had latex ears on. A suspicion grew in your core, so you grabbed hold of the pointed tip, and pinched down with your nails hard and fast. "Ow!"

Every Elf turned to look at you as you pulled your hand away. Some blood was on the tips of your fingers. "Why, in the name of the Valar, would you hurt yourself?" Legolas sighed like a parent lecturing a child, but you were staring at your fingertips in shock. Valar...

"I'm an Elf..."

"I beg your pardon?" Apparently the mere thought of being the same race as you was too much for Blue-Eyes to handle. It was fucking offensive.

"I'm an Elf!" You shouted, and snatched your hand to your chest. "The ears won't come off! They bled and hurt when I pinched them! I'm a damn Elf! When I fell through that portal, I was a normal human! Now I'm an Elf! I don't know whether I should be freaking out or excited!"

Legolas rolled his eyes. "It won't be permanent. Obviously, here you're an Elf. There, you're not. When we get you through the portal, you'll be a human again."

"But..." I don't want to be human... Yet, you were also trying desperately to get back to your family, on pain of death and loss of cool fantasy land. If only you'd wake up to learn you were in some kind of damn coma...

You waved your hands. "Ok. Alright, fine. Is this where you found me?"

Legolas gestured to a particular rock. "The exact spot. Do you think you could find your way from here?"

You smirked; you'd always been good at knowing your way. "Please. I was born with an innate sense of direction. Now how the fuck do we get over this damn river?"

Legolas grinned. "You're an eldar now, aren't you? See if you can get across it yourself." Eldar... That had to mean an Elf of some sort, right?

You stared him down for a second, hands on your hips. He smirked cockily back, pure smugness on his expression. "Ok. Sure. What's life without risk?"

So you took a deep breath, and headed for the opposite bank.

You and your siblings had this special hiking trail in a park, and on this trail was a creek slash pond area. Several of them. You'd always cross the creek carefully, each step placed just so, and quietly, too, so that you could see the frogs-- it was a frog hunt without actually killing said frogs. The exercise gave you all good balance and a know-how for shit not that rock.

But this river was much different than the creek back home. It was clear, and clean, and strong as fuck, so one wrong move and you'd be whooshed away, with Blue-Eyes giving Lord Fabulous the excuse of "Oh they died in the river tragically oops..."

The rocks were unstable. The river swelled over them every so often to make them slippery. Your rubber boots were less than zero help. But you were an Elf now, right? So that had to make you unfairly agile. You took another deep inhale, then took what you hoped was a graceful leaping step, only for you to slip and nearly bust your ass. Elvish powers have to be learned. Noted.

When you finally got to the other side of the bank, you were stiff, and your heart was pounding. Behind you, the Elves sneered and jeered and all kinds of other "eers". You whipped around, and flipped them off. They looked somewhere between shocked, offended, and terrified. You realized they might not know the symbolism of it, and might think you were cursing them. When they reached you, Blue-Eyes was the first to demand what that was all about. "What was that all about?!"

You panicked under pressure. "U-uh... I-it's a minor insult where I come from. Very minor. We use it frequently as a joke among close friends. A friendly insult. Yeah. Sorry. Won't happen again." He totally didn't believe you. So you quickly changed the subject. "O-oh, uh, this way!"

Scenery seen at night was harder to recognize during the day, and vise versa, but you knew you hadn't gone too far up the river when you came across some massive paw prints and scrape marks from where you'd skidded down the bank. Another bonus clue was the scrap of bright blue fabric, from your skirt/tunic thing, hanging precariously from a branch.

It took you the better part of an hour to find the tree you'd woken up at. "Okay, this it it."

"Are you certain?" Blue-Eyes asked you.

"Wait." You laid down, and yep, everything was the same, except in daylight. Legolas frowned at you as you stood, probably ashamed to even breathe the same air as you. "Yeah, this is it."

Blue-Eyes ordered something in Elvish, jerking his head. The Elves immediately set about making camp. "So, in your world, you fell from the highest branches of an oak, yes?"

"Yep, breaking several things in the process."

"And you lost consciousness after you hit the forest floor?"

"Yep."

Legolas hummed and looked up into the canopy. "Then by all means... The portal should be where you laid."

You glanced down at your feet before bouncing up and down a little. "Nope. Nothing."

Legolas huffed. "You may have to try climbing this tree and falling into this spot."

A deranged laugh escaped your throat, which you quickly stifled. "I'm sorry, but are you crazy? What if I die? We don't have the same healing stuff as you guys unless you can pay for it up front, and I'm very poor. So is all of my family. We can't afford that shit. So if I die, what's the point in going back?"

Legolas glared at you. "I didn't mean from very high. Just high enough to hopefully send you through, but not high enough to kill you. Your healers will mend broken bones, will they not?"

You scoffed dejectedly. "Yeah, but for a pretty hefty bill..." You threw your hands up. "Whatever. I'll die anyway if I don't try. Might as well." With Legolas watching you carefully to make sure you didn't try to jump from tree to tree, you started to climb.

Was it really only yesterday that you'd been having a fun, standard LARPing day with your family and [F/N]? The real world seemed like fantasy, now. This felt real. This felt like where you should be. But if your family weren't here, you wouldn't be able to enjoy it. You'd always feel as if you abandoned them. You wondered, did time pass differently? Did it go faster there, and slower here? Or was it the other way around? Would you find the portal, and return to the real world to find your family long gone and the year a thousand into the future? Then you'd wish you'd never left this place. Or would you find not a moment had passed, and to them, it was still the terrifying moment of not knowing if you were dead or alive, to find you unharmed? Would you then be able to convince them to fall through, even on the chance that the portal could only be used a handful of times, and if it did work, would a millenia had passed here? Even Blue-Eyes would've aged by that point, however slightly.

Once you'd reached a suitable height, you braced yourself against the trunk. "How's this?"

Legolas nodded. "Fine. Jump when you're ready.”

You took a minute... Ah... Better get this over with. One does not simply... Damn, what was that meme? "Ok, ready when you are."

Legolas stepped back, and waited; you hesitated, then jumped, and you felt deja vu as you barreled toward the ground, landing flat on your back. The impact knocked the wind out of you, and you felt a painful snap in your right ribcage. You kept your eyes closed; you heard nothing aside from the birds in the trees. You hoped, then hoped some more, expecting at any moment to hear the frantic footfalls of your family rushing to help you...

"Well, I see I was entirely wrong on the matter," Blue-Eyes stated simply, and you frowned. Fuck...

"Ya think? I'm still seeing priss-ass Elves in a goddamn forest that isn't the one I fell in. Fuck you, Blue-Eyes, for having me break a rib for no good damned reason." You glared at him as you tried to sit up, barely making it halfway before Legolas helped you, albeit roughly.

"Watch your tongue," Blue-Eyes snapped. "If it were not for us, you would be dead."

You pursed your lips. "You're gonna kill me anyway just for breathing on your trees, so why didn't you just let me die?"

For a second, Legolas seemed to feel pity for you. "I am sorry. Truly, I am. Perhaps if we fail to locate your way home, I could convince my father to refrain from executing you."

You huffed, wincing as the action hurt your broken-on-some-level ribs. "Why? So I can live the rest of my suddenly immortal life in a dark cell, underground, just for existing? Hell no. I'd rather die."

"Perhaps you could have another use," Legolas offered, and you shook your head.

"Never in my life have I been considered useful." You eyed Blue-Eyes disdainfully. "Ever. By anybody. If you can find a place for somebody like me that doesn't involve imprisonment, fine. But I won't be able to live with myself if I can't find a way back to Earth. I need my family. They're all I ever had."

Legolas knelt beside you. "You... Seem to be very close with them. You love this..." He looked off into the trees, searching for the word. "...Life, so much, and have wished for it for so long, but you'd give it up, to be with them in a world that does not want you... You have a brave heart."

You took the compliment. "Thanks. Now let's find this damn portal, shall we? I've got a couple more ribs to bust."

Tag List: @tesserphantom​ @thedragonghostofmordor​

@taurlel​ @hauntedsiriel​

[writingfromkitchenator]

Faramir ~ Livin’ on a Prayer

800 Followers Challenge!

Bonus fic!

Based on  Livin’ on a Prayer by Bon Jovi

Words: 928

Warnings: Battle.  Swearing.

The very air you were breathing was tense but silent.  Occasionally there is a light shuffle, the soft patter of feet, but it would return to the silence quickly as everyone held their breath.

There were orcs approaching. It was just a matter of time now.

Faramir met your gaze, his sword in hand.  It was hard to tell in the low light, but you both knew that the other was afraid, that this could be the final moment depending on how many orcs were coming. You’d both fought off forces before, but the days growing darker, you both knew that it was only going to be a matter of time.

You nod at him, one he returns, and in the silence, it was the best affirmation the two of you could give to each other before the attack came, the action speaking more than whatever words that could be said.

There was the creak of a boat, the small splash of water, and then there was the unmistakable sound of iron glad feet hitting the shore as lightly as they could manage.

The attack had come.

All the soldiers held there breath, letting as many orc as they dared through before chaos erupted and the ambush was sprung.

Silence gave way to shouts and the quick, sharp clangs of metal on metal.  Screeches fill the air, men scream, and if you dared pay attention, there was the dull thuds as bodies hit the ground.

You and Faramir stayed close together, as you always did in battle, both of you feeling better with the other at your back, and as the noise continued, as the orcs seemed to continue to pour from the boats, it was clear that this fight was not going to be one you could win.

Faramir nods at you this time and soon you were calling the retreat, your voice ringing through the field, Faramir’s soon following.  It was desperate and dire, but unless you wanted to lose everyone, then there was little other choice.

The soldiers fled, Faramir helping you quickly to a horse before taking his own and you both spurred them into action.

A screech filled the air and the charge grew more desperate, survival turning to terror, it feeling like ice burning through your veins.  Some of the men, you and Faramir included, turned to fire at the beast above you, knowing it would do little, but still hoping you could do everything possible to try and protect the remaining men as claws dived through the fleeing soldiers.

White filled your vision momentarily, Faramir shouting something you could not make out, but as the air cleared, as the Nazgul screeched and turned away, a feeling of hope finally filled you, making out the wizard on his horse of white, his staff held high in the air, turning and leading the remaining soldiers back to the city gates.

There was much talk as all those left made it back, many trembling, many faces grim, and it’s as you climb from your horse, a relieved laugh on your lips contrasted against the exhausted look in your eyes.  “Sometimes you gotta say, ‘What the fuck?’.  You have impeccable timing Gandalf.”

Gandalf gives a small chuckle, even as Faramir shakes his head.  “You are most welcome Y/N, I’m glad that at least we have some willing leaders left.”

You smile, leaning against your horse, but then your smile falls as does Faramir’s as you both stare at Pippin sitting in front of Gandalf, a quick look shared between the two of you.

“What the fuck?”  You muttered under your breath, shaking it as Gandalf realises that the two of you have seen more than just the war at your doorstep.

“These are strange days indeed that the smallest amongst must carry the biggest of burdens.”  Faramir said quietly.  “I think we had best speak quietly Gandalf.”

Gandalf confirmed your fears as much as you and Faramir confirmed his, although it was clear it was a relief that Frodo and Sam were alive, it was enough to allow a little more hope as the dark clouds moved ever more closer to Gondor.

After all was said, rest was needed, Faramir watching you from the bedroom door as you stand on the balcony, overlooking the city, a worried set on your shoulders.

He approaches quietly and wraps his arms around you, nuzzling a little into your neck, making you sigh and hold his arms to you, your eyes closing, a different type of silence filling the room.

For now, it was peaceful, although the threat sat much closer than the horizon, it still couldn’t touch this space, not with the two of you, and although there was still much discussion to be had, both amongst Gandalf and Denethor, this was perhaps a final moment before the end of all things.

There could be much said on a night like this, but both of you believed that the time for words had already passed, content on the silence and the knowledge already there of the other and how they felt.

Faramir sighed and held you close, his own eyes closing as you stay there together, glad to be alive, to still be breathing and mostly unharmed.  Neither of you moved for a long time, tired and weary, breathing deeply and soon settling into bed for the night for one final nights sleep before the grips of war were tightly upon you and the lingering question of whether you would make it through all this to be answered.

[tolkienuntangled]

Tolkien Fun Fact #1 - Gandalf for the Win!

When Gandalf the White came to the Grey Havens, the Third Age came to an end. When he set sail with the rest of the ring-bearers, a new Age of peace and prosperity began. And when he revealed the Ring of Fire upon his finger, the epic tales that began with Sauron and Celebrimbor 4963 years earlier, came to an end. For over 2000 years, Gandalf had wandered the wilds and counselled the wise. Over seventeen years he had discovered the truth of the One Ring, and identified it in Hobbiton. And over the span of two months he had died, come back from the dead, and then orchestrated the greatest victory that Arda had ever known. The Downfall of Sauron and the return of the King was the ultimate win for the peoples of Middle Earth, not to mention the Ainur who adhered to Ilúvatar's vision. And Gandalf was the architect of the whole thing!

So to fully comprehend the magnitude of Gandalf's contribution, let's go back to the very beginning of his time in Middle Earth. In fact we'll go back even further. Because the entire reason that Gandalf (and the other four Istar) were sent to Middle Earth in the first place, is because of how bleak things were looking at the end of the First Millennium of the Third Age. So pretty much every bad thing that happened in the First Age, happened because an Ainur went rogue and tried to dominate the world. By the Second Age that was done with, but another Ainur (Sauron this time) also went rogue, and he also tried to dominate the world. So when he was defeated and the Third Age began, the last thing anyone needed was more interference from the Ainur. For a brief moment, it looked like things might work out on their own. But this did not happen.

Within two years of Sauron's defeat, Isildur was dead and the One Ring was lost. Less than a millennia after that, Isildur's Kingdom of Arnor had fallen due to infighting, and it was divided into three rival nations. Things weren't looking good. So the Valar of the West decided that they'd help out Middle Earth one final time. But luckily they'd learnt from their mistakes. When they helped out against the first rogue Ainur, they flooded an entire continent. When they refrained from helping out against the second rogue Ainur, Eru Ilúvatar broke the world and changed it to a round planet. Again this flooded an entire Island. So this time they were hoping to avoid an apocalyptic flood entirely. And that's why the Istar were not sent as warriors to lead armies, but simply sent as mentors and counsellors. They had one job; to guide the Free Peoples in their battle against Sauron.

Now this may not sound too challenging, but apparently, it was. The two Blue Wizards disappeared into the East, and to be fair, we don't know enough about their actions to condemn them for anything. But Tolkien tells us that they did "most likely" fail. Saruman on the other hand we can most certainly condemn. He turned into another rogue Ainur and (shock) he also tried to dominate the world. So Saruman failed spectacularly. And Radagast, bless him, he just seemed to lose interest in his task. He never fell into darkness, but it turns out that befriending birds and beasts isn't quite enough of a contribution to be considered a success. He "turned aside from his appointed mission" and Tolkien tells us that Radagast was "not proud and domineering, but neglectful and easygoing," and thus he too failed. So with a failure rate that's now reached four out of five, there was an awful lot of pressure on Gandalf to pull victory out of the bag. And he did.

But he didn't do so with power or with pride. Gandalf's secret weapon throughout his two thousand years in Middle Earth was wisdom, and a profound appreciation for humility. We'll see this humility a few more times before the end.

So after meeting Glorfindel and Círdan at the Grey Havens, and after being given Narya - the Ring of Fire, Gandalf travelled throughout the West, refusing to settle down unlike Radagast and Saruman. And in this time, Gandalf acquainted himself with all the Free Peoples. And we know this by the many names he soon came to wear. When he went to the Elves, Gandalf became Mithrandir. When he went to the Dwarves he became Tharkûn. And when he went to the Men of the South he became Incánus. And for many many years Gandalf travelled the wilds; watching and waiting.

But while Gandalf waited, Middle Earth seemed to get worse. The Nazgûl returned to torment the world, a new shadow lengthened in Dol Guldur, plagues and dragons ravaged the Free Peoples, and beneath the Misty Mountains, a balrog awoke.

Now Gandalf did take an active role in slowing the spread of this shadow, and the White Council was formed to uncover the secrets of the Necromancer. But this is where we see Gandalf's humility come to the forefront of his character. You see Galadriel suggested to the White Council that Gandalf should be their leader. But he refused. And this echoes a similar moment thousands of years before, where Manwë (the King of the Valar) also appointed Gandalf (who was known back then as Olórin) to be one of the Istar. And again Olórin (initially) refused. In fact it was this very humility which convinced Manwë that Olórin was indeed the perfect choice to join the Istar.

And Gandalf's humility, along with his appreciation for those who live humble lives, may explain the origin of his portentous friendship with the secretive race of Hobbits. It seems that Gandalf knew, either consciously or otherwise, that the modest race of Halflings would one day "move the wheels of the world." And while "the eyes of the great were elsewhere," Gandalf spent a great deal of time watching over the Shire.

Which brings us to Gandalf's nature as a guide as opposed to a leader. It's a subtle distinction, but throughout all the quests that Gandalf takes part in, he seems to have an innate knowledge of when he ought to guide, and when he ought to bow out, and let others lead the quest onwards. After all it isn't Gandalf who slays Smaug. It isn't Gandalf who reclaims Erebor. And it isn't Gandalf who rebuilds Dale. And yet if it weren't for his 'chance' meeting with Thorin, none of those things would have happened. Which would would mean that during the Northern sphere of the War of the Ring, Dale and Erebor would not have been there to repel the armies of Sauron. But they were. Thanks to Gandalf. Even though he was busy in the South at the time. And of course, none of those things are the most significant outcome of Gandalf's involvement in the Quest of Erebor. If not for his foresight in regards to Bilbo, the One Ring would not have been found beneath the Misty Mountains, and it would not have made its way into the hands of the Free Peoples.

So for the first 2017 years of his time in Middle Earth, Gandalf was the 'man behind the curtain', the wise watcher, and the one who put plans into motion, which moved the gears of resistance. For many years, he'd fostered a friendship with Aragorn, and quietly worked towards restoring him to the throne of the Dúnedain. And a few years later he'd taken Faramir son of Denethor as his pupil, and instructed him the ways of wisdom. In the coming years, both of these friendships would end up saving the world. But in his 2018th year, Gandalf was suddenly thrust into the spotlight. Because by the year 3018, the time of waiting and watching was over.

Now we all know about Gandalf's contribution throughout the Lord of the Rings, and I'm not going to tell that story here, but on the 25th of January in the year 3019, everything came crashing down. Gandalf died. He didn't fail in his task, but his body did fail against the balrog. And Gandalf passed away. Well at least for 20 days. Because of course, Eru Ilúvatar himself would not allow Gandalf to leave Middle Earth just yet.

Now after being reborn, Gandalf faced an epic race to the finish line. There were only 25 days between being reunited with the three hunters, and the final destruction of Sauron. But in those 25 days Gandalf turned the tide of war from disaster to absolute victory. The very next day after meeting Aragorn in Fangorn, Gandalf arrived in Edoras, where he roused King Théoden from his hopelessness. The day after that was the Battle of the Hornburg, and the following morning, Gandalf arrived with Erkenbrand and 1000 Rohirric reinforcements. And the next day would see Gandalf riding with Pippin to Minas Tirith, where he would oversee the defence of the last bastion of resistance against Sauron.

So on the 15th of March, everything came to a head. On the fields of Pelennor, the forces of Mordor were driven back, but far to the East, in both Mirkwood and Lothlorien, the Elves came under an attack of their own. And up in the north, the Kingdoms of Erebor and Dale were besieged. There were now only ten days left on the War of the Ring.

So this was the reality that Gandalf and the other Free Peoples faced on the day of the Last Debate. And during this debate, Gandalf was unanimously chosen by the three Lords of the West, Aragorn, Éomer, and Imrahil, to be their leader in the final battle. Now this is possibly the first time in his entire existence, that Gandalf graduated from being a guide to being a genuine leader. And in the last week of the War of the Ring, everything Gandalf had ever done would culminate, in one final battle.

Now I don't want to imply that Gandalf alone saved Middle Earth, we know that there were a huge number of other heroes who took the reins. But all of them have Gandalf somewhere in their genesis; guiding them towards their fated end. After all it was Gandalf's idea to march on the Black Gate and draw Sauron's armies away from Frodo. It was Gandalf who set Frodo off on his quest in the first place. It was Gandalf who insisted that Sam go with him. It was Gandalf who persuaded Bilbo to go on the adventure in which the ring was found. And it was Gandalf who taught both Bilbo and Frodo to treat Gollum with pity. All of these events had to play out in exactly the way they did for the ring to be destroyed, and yet they're all ripples in time, that were set in motion by Gandalf.

Even Aragorn, the titular King who so famously returned, owes much of his fate to Gandalf. And he may not even know the full extent of it. The reason that Aragorn takes the title King Elessar, is because the Elessar was an elf stone that was given to him by his love Arwen. But Arwen was given the Elessar by her grandmother Galadriel. And who gave the stone to Galadriel? Who else but Gandalf? 2000 years before Aragorn was even born, Gandalf prophesied to Galadriel that she would one day pass the stone to a Man, and because of it, he would take up the name Elessar.

So let's now skip forward again to the Grey Havens, and to Gandalf's departure from Middle Earth. Alongside the rest of the ring-bearers (and Shadowfax) Gandalf passed into the West, leaving the East in its most peaceful and prosperous state ever. Now this is where the story ends, and so Gandalf's fate beyond this moment is a mystery. Yet I find it truly heartwarming to imagine Gandalf's reception when he arrived back in the West. 2022 years ago, he'd been sent across the sea to dwell in a land of war and darkness. All four of his fellow Istar failed. Over the centuries the power of Mordor only grew. The Kingdoms of Men were gripped by despair. But Gandalf succeeded in his mission. He did what he sent to do. And 2022 years later, the darkness was vanquished, and a new King had returned.

I feel like the victory of the Free Peoples over Sauron was like a complex machine. Thousands of cogs and wheels and turn at the exact right time and in the exact right way for victory to be achieved. And yet the spark that set the machine in motion was Gandalf. Imagine how great he must have felt to return to Valinor. To throw off the body of Gandalf and to return to his angelic form as Olórin. There is perhaps no one in the entire history of Arda, who did a better job than him. The victory of the West was his victory. Gandalf pulled off the ultimate win!

So, thank you all for reading. Over the course of this year’s lockdown I’ve been working on a series of Tolkien themed YouTube videos called Tolkien Untangled.  So far I've uploaded 10 episodes explaining the beginning of the Simarillion, the Beginning of Days, and the tale of Fëanor and the Silmarils. I’ve also released four episodes about the differences between the Lord of the Rings books and movies, and I’m currently releasing a weekly series of Tolkien lore videos. So check out Tolkien Untangled on YouTube if you'd like to learn more. 

Thanks again everyone. Much love and stay groovy ❤️

[infracti-angelus]

Pale Fire, Chpt 2

PALE FIRE, a Lord of the Rings fanfiction

Pairing:  Éomer and Lothíriel

Summary: Lothíriel wasn’t unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-one years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime. But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was entirely different. And it infuriated her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot. No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame.  She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight’s dinner.

Rating: M

Click here for chapter 1

Chapter 2: The Report

The journey took seemingly forever to Lothíriel and likely the rest of the ship’s crew. Maren insisted on traveling with them, which put her in a perpetually foul mood. She suffered from aearlhîw whilst they sailed along the coast of Belfalas until they cleared the Mouth of Anduin. Betwixt bouts hanging o’er the side of the ship, she berated the cook, bossed around the boatswains, and interrogated the sailing master. Perhaps the only ones unscathed were the captain, first mate, and Dol Amroth’s harpists who travelled with them to perform at the coronation (they were safe because they rarely left the cabin they shared, insisting on practicing). Because Maren was incapacitated for the first leg of the journey, it fell to Lothíriel to dissemble the droves of rejected garments she owned and glean whatever usable trimmings she could, placing them in empty baskets for Maren to examine when she was able. Truthfully, Lothíriel wasn’t much more pleasant to be around than Maren. She found herself rather snippy with everyone, undoubtedly due to being confined to a corset from every sunrise to dusk. The first time Maren had laced Lothíriel in, she had needed to brace her knee at the base of Lothíriel’s spine to get the appropriate leverage. Maren had to tighten it twice that day before Lothíriel could button up one of her mother’s gowns. Lothíriel had decided then that she abhorred corsets and understood why they had gone out of style. They were impractical for breathing. Maren, however, was satisfied, because by the fourth day Lothíriel was able to keep it on without reprieve as long as she remained immobile. By the fifth day, Lothíriel was able to complete simple tasks, such as utilizing the chamber pot unassisted or take a turn about the cabin.

By the end of the first week, Lothíriel believed she finally acclimated to wearing a corset, though she wasn’t quite sure how she’d ever accomplish dancing in one. Perhaps she could avoid dancing altogether? Somehow she doubted it. In the meantime, Lothíriel busied herself with embellishing her mother’s dresses. They had passed through the Mouth of Anduin and were no longer on the sea but rowing up the river. Maren’s countenance improved greatly and she was able to assist Lothíriel. On one gown deemed too plain, Maren embroidered elaborate swirling designs in silver thread reminiscent of the sea surf around the cuffs, collar, and hem. On a dove grey dress, Lothíriel stitched mother of pearl on the skirt. Once Lothíriel was exhausted from her constricted lungs and pricking her fingers, she would retreat to the deck and gaze at the lands.

The entourage was small, with only two ships sailing along the river. Lothíriel and Maren occupied the larger of the two which housed the greater number of Swan-Knights. The larger ship was part of the Royal Armada. Its large white sails were massive when unfurled and the figure head at the bow shaped like a swan’s head. The outside of the ship had detailed carvings in the white wood, made to mimic the feathers of a swan’s wings. The other ship of the party was from Dol Amroth’s fleet. Its smaller size allowed it to sail faster and be maneuvered in tighter places more easily. The remainder of the ships stayed in Dol Amroth to protect the coast there from Corsairs of Umbar. Lothíriel was unworried, for as per her father’s letter, ships bearing Swan-Knights would be stationed periodically along the river to join them and ensure their safety. The first of her father’s ships, Aerthûl, was the first to join them as they approached Pelargir. The setting sun cast hues of rose gold on the stark white sails. But it wasn’t until they passed through South Ithilien and reached Emyn Arnen that Lothíriel became excited. A giggle rippled through her as the Lancrista, came into view. Oh, how she had teased Amrothos for the naming of his first ship! As they rowed closer, she could see him walking excitedly on deck, waving to her and barking orders. They came to dock at shore and in no time Amrothos had departed his ship and boarded her own.

“Lothy!” He yelled, scrambling up the ladder thrown off the side. His grin was infectious and wide as she threw herself into his open arms, squeezing him fiercely. “Great Ulu, what a welcome sight you are! I’ve missed you! How do you fair? Are you eating enough? You look too skinny!  Is that Naneth’s dress? How ever did you fit into that? Have you been eating enough? We expected you two days ago! What took you so long?”

Lothíriel couldn’t help the good natured teasing and chided him as she released him. “Amrothos, I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again: I can’t answer every question when you throw them at me all at once!”

Amrothos had the decency to look properly chastised but continued grinning. “Tell me you’re your journey was uninterrupted by any hazards. We expected you two days ago.”

“That is due to Maren,” Lothíriel explained. “She demanded a day on the shore to dye cloth. Do not be cross with the Captain for postponing our progress. She was a tempest personified!”

He looked quizzical. “Maren came along? And why would you need to dye cloth? Haven’t you plenty to wear?”

Lothíriel’s eyes dropped. “There is much changed since you were last home.”

Amrothos frowned. “Tell me all.”

“Well…trade has all but ceased due to heightened traffic by the Corsairs. Goods we once considered essential are now regarded as frivolous.  Cloth is limited to what we have and our grain stores have been depleted.” Lothíriel’s further account was interrupted by Maren’s footsteps approaching them. Amrothos immediately stood up straighter as she approached.

“After all I’ve done for you and yours, you did not yet greet me, boy.” Maren croaked, wagging a finger at Amrothos.

Amrothos grinned. “I didn’t know an old cantankerous governess would be here.”

Maren’s eyes narrowed and she reached up and firmly swatted the back of his head. “I’m not old.”

If it was possible, Amrothos’ grin widened. “You told me you vowed to never step on a boat again after transporting Naneth to Ada.”

“Aye, and you once swore that you would wed me when you were old enough.”

Amrothos guffawed, motioning them to follow him below deck to continue the conversation in private. They settled themselves in Lothíriel’s cabin and Amrothos urged Lothíriel to finish her report on Dol Amroth.

“I’ve had to access the emergency victuals,” Lothíriel, grimacing as Maren dropped lace into her hands that needed mending. “Rícah has been doing her best to make due. She’s been baking cram with what remains. I hand out rations of it to the town every few days.” Maren made a disapproving noise, but didn’t press the matter and Lothíriel began the painstaking task of tatting. “Dol Amroth is living on what we can produce ourselves. The townspeople survive off mollusks, but are too frightened to venture outside of the shallows.” Lothíriel sighed. “Some of them have gone too far from the shore and didn’t return. I now instruct some of our Swan-Knights to fish every day, though I’m sure they’re not pleased with me for the directive. We’re fortunate we have a ready supply of meat and salt from the ocean. I’ve gotten very skilled with herbs in the kitchen. You wouldn’t believe the difference it makes when you’ve eaten fish every day for every meal.”

“And are you eating every meal?” Amrothos inquired. “Because I’m certain that was Naneth’s dress, and she was built like an eel.”

“Doesn’t she look splendid?” Maren interjected.

“Yes, I’ve been eating,” Lothíriel glared at Maren. “But as I stated, all of my dresses are sensible. I’ve been wearing them while weeding the gardens or cooking in the kitchen. I don’t own anything extravagant fit for court--”

“Absolutely nothing fit for a princess!” Maren bemoaned.

“—and Maren found some of Naneth’s dresses that we could alter for me. Included in the chest was a corset, which is—”

“This is highly inappropriate discourse, young lady!”

“—laced so tightly I can barely breathe in attempt to stuff me inside this gown,” Lothíriel finished.

Amrothos chuckled at Maren’s distress, prompting her to swat at him again.

“And what of you, brother? Are father and the rest well?”

               Amrothos assured Lothíriel that he, her brothers, and Ada were well. His countenance visibly fell when he delivered the news that their Uncle Denethor and cousin Boromir had passed. “Faramir is on the mend. He took a critical blow while defending Minas Tirith. Ada was able to rescue him. Of course, this was before I got there, or else I would have done it myself. He seems shaken, and I dare say he is still critically wounded by Boromir’s death.”

               Lothíriel sighed, wiping tears that were gathering at the corner of her eyes. “What ill news. I had hoped to show Boromir that I can bake bread now. It is leagues better than the last time I had baked for him, though it is not to the quality of Rícah’s. Faramir must be desolate.”

               “When I departed, he had been quite preoccupied.”

Amrothos explained what had happened at the Battle of Minas Tirith. He told them of how the White Lady of Rohan had surreptitiously joined her kinsmen and had slain the Witch King of Angmar, but not before receiving a devastating blow. He described how she had been healed by their new King, who was a mighty warrior, noble and just, blessed with a healing hand, and had “nigh taken her from the very grips of blackness and horror.” (The King Elessar also had a quiet sense of humor and was “tall as the sea-kings of old”).

“While recovering, the White Lady met our own dear Faramir,” and the amount of brow wiggling and winking caused Maren to swat him again.

“In all seriousness, I am indeed pleased for Faramir. He deserves every happiness,” Lothíriel pressed, “and he has not had any for a time.”

“Aye, not since your Aunt Finduilas died,” Maren supplied.

“I am pleased as well,” Amrothos insisted. “And Faramir could not pick any more fortuitous than the White Lady. She is sister-kin to the King of Rohan.”

“Îdh has smiled upon him,” Maren said, warmly.

“I thought the King of Rohan was older,” Lothíriel mused.

“Théoden King was their uncle. The White Lady slew the Witch-King to save him, though she was too late.”

“Oh.”

Amrothos entertained Lothíriel the remainder of the time with stories.  Erchirion had apparently thrown a fit when Amrothos was chosen to meet her instead, but he had been tasked with mollifying many of the nobleman who were left reeling after the passing of their uncle, the Steward of Gondor, and the coming of King Elessar. The new King of Rohan was already displeased with Elphir, who had recommended a prompt betrothal and marriage to secure the royal line. Elphir had been unexpectedly backed by numerous advisors of Rohan, which had incensed the king. The king had, evidently, roared at Elphir to focus on getting his own wife before hassling him. Elphir had smugly introduced the king to Rosilith who, since Elphir had parted from Dol Amroth a few years ago, had been working in the Houses of Healing and their son, Alphros. Amrothos described the king’s following outburst with glee, managing to censor the tirade at the last moment when he noticed Maren was listening.

All in all, the last leg of the journey was pleasant with Amrothos in tow. Once they arrived in Osgiliath, an escort met them with horses and wagons to guide them to Minas Tirith. They had managed to make it a day and a half before the coronation (“So soon!” cried Maren, though she was to blame for the delay). After a rather joyous reunion between her father and brothers, Maren insisted there was still much to do before Lothíriel could be considered presentable (Lothíriel had a feeling this was because the day previous, Maren had noticed freckles on her face).

And so it came to be the morning of the coronation.

Sindarin Language Guide:

aearlhîw = aear - sea + lhîw -sickness 

No such thing as a word for seasick, so I combined them

Aerthûl = aear - sea + thûl -breath

Lancrist = lanc - throat + crista - (v.) to cut; 

Something I would assume a young boy would think sound edgy (ie. what your first email address sounded like, I’m sure)

Ulu - The Sindarin equivalent of Ulmo; Ulmo, also known as King of the Sea, Lord of Waters, and Dweller of the Deep, cared about Arda and the Children of Eru. It was said his spirit was in the very viens of the world, and through them he kept in touch with the Children of Eru and saw every grief and need, and thus knew more of the goings on with them than even Manwë. Even while the Valar were secluded in Valinor or when the Children were under the wrath of his brethren, Ulmo, alone of the Valar, was the one who never forsook them.

Naneth - mother

Ada - father

cram - cake of compressed flour or meal (often containing honey and milk)

Îdh -The Sindarin equivalent of Estë; One of the seven queens of the Valar (The Valier), Estë had the power to heal all hurts and weariness.

Click here for chapter 3

[anghraine]

Consolidating (...at considerable length) some of the ideas from the Denethor+Faramir vs most Silm Elves discussion:

A. The basic issue is this: Tolkien depicts or references Denethor’s and Faramir’s special Númenórean abilities (non-exhaustively listed here and discussed here) virtually every time either one of them appears. And some of these abilities seem like they would have been awfully useful to the Elves of the Silmarillion, but for some reason, weren’t actually used by them.

The most notable has to do with lies and deception. Gandalf says it is difficult to deceive Denethor and “dangerous” to try—a statement backed up by Faramir’s interactions with Gollum in TTT, when Gollum squealed in pain when he tried to lie to Faramir, and was unable to wholly prevent Faramir from seeing information “in his mind.” It is clear in the Silm, however, that a good number of Elves can be deceived without setting off similar abilities, with a few exceptions like Galadriel.

So I’ve been wondering why that is, based mostly on LOTR.

B. There is, of course, the potential meta-reason that some of these specific abilities would probably break the plot of the Silmarillion, which is packed full of Elves, while nearly full-throttle Númenóreans like Faramir and Denethor are quite rare in LOTR, only show up infrequently apart from Aragorn, and are thus much less disruptive to the narrative as a whole. But that doesn’t explain anything in-story.

Various ideas came up in the general discussion, but I think they can be roughly divided into two types:

1. Most Elves don’t use these abilities because they choose not to, or

2. Most Elves don’t use these abilities because they don’t have them.

Under #1, it’s possible that Elves prefer not to use these kinds of powers for their own Elvish reasons. It may be that many of them simply don’t care for intrusive telepathy and similar abilities. It may be that there are taboos and protocols around it that fade by the Third Age, especially the later Third Age, but are very much in effect earlier on.

But the underlying assumption here is that they could have used the same abilities if they had chosen to do so, but are not (by and large). One of the questions that arises here is if all abilities of this kind have to be deliberately ‘activated’ to work, or if they naturally just happen and will only stop if controlled or repressed. If it’s the latter case and there are actual methods of control, it may be that Denethor and Faramir never fully turn off their abilities because they don’t know how. Who was going to tell them?

The Faramir-Gollum scenes might support this. Faramir is certainly trying to extract information from Gollum, but it doesn’t seem at all probable that he would deliberately inflict pain on him. It’s possible that some of this is just part of his being as far as he knows. 

Meanwhile, there are also several possibilities involving #2. I think this one is, on the face of it, more difficult to accept (not-quite-full Númenóreans with greater powers than many Elves? bzuh?). But there are probably some ways it could work.

The first is relatively simple. It’s clear that Elves (like Númenóreans!) have different ranges and clusters of ability. An Elf being very powerful doesn’t mean they can do ALL THE THINGS. It means they’re very powerful at the things that they do (which might be many!). And there are some abilities that are very widespread, and some that seem to be less so. It may be that deception detection in particular is something that’s fairly uncommon among Elves as a strong ability. It’s not 100% assured that any given Elf has all the abilities of any given Númenórean.

The second possibility is a little more complicated. LOTR and Middle-earth generally (but esp LOTR) don’t operate on a hard magic system with clearly-defined rules. Galadriel points this out, and that the hobbits aren’t really distinguishing Elvish “magic” from Sauron’s “magic,” but they are in reality very different things. Elvish abilities are byproducts of their inner selves. Even outside of LOTR, Fëanor’s abilities (for instance) are inextricably tied up with his fiery spirit. The link between spirit or will or disposition and outwards ability is much stronger with Elves than with the other peoples of Middle-earth. 

So it would still be the case that Elves aren’t doing some of these because they can’t—but it wouldn’t be a matter of power or arbitrary talent, but because of their underlying characteristics. It may be that things like what we see Denethor and Faramir doing require a temperament that most Elves don’t have (but Galadriel does, lol). 

In that case, I would then wonder if Denethor’s and Faramir’s abilities are outgrowths of their dispositions. Their abilities seem to revolve around gathering information and commanding others; they’re described as “commanding” and they love information, so it makes sense that that’s how their abilities would manifest. Then again, it may be that Númenórean powers, though similar to some Elvish ones in outcome, operate differently.

Tolkien comes up with several ideas for where Númenórean specialness comes from in general. In some places, it was Númenor itself that changed them, and their decay in Middle-earth comes mainly from the loss of Númenor. In some places, their gifts have to do with their mode of living and thinking. In some places, it seems to be entirely hereditary; things run in particular families (like the kingly healing of Elendil’s heirs) and are reinforced by ~pure blood (um). And sometimes it seems like their gifts are, at least in part, literal gifts from the Valar which are gradually being withdrawn by the end of the Third Age. Or some combination thereof.

Regardless, the ancestors of the Dúnedain did not come by their abilities naturally. Either directly or indirectly, their size, their lifespans, their craftsmanship, their mental abilities, and more were given to them by other powers. Perhaps Elvish powers were the template for Númenórean powers, but it doesn’t work the same because Númenórean powers are ultimately coming from a divine source. That might even be why Denethor and Faramir are associated with wizards (i.e. Maiar) much more than Elves, which is pretty astonishing on the face of it. I mean:

“Ah well, sir,” said Sam, “you [Faramir] said my master had an elvish air; and that was good and true. But I can say this: you have an air too, sir, that reminds me of, of—well, Gandalf, of wizards.”

He [Denethor] turned his dark eyes on Gandalf, and now Pippin saw a likeness between the two, and he felt the strain between them, almost as if he saw a line of smouldering fire drawn from eye to eye.

???????????????????????????

The first quote is particularly interesting because it contrasts Faramir’s wizardliness with Frodo’s elvishness, as if those things are not quite the same, though Faramir is also briefly associated with Elves later on.

There’s also the issue of Elros; it seems extremely probable that most Númenóreans are descended from Elros at this point (in fact, multiple times over). The Stewards are explicitly so in multiple drafts of the Appendices. While it’s so remote that it wouldn’t make a difference in most cases, maybe part of what goes on with Númenóreans is that some of them inherit a fraction of Elros’s abilities, which ultimately derive from Elves, Edain, and a Maia. Maybe all these Númenórean-??wizardly??? types cropping up in time to fight Sauron is a sort of last hurrah for Melian’s blood among the Dúnedain, and what we see in Denethor and Faramir is the share they got. 

Or not!

Anyway, this is a lot, and it’s not like the possibilities are even mutually exclusive, so maybe two or more are all operating at once, to make things even more complicated. Or maybe something altogether different is. But I think this is everything that’s come up so far wrt the (inverted?) disparity between Númenóreans and most Elves. 

[cerberussyndrome]

every mangled promise (stitching up the seams)

summary: shoutout to the time i made an Inception/LOTR fusion. bc apparently I’m like this. There’s not a proper storyline here, but there is prose. note: in order to make the timeline look anywhere near plausible, i've fucked with everyone's ages (relative and otherwise). i'm not sorry.

cw: canonical character death (LOTR), canon-typical violence (Inception), canon-typical mind-fuckery (Inception)

aragorn is a forger/extractor

arwen is a chemist

legolas runs point

boromir is an architect (by dint of backstory: former extractor, former point)

gimli is an extractor/jack of all trades type with a lot of background knowledge about chemistry and hangups about every actually working as a chemist

the hobbits are all tourists/new to the business to some degree or another; frodo can build like no one's business and merry and pippin are surprisingly capable of changing the dreamscape and/or killing projections. sam once decapitated a projection with like a sandwich sign and no one's let him live it down since.

does this make gandalf the mark??

*

the hurins were a pseudo-dynastic family within dreamshare, with denethor and ecthelion being instrumental in the development of the pasiv in its early days as a military project. denethor's sons were also the stars of the program, afforded the opportunity via some degree of nepotism and their own talents. as skilled architects and extractors, boromir and faramir came into their own in the dreamscape. they built monoliths, cathedrals, soaring and grand and hard-ruled (the brothers are both inflexible). faramir liked nature scenes, castles of old in their prime; boromir preferred cities, modern skyscrapers and sleek impossible shapes.

denethor woke up from a dream and thought it wasn't a dream, that reality was the dream, that nothing was real, and tried to burn his way out. he set the family house on fire; faramir escaped through a window. boromir hadn't come home the night before.

faramir doesn't go under anymore. boromir does, sometimes, never for jobs, and his dreams always smell like smoke.

*

when gimli was still a teenager and his father didn't want him to associate with dreamshare, thorin durinson and the blue mountain research lab wanted to explore limbo. thorin was a chemist, and a skilled one, on top of being an extractor. he wanted to experiment with time and depth and space, wanted to consider the possibilities of using dreamshare for tourism, or therapy, or escapist fantasy. (thorin had a recurring non-somnacin dream for many years of his hometown, burned and buried beneath magma and rubble, and this might've had something to do with it.)

there was one particular experiment that went -- badly. most of the participants woke up eventually. thorin and his nephews never did.

gandalf would say, they delved too deep.

to which gloin would scowl, and snap, and who wanted them to go deeper? who cheered them on when they did?

when gimli was a young man and still wary of dreamshare after watching what it'd done to his father and his father's friends, balin reassembled the remains of the lab and tried to rescue them from limbo. balin and oin didn't return. ori came back wide-eyed, manic, talking endlessly of time, so much time, he didn't know it would be so much time.

years and years later gimli came to dreamshare. it's in the blood, he would say. i just couldn't stay away.

*

bilbo told his nephew about dreamshare as a bedtime story. dreams within dreams. frodo thought it was all -- not lying per se, but one of bilbo's gently self-serving manipulations of reality. perhaps it served his uncle better to tell the story this way, rather than admitting aloud that of the thirteen researchers he used to know, a solid half of them were dead.

now there was the job and frodo half-understood what his uncle always said about dreams, how they were addicting, how they could own you, how they wrapped you in gauzed layers of incandescent irreality and offered to let you stay.

he thinks he could love dreaming. he looks at the faded family photograph in gimli's wallet, smells the smoke in boromir's dreams, the shuttering flicker of aragorn's face when someone said the name of a recent forge. he thinks he doesn't want to love it.

*

aragorn had gone through three sets of pronouns and half a dozen names by the time that he came to stripping off his skin in somnacin-aided dreams, all of them comfortable until they weren't. forging was something else altogether, forging was swapping out his life for someone else's. he thought he'd never loved anything until he loved dreaming. then he met arwen at a conference somewhere in south america and thought, oh but i have never loved anyone like i've loved you.

years later there was boromir and his ash-stained dreams and aragorn's compulsion to check his reflection in every available surface because what color were his eyes, what texture was his hair? he wanted to be firmly rooted in reality, wanted to have arwen's certainty or even boromir's hard-won self-awareness. sometimes he wanted to pull a thorin and go too many levels down, have a lifetime with the people he loved unimpeded by mortality or loss. arwen would never. boromir would shoot him for even asking the question.

still he thinks about it.

*

i want to say legolas is a good point, and i think he legitimately is, he's just absurdly silly and eccentric. and it clashes so heavily with the ideal image of a point. it's great.

I’m sorry I don’t have any prose for you, I just have no gd idea how to write him

*

other things:

- no one can tell what arrangement boromir-aragorn-arwen are in. triad? v-shape? ambiguous emotional polyamory? people are generally pretty certain that arwen and aragorn are dating but then boromir will kiss arwen's wrist?? aragorn will put in boromir's IV even though boromir's been doing this longer than him?? they troll everyone, more unintentionally than not, and love it.

- there’s definitely a pseudo-Mal scene in which Boromir and Frodo go under together and when they wake up Boromir smiles warmly, says, “See you topside,” and shoots Frodo in the stomach.

*

I’ve written one more scene for this ‘verse and it’s this:

Boromir leans against the railing next to her, his lit cigarette a beacon of light in the cloudy midafternoon. The rain is coming down, the balcony’s overhang shielding them from harm.

The dream is acrid, burning, under your tongue and in your mouth. Arwen is used to it, almost, after a hundred times of entering Boromir’s dreams. It no longer makes her outright nauseous, though she probably wouldn’t say so if she had to step into a building, had to smell it congealing in the rafters, had to breathe it deep in her lungs.

Arwen exhales.

Boromir glances at her, inquiring.

She arches an eyebrow. “Did you drink a bottle of water before coming in or something?”

His laugh rumbles deep in his throat, hands cupping his cigarette. “Maybe it just suits the scenery.”

She hums. Boromir has dreamed them into a beautiful anonymous city, details indistinct as watercolors through smudged glass. It smells like petrichor and moss and damp, and none of it manages to drown out the burning.

Boromir’s dreams always smell like smoke.

When she was younger and she and Aragorn were newer to each other, she always watched the shutter-flicker of his changes in the dream. Forging was easy to Aragorn, or easier than it was for most people, the gap between bodies so effortlessly bridged that Arwen always waited for a misstep. She was a chemist. She recited formulas like they were lullabies. Aragorn’s process was opaque, and his safety measures — if he even took any to begin with, which was uncertain — were invisible.

She watches Boromir, nowadays. In the years and years that Aragorn has been in her line of sight and sphere of influence, he’s never slipped. Boromir is new to her in the flesh and even in the dream, though of course everyone’s heard his story. Prince of dreamshare, with all its pedigree and privileges. Not anymore. Or — not quite. Boromir builds cityscapes with a deft touch, but he doesn’t dream.

Except with Aragorn. Except with her.

He offers her the cigarette, smiling when she leans over to put her mouth on it rather than take it from his fingers.

Arwen pulls off and exhales a perfect haloed ring into the air. “Filthy habit,” she says mildly, like she’s not licking the taste of tobacco from her teeth.

“Good thing I only indulge when I’m sleeping.”

“Just don’t expect me to kiss you.”

He glances sideways at her, bottom lip between his teeth. “Like you won’t be able to taste it when you’re kissing Aragorn.”

“Second-secondhand doesn’t count.”

“Sure.”

He grins. She leans in and takes another puff, savoring the burn. Not like it isn’t obvious why Boromir smokes in dreams. She might fake disapproval but she’s not going to tell him to stop.

Footsteps from deeper in the building. Aragorn.

“About time.”

Boromir only smiles.

The door to the balcony slides open.

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Ok. So. I didn't say there weren't good things in the writing, I acknowledged there were. You, in turn, are telling me there are no stupid writing decisions in these movies, which is disingenuous at best. I'm sure Gimli and Legolas having a drinking contest is high quality, tight writing too, as is Eowyn haha botching a stew because rich woman doesn't know how to cook, haha or Denethor's sprint on fire through the city and jumping to his death are all examples or great characterization and elevated writing. Sure they are. "Salted pork!" is a line that has absolutely changed my life. I mean, clearly, if those weren't all examples in masterclass writing, the actors couldn't have possibly lessened the deficiencies. "Arwen's life is tied to the fate of the ring" would sound much more ridiculous if it wasn't Hugo Weaving saying it.

Moving Shelob to RotK is really not that good a solution, considering it severely compresses RotK as a story and aggravates the 176698 endings problem PLUS cuts things that are key to the themes of the novel. Sure, I can see how difficult it would be to include The Scouring of the Shire (not necessarily impossible: after all they did film it, and foreshadowed it in FotR with the mirror of Galadriel)... but they also cut Aragorn's kinship being recognized in his having the hands of a healer. Which is also not only thematically important, but a conflict that is set up as early as FotR in the movies (Saruman points out, reasonably, that Aragorn having a ring doesn't really give that much weight to his claim to the throne of Gondor) and then just... dropped. Aragorn is made king because he's made king don't ask more questions about that plot line we very much did set up.

The enlargement of TTT, which is already shorter than FotR the novel, introduces a bunch of unnecessary stuff meant to ramp up tension (because PJ loves unnecessarily ramp up tension, and that is one of the main problems that becomes super transparent in The Hobbit movies), that sometimes drags and sometimes makes no sense. The Warg attack, with Aragorn's fakeout death is a good example of a waste of time. It has no bearing to the plot of the story at all. It is self contained, and anyone knowing that the third book is titled THE RETURN OF THE KING knows Aragorn is not dead.

The Ents refusing to go to war and all that back and forth with Merry and Pippin is also useless, and a poor film decision when you consider the slow talk of Ents does not help the pacing of your movie. People argue it provides character development for Merry and Pippin, but in pretty much every other thing the movies had already decided they are the idiot pair of twins, and they remain virtually indistinguishable till the end, character wise.

Aragorn and Gandalf advising Theoden to go face Saruman on open field is one of the stupidest things I have seen in film strategy, comparable to the S8 GoT people forming to fight outside a fortress instead of inside it.

Faramir, Theoden, Denethor, even Eomer, all get nerfed and turned into cowards, idiots, incompetents, and madmen because the script cannot trust the audience with the idea that Aragorn isn't the only capable human around who can be a good leader. That's not masterclass writing, that's just lazy cliche writing.

And even then, when the movies are taking such pains to put Aragorn front and center, they don't know what to do with his character arc past FotR, so they just repeat the same arc twice. "oh, no, I'm afraid to be king because the blood in my veins is tainted!" "oh, okay, this experience in the middle of the story tries to tell me perhaps I can" "oh, I see it now, this is not about what I want, but about the duty that has befallen me, and I will try!". It's a nice little arc for FotR and one that I liked. By the time we were going through the same shit on RotK it just made me groan.

The whole detour to Osgiliath also offers nothing in terms of plot and barely anything to character, except a completely jarring 180 for Faramir's characterization between TTT and RotK. Some will say it offers us Sam's wisdom speech, but that is undercut by his characterization elsewhere as a not very bright hobbit (paradigmatically, his "realizing he had not eaten the lembas he already knew he hadn't eaten" in Rotk. Another great example of the thorough masterclass writing for these movies).

And then some would say "well, but you need to be able to tell apart Frodo from Sam!" and I say that would have been much easier, IDK, if Sam was actually a decade younger than Frodo. The choice to make them all look in their early twenties, with a Sam older than Frodo is one understandable in terms of easy marketability because people expect fantasy protagonists to be young adults, but not what I would call masterclass writing. It creates problems the scripts manage somehow with Frodo and Sam (although it is responsible for the whole Sam is the only actual real hero and Frodo is a weak good for nothing thing in general perception of the story) and drops the ball with Merry and Pippin that way (as I said, they become indistinguishable, other than one is with Theoden and one is with Denethor).

Making Gimli, the only representative of dwarves in the movies a walking gross, unbelievably stupid character is not masterclass writing. In general these movies wouldn't need that much comic relief if PJ didn't feel the constant need of amping up the drama and the tension.

Eowyn is a character who is given a lot of attention in TTT, whose internal conflict is set up attentively and then dropped once the Witch King is killed. "oh, look, she's fine, she's just fine, she probably just married the guy who almost doomed us all for his daddy issues". That's not masterclass writing.

Filming the whole unseen-in-the-books scene of the pass of the dead is also a baffling decision because it breaks the tension the plotline needs to have at worst, and at best it's just adds nothing to the plot or even to character.

Note: the Smeagol-Deagol scene is told by Gandalf to Frodo in FotR. It's not made whole cloth by the script of Rotk.

These are some of the weaknesses. There are more, I'm just not being exhaustive.

The core of what I'm trying to say is this:

If you mentally overlay some of these examples I have pointed out over the Bakshi movie and the Rankin-Bass RotK, they will look much more dumb and would be relentessly criticized as ways in which those adaptations are bad. The weight the non-writing aspects of the trilogy carry to give these movies the legend status they have is massive.

Every once in a while I think about how the love and iconic status the PJ LotR movies receive has so little to do with its value as an adaptation. People love it for the music, the visuals, the love and care put into costumes and props, the enthusiasm and talent of the cast and how they contributed to enrich the production... but you don't really hear people talking about how good the writing or the editing is. About 95% of all modifications, cuts, and additions done to the source material are not good (I'd argue that the writing of Boromir, specially in FotR is good... the addition of some of the Arwen and Aragorn plot... Mmmm... Sam's speech in Osgiliath? yeah, I think that's it); Denethor the cartoon villain? Legolas the OP? Gilmli the gross comic relief baffoon? Daddy issues Faramir? Frodo the fainting damsel? The fakeout death of Aragorn in TTT? All downgrades to the original story. Because the writing of this movies time and time again misses the points of the works it is adapting. It glorifies war. It sacrifices characterization to cliches (we need comic relief idiots, we need a big hero protagonist that is always right and never wrong and nobody is at his level (Aragorn), we need an everyman character and his friends to be all apparently 20somethings because that's the age characters in fantasy are, we need more tension, more, MORE, we need the threat to be constant and infallible and unavoidable...).

The writing of the LotR movie trilogy, on what it has of original, is mostly bad. Everything else is just so so so good.

[wazafam]

While nearly every aspect of The Lord of the Rings is perfect, the music certainly stands out as being particularly effective. Composed by Howard Shore, the music of The Lord of the Rings is both haunting and beautiful, intimate and rousingly epic. It ranges wildly in terms of tone and excitement, and it helps the movie's best scenes become even better.

RELATED: Lord of the Rings: 10 Things That Make No Sense About Samwise

It's hard to pinpoint which musical moments are the best, as the trilogy is filled with commendable and chill-inducing music. But some scenes have become intrinsically linked to their musical score, and fans couldn't imagine seeing them without Shore's brilliant music.

10 Introducing The Shire

Many Lord of the Rings fans consider The Fellowship of the Ring to be the greatest movie, and that's largely because of scenes like this. The movie opens in spectacular fashion, as the epic battle on the slopes of Mount Doom eventually segues into the cozy atmosphere of The Shire.

"Concerning Hobbits" plays throughout much of the Shire montage, and "Concerning Hobbits" is often considered one of Shore's greatest works - if not his greatest. Maybe it's not "epic" in the traditional sense of the word, but it sure is beautiful.

9 Pippin's Song

The Return of the King features one of the most toxic and abusive relationships of the whole series - that between Faramir and his father, Lord Denethor. In one of the movie's most tragic sequences, Denethor sends Faramir and his men on a suicide mission to re-capture Osgiliath.

Back in the safety of Minas Tirith, Denethor asks Pippin to sing him a song. He sings Denethor a particularly tragic song, which hauntingly plays in the background as Faramir rides to his almost certain death.

8 "But I Can Carry You!"

The climax of The Return of the King is a thing of beauty, and it contains one of the most chill-inducing sequences of the entire trilogy. As Frodo collapses in exhaustion, Sam makes the brave decision to carry him up the mountain.

As he throws Frodo on his back, the beautiful "Mouth of Sauron" begins to play as the camera pans up the massive and daunting Mount Doom. It's a suitably epic piece of music for such an epic scene, and it makes Sam's decision seem all the more heroic.

7 The Black Rider

Few pieces of music on The Lord of the Rings soundtrack are more intimidating than "The Black Rider." Filled with haunting strings and the epic vocals of a choir, The Black Rider tends to play whenever the Nazgul attack Frodo in The Fellowship of the Ring.

RELATED: The 15 Most Powerful Villains From The Hobbit & Lord Of The Rings, Ranked

Many languid and beautiful pieces of music are heard throughout the first half of the film (like "Concerning Hobbits"), so hearing the harsh "The Black Rider" serves as a stern and frightening reminder of the dangers lurking outside The Shire.

6 The Balrog Fight

The Two Towers is typically regarded as the "slowest" film, as it has a lot of heavy lifting to do in introducing Treebeard, Rohan, Theoden, etc. However, it opens in a truly spectacular fashion with a continuation of the fight between Gandalf and the Balrog.

The scene opens immediately after Gandalf's fall from the Bridge of Khazad-dûm and shows him battling the Balrog with nothing but a sword. It makes for some of the most intense imagery of the trilogy, and the music certainly helps set the epic and somewhat tragic tone.

5 The Fall Of Barad-dûr

Throughout the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, there is no image more rewarding than the fall of Barad-dûr. Immediately after the ring falls into the lava, the eye atop Barad-dûr starts going crazy and widens in fear and anticipation of death.

The entire tower then begins to crumble, slowly falling down upon itself before the eye explodes, sending debris flying in all directions. The image is extraordinary, and so is the angelic, victorious music that plays throughout the fall. This scene was three movies in the making, and it delivered on all fronts.

4 The Last March Of The Ents

While most of the Ent stuff may seem boring and slow upon re-watches, it's all worth it for the wonderful scene that is The Last March of the Ents. Seeing that all his tree friends have been felled by Saruman, Treebeard decides to attack Isengard.

RELATED: Lord Of The Rings: The 10 Most Heroic Characters

He issues a booming command, and the forest literally comes alive as the trees begin to converge on the slopes of Isengard. They then begin The Last March Of The Ents, and the choir-based music that plays throughout the march is always good for inducing goosebumps.

3 The Lighting Of The Beacons

The Battle of the Pelennor Fields is arguably the most epic sequence in the entire trilogy. But to get there, Gandalf needed to alert the forces of Rohan. He used the small and resourceful Pippin in his plan, who sets fire to the beacon of Minas Tirith.

This fire sets off a chain of similar fires throughout the mountains of Gondor, and each flame is shot with utter majesty. The epic filmmaking is undoubtedly aided by Shore's "The Lighting of the Beacons", which lends the sequence a suitably momentous and victorious tone.

2 Ride Of The Rohirrim

One of the series' most famous sequences is the Ride of the Rohirrim. Theoden and the forces of Rohan arrive at Minas Tirith to see the city breached and half-destroyed. Knowing that they are riding to their deaths, Theoden issues one of the most inspirational speeches of all time before blowing the horn and ordering the charge.

The image of the massive Rohan army charging into battle is certainly gorgeous, but it's Shore's music that makes the scene. It's enough to bring even the most hardened men to tears.

1 "You Bow To No One."

Speaking of bringing hardened men to tears, the bowing scene at the end of Return of the King is one of the most tear-inducing scenes in movie history. Just as the hobbits are bowing to Aragorn, Aragorn stops them and issues his now-iconic line.

He then bows to the hobbits - as does everyone else in Minas Tirith. It's a beautiful sentiment, but the tears really start flowing once Howard Shore's "The Return of the King" begins playing. It's rousing, it's epic, it's gorgeous, and it doesn't leave a dry eye in the house.

NEXT: The Lord Of The Rings: 10 Characters Who Just Didn't Look Right In The Movies

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