#and the rohirrim come a close second

[gwynbleiddyn]

it's been five million years since i had a lotro oc i was brainless about and i regret to inform everyone i'm back on my bullshit again

anyway this is ithilrion, or calantar, or cúronir, depending on who and when you ask, and he is my favourite brand of hard exterior-soft interior captain whose love for middle-earth is the only thing preventing his slow demise into the west etc etc

born amongst the noldor in vinyamar to parents of vanyarin descent, he came to gondolin under turgon's host and had a lovely time where nothing bad at all happened (part 1)

eventually he comes to the havens of balar and the city of avernien where he elects to leave tuor and idril and the survivors, and instead, spends some time on the peaceful isle under cirdan's stewardship. it's here he meets and befriends gil-galad over many years, and subsequently follows him to lindon at the turn of the first age

he remains at his king's side for even longer years still, up until the great battle of the last alliance where nothing bad at all happens (part 2)

after this, he returns to rivendell with lord elrond, and spends the following bitter years in defense of fornost, harrying angmar's forces until the war of the ring emerges.

mildly competitive. enjoys sampling dwarven ale. a terrible gardener. he's more akin to a tardigrade surviving several nuclear disasters than a great elven figure of songs and tales. he remains a deeply unelegant figure in diplomacy despite elrond's many years of wise counsel, but they eventually put their differences down to ithil suffering a severe case of noldorin-influenced stubbornness and pride.

[arwenkenobi48]

What if War of the Rohirrim had a gag reel like in early Pixar films? I’d love to see that so I wrote my own, which are as follows:

Hama sings Hey Brother while strumming his harp, then excitedly asks “can we keep this in the movie? Please, please, please?”

Wulf repeatedly forgets his lines

When Wulf confesses his love to Herá, after he says “I love you��� she just goes “I know” and they both end up laughing

Both Helm and Freca keep laughing during their fight scene, resulting in Wulf guffawing from offscreen: “Stop enjoying yourself, dad, you’re about to die!”

Everyone keeps falling over in the snow, especially Targg

The mumakil runs away and has to be lured back to the set with a bag of peanuts

When Herá shows up to fight Wulf in the wedding dress and he’s like “what is this?” she glances down at the dress and calls back “I think it’s Versace!” and the camera captures them both laughing again before being like “ok, let’s do it for real this time”

During the siege tower fight, Wulf can be heard muttering “Don’t look down, don’t look down” under his breath, implying that he’s scared of heights

Helm’s beard gets tangled in a knot multiple times

Haleth randomly does a Thor impression during one scene and everyone bursts out laughing

The giant eagles keep knocking the cameras over

Lief also keeps forgetting his lines

Olwyn and Herá share a lot of banter on set

Ashere nearly bowls Frealaf over more than once

At one point, while preparing for the scene when the giant eagles come to save the day, Herá begins singing part of Close To You by The Carpenters, specifically the “why do birds suddenly appear” bit; the camera then pans to three women who are background extras swooning over her voice

Whenever Wulf wears that golden crown, it keeps falling down over his eyes mid scene

Many scenes from Monty Python and the Holy Grail are quoted, including Wulf saying to Targg “On second thought, let’s not ride to Edoras. ‘Tis a silly place.”

[ass-deep-in-demons]

Fandom : Lord of the Rings

Starring: Boromir + the Rohan Squad

Tropes: character study, prequel, love letter to the canon, adventure

Rating: T+

Chapter Length: 13k+

Author's Note: Took me over a year to complete this story. A labor of love. A Chinese translation by Ecthelion is available on Ao3, Jjwxc and Lofter.

✦ Chapter 3 ✦

… in which Boromir wonders whether the Golden Hall has lost its shine and sets off in search of hope.

[AO3] [masterpost]

[previous chapter]

Firienholt, Rohan, 9th of Cermië 3018 TA

Boromir decided to part with his escort after breakfast. 

The highway leading north from Minas Tirith had become so perilous lately, that no lone man could traverse the land safely. Derufin had volunteered to be part of his host, as well as one of the Steward's knights, Negenor of Emyn Arnen, and two trusted men from the Guard of the Citadel, Hrodulf and Celeg. They had spent the first night in a roadside inn past Amon Din. This close to the city, ordinary commerce yet thrived, but the signs of the brewing war were already present and obvious. Most of the patrons were either members of the fleeing merchant caravans, or farmers and fishermen of North Anorien seeking to reach a refuge in western fiefdoms. 

The inn had been the last civilized establishment before they had to brave the wilds. Past Amon Din, the highway forked; one branch led north towards Cair Andros, the other had taken Boromir and his party west, to Rohan. On the second day they had passed the Druadan Forest. The Wild Men rarely wandered into the vicinity of the King's Highway, but the woods gave shelter to all kinds of strangers, and this was where Boromir had been the most grateful for the presence of his companions. They had spent the night in the camp of the Rangers of Anorien, near the hill of Nardol - no safer and better provisioned haven they could have wished for. The rangers, who answered to the Steward in the absence of the King, but heeded their own codices and followed their own customs, were always ready to shelter those traveling in good faith. Boromir knew personally many Rangers of both Anorien and Ithilien, and they knew him in turn.

The way led steadily west from there. The party had had to spend the next two nights under the stars, with only themselves for company, taking turns keeping watch. Their last night together they had camped in the Firien Woods, known in Gondor as Eryn Fuir. For Boromir, the Whispering Wood had always held an aura of hallowed grounds, perhaps for the proximity of Halifirien, the original resting place of King Elendil. Boromir remembered a pilgrimage to the memorial mound with the Lord Steward, that they had made upon Boromir’s coming of age, shortly after his knighting. He was now tempted to abandon the Highway, hike up the Amon Anwar and kneel before the memorial to seek Elendil's blessing for his journey. Alas, he knew it would delay him greatly and that going off the tract meant inviting trouble. His father would not approve of it, anyway.

Their camp had been set on the western edge of the woods, past Glanhir. The gently rolling hills clad in dry grasses, that stretched before them, were telling Boromir that he was on the cusp of entering the demesne of Theoden King. This land enjoyed frequent patrols of the Rohirrim march riders. No danger could befall him on the King's own tract. The Men of Rohan saw to their affairs conscientiously and would suffer no highwaymen bullying any traveler, much less the Captain of the White Tower. He knew a small guesthouse on the way, where he could stop for a warm luncheon, and, Valar permitting, he should reach Aldburg by evening, and Edoras on the next day. 

He could hardly wait to meet with Theodred. A long time had passed since they had last seen each other. A bad friend I have been, he thought, but so has Theodred. Letters can travel both ways!  

"Are you so eager to return to your post, that you are willing to depart without any breakfast, Celeg?" asked Derufin with barely concealed mirth, snapping Boromir out of his musings. Celeg had recently taken a sweet young wife and so the cause for his impatience to return to Minas Tirith wasn't a mystery so hard to unravel.

"Merely thinking to be ready for departure in time after the meal, Lord Derufin," said Celeg, his cheeks and ears reddening not entirely from the morning chill in the air.

"Leave the lad be, Derufin,” said Boromir. We were all young once, he thought.

Together, they ate a breakfast of dry rations. Though their talk was merry, the ambiance remained heavy with the unsaid. Boromir could see past Derufin's veneer of humorous jabs. After breakfast, Boromir would set out to paths untraveled and fates unknown - their imminent parting saddened them both. Damn you, Derufin, son of Duinhir, but I shall miss you something awful, Boromir thought.

The dreaded time of goodbye came, implacable. Boromir related to Derufin his last orders for the Army, that he had orphaned for the duration of his quest.

"You only think you are irreplaceable,” said Derufin, “but rest assured - Faramir and I shall do very well in your absence. Certainly none shall miss your brooding." The salty streak upon Derufin’s cheek somewhat belied the irreverence of his words. Boromir was nevertheless grateful for the jest, as it helped him compose himself in turn. They shared a heartfelt embrace. The Gondorians mounted their steeds and drew their swords, giving the last salute to their general, and just like that they were off - Boromir’s last link to home on his quest for the legendary elvish domain disappeared on the woodland path.

Boromir cast a heavy glance up and to the south, towards the unlit beacon of Halifirnen's white marble glinting in the distance between the tangle of leaves and branches. He stood and, with only the trees of Whispering Wood and his best war horse, Bathor, for silent witnesses, unsheathed his sword. He raised it high in a pathetic salute of his own.

“Hail, o' Great King Elendil of Old! Boromir, your servant, salutes you, ready to lay his life in your name, in search of Isildur's Bane," he declared.

He sheathed his blade and silently mounted Bathor. In the ancient days, Isildur’s law forbade disturbing the silence in Eryn Fuir. Though the King's tomb had now stood empty for several centuries, it did not seem right to Boromir to go against the old custom, for he knew some still lived who obeyed it. However, as soon as he came out into the open fields, he blew the Horn of Gondor in memory of Elendil's bloodline and to signify his departure from Anorien. He felt some kinship with the heroes of old through it, and thusly fortified he took to the road.

Yet, even having left Anorien behind, his thoughts lingered on Gondor and his kin. Derufin's parting words made him think of Faramir. Ever since he had left Minas Tirith, whenever he recalled his brother, Boromir could not escape nor forestall the heavy, sinking feeling in his stomach. He was never one to dwell on past choices, having plowed through most of life's challenges with no regrets up until now. He had chosen to go in Faramir’s stead to spare his brother, to protect him, and to please his father. So why did it feel an awful lot like a betrayal?

It had been on that fateful day in Osgiliath, that Faramir had first mentioned this new strange vision of his, both chilling and full of hope. The fall of the Osgiliath Bridge had shaken Minas Tirith - left the brothers weakened in both body and spirit. Only after days of recovery could Faramir report the dream in full, first to Boromir, and then to their Lord the Steward. Lord Denethor had listened to Faramir’s recount of the vision in silence. Later, he had secluded himself in the chamber atop the Tower of Ecthelion, and remained there for several days, leaving Boromir to deal with the aftermath of Osgiliath alone.

The dreams had not stopped, either. They had returned to Faramir on subsequent nights, always featuring the same rhymed riddle, prophesying the return of Isildur's Bane. It had become an obsession for Faramir. He had taken to spending his time in the library, frantically searching for any records on what the Bane might have been. To his astonishment, he had found the relevant scriptures missing! That had worried Boromir - the whole affair had been looking more and more dire. He would curse Isildur’s Bane for dwelling on the minds and hearts of both his brother and his father. He had striven to console his brother as best as he could, to little effect.

And then something even worse had happened, that had Boromir tremble even now, weeks later. The dream of Isildur's Bane had come to him, leaving him heaving, covered in sweat in his bedchamber, wiping his eyes. A voice in his head would chant the strange riddle again and again in his head, driving him to distraction. Try as he had, he couldn't escape it. He had found himself knocking to his father's study that very morning.

"My Lord!" he had said to the closed door at the top of the Tower. "Sire! Hear me! Sire, I come to you with a dream." That had been what made the Steward open the door and let Boromir in, at last. Rare was it for anyone to set foot in the Steward's private study, even for his sons.

"Your brother has been begging me to grant him leave to pursue this strange lead," the Steward had told him.

"You cannot be thinking to let him go!" Borormir had exclaimed. "'Tis a fevered vision of smoke and mirrors! A fool's errand! Worse! A fool's last errand, likely." A strange glint had appeared in Lord Denethor’s eye, then.

"And yet, one of you must see it to the end," he had declared.

"Then let me go in his stead," Boromir had pleaded. Fear for his brother’s life had overcome him, made him offer his own neck readily. Poor, kind-hearted Faramir. A man in his own right; and yet at times it seemed to Boromir his brother had never outgrown the fanciful nature of his boyhood. Boromir would hate to see it shattered, but he also knew the cost of living in fantasy - he, who had had to abandon the tender dreams of childhood in his tenth year, when the Lady Finduilas had departed.

The Steward had ever been a strategist, first and foremost.

"Your brother's visions have truth to them, though they are wasted on a weak man like himself,” he had said. “The land of Imladris exists somewhere in Middle Earth, even though no map that we possess can show us a sure path. The cause is too great to abandon it.” Here the Steward had regarded Boromir solemnly, leaving no place for any doubts. “The power of which the riddle speaks shall become Gondor’s salvation, or our unraveling - in either case we ought not to let the Enemy have it. You will go, Boromir, you will take Isildur's Bane and bring it to me."

"Aye, Lord," Boromir had said, as he ever would.

"Swear it," Denethor had demanded.

Unknown dread had seized Boromir, then. Never in his life had he truly hesitated to answer the Steward's command. Yet this time, something deep inside him had called out to him pitifully not to take the oath. But why? Had his father ever stumbled? Had his father ever erred? He hadn’t. And so it followed that Boromir couldn’t either.

Frightened and discouraged, he had knelt and he had taken the oath, unheeding of his personal doubts.

"I beg of you Boromir, do not go!" Faramir had said, later. "I am overcome with the strangest foreboding that something dreadful shall happen, should you go!" Boromir's heart had broken, then. He had taken Faramir's dream from him, he had done it behind his back, too. And yet Faramir's concern had been first for Boromir's own safety.

Still, Boromir could not heed his brother's warning, for he had been already sworn to carry out their father’s orders towards the end, whatever it might be. That evening, he had assembled the host. On the morrow, only two people had been present at the stables to see the party off. Boromir’s own squire, Huor, his face red and eyes tear-rimmed, had come to attend to his Lord one last time. And the Lord Steward himself, who had descended to the Sixth Level's stables to bestow upon Boromir a proper blessing and impart the final advice. 

“Seek out the Wizard Saruman on your way to the West,” had been the Steward’s last charge. “He alone among our allies can point for you the path to Imladris. Otherwise, you shall err and roam the Valar-forsaken desolation of Arnor in vain, and lose both your life, and our only hope.” 

Faramir had been notably absent when Boromir’s small host had departed. Even now, after five days, the thought was almost too painful to bear.

Such were his somber musings as he advanced on the West Road. He reached the guest house where he had used to always stop for a meal during his journeys to Edoras in the years past. Their bokenade had a special place in his heart (and hopefully soon also in his stomach) and he had been looking forward to a more substantial repast ever since his party had left the Rangers’ Camp in Druadan. However, to his surprise, he found The Grasshopper closed for business, with the quaint wooden building’s doors and windows barred and nailed shut. Further investigation revealed no signs of recent traffic. That cannot be good, he thought. He had a nagging suspicion that The Grasshopper’s closing down had something to do with the ongoing evacuation of the Gondor’s populace, that it might mean that the people of Rohan had also experienced the unrest of the brewing war. He resolved to content himself with a quick meal of dry rations and to not tarry on his journey any longer; the importance of his mission only grew in his mind.

Alas, as he continued west throughout the afternoon, a sight appeared that gave him an even further pause. Behind the road's turn, that encircled one of the rocky hills of Eastfold, a grey pillar of smoke billowed towards the sky ahead.

He had not known any settlement nor a camp to have ever existed in that location. He could only conceive of one cause for which a Rohirrim patrol could start this sort of fire in the wilds - a funeral pyre. But such a thing, here, in broad daylight? Could it be the Enemy? he wondered. After all, orcish warbands weren’t exactly known for environmental conservationism. But that would belie his so far unshaken faith in the Eored, that would allow no enemy encampment in the King’s Fold. In addition, from his dealings with the orcs in Ithilien, Boromir knew that the creatures remained dormant during the day and only became active during the night, sometimes into the morning hours. He was too far west for it to be the Haradrim and too far east to stumble upon a Dunlending tribe, under ordinary circumstances. No place for highwaymen to hide for miles ahead, either. Upon consideration, he deemed it his duty as a friend of Rohan to discover the source of the smoke, and report about the suspect activity once he reached Aldburg.

Resorting to stealth seemed to be the wisest approach, as Boromir was only one man and the nature of the threat - an unknown. He knew that Bathor, as a fine steed bred and raised among the Horse Lords, a gift from Theoden King himself, would wait for him patiently without revealing himself. Having left his horse in the safety of the nearby bushes, Boromir commenced his trek uphill, meaning to take a measure of the source of the smoke from the top, hoping to remain unnoticed. He approached the rocky outcropping at the hill’s crown and peeked out from behind it.

A view of the Eastfold’s rolling meadows stretched from his vantage point, and right under the hill he spotted what he'd been looking for. An orc encampment, after all! Unexpectedly bustling with activity during the day, even though Boromir knew that all goblins hated sunlight - these goblins however seemed unaffected by the day’s brightness, and, more worryingly still, appeared to be readying for something. The smoke was coming from a huge cauldron in which a foul concoction boiled and bubbled. How can it be, that a fully furnished goblin camp has been set up here in the Eastfold, right by the West Road, not half a day’s ride from Aldburg, and that the Marshal of the Mark would suffer it? Boromir thought in amazement. 

He dutifully noted the commando's numbers and their armaments. The orcs were about a dozen warriors, attired in mismatched and incomplete armor, that nevertheless served to cover their vital parts well. Savage they may be, but the orcs know their warcraft, he thought, admiring the heavy, vicious weapons that the goblins seemed to be able to lug and wield without much effort. They had no mounts; instead, several crudely constructed carts, that must have housed their equipment, served as makeshift walls of their camp - a rudimentary cover in case of an attack.

Having satisfied his curiosity and his sense of duty, Boromir thought to retreat, reunite with Bathor and pass around through the thicket on the other side of the hill, to give the encampment a wider berth. Just as he was about to turn around to descend the knoll, he heard a slight rustle behind his back.

The years of training availed him, then; he drew his blade just in time to parry a heavy, ugly orcish club aimed straight for his head. Alas, he hadn’t enough time nor wit about him to account for the second orc, who seized Boromir from behind his back and caught him in a lock. Boromir tried to hold on to his sword for dear life, but it had gotten stuck in the first orc’s wooden club when he had parried the blow. With Boromir overpowered, the first orc yanked the sword from his grasp with frightening ease.

The orcs uttered a throaty gurgling laughter and traded a few grunted words in Black Speech. After years of battling the enemy forces on the banks of Anduin, Boromir had learned a few Dark Tongue phrases. He caught two familiar words: one, "alive", that sparked a small hope in his heart, and another, "food", that swiftly extinguished it. What a dullard I have been to turn my party back to Minas Tirith, before having reached even the first major stop on my journey! A foolhardy, puerile mistake, that will now cost me my life, and worse still, my oath, he thought bitterly. Had his situation not been so dire, he would have laughed at himself and his own half-witted hubris. He had thought himself more practical, more down to earth than Faramir, and so more suited for the quest! Yet he had already, not a week into his journey, acted in a way that had made a mockery of his noble intentions.

One of the orcs bound his hands behind his back with a length of coarse rope; the other pulled a dirty burlap sack over his head and torso and then tied it. Boromir was then swiftly thrown over the back of one of his captors, who carried him down the hill towards the camp. What shortsightedness, he thought, to not realize that the vantage point on the hill would be guarded. The foul smell of whatever had been carried in the sack earlier overpowered him and almost made him retch.

After a bumpy ride on the orc’s back, still tied in the sack, Boromir had been thrown face down onto the dirt, and kicked on the back for good measure. From the smell of smoke and the heat emanating from nearby, he surmised he was now in the middle of the camp, near the fire pit with the huge cauldron. He was truly going to end up as an orc supper, unless he managed to break free!

The first step was surely to regain his vision and free his limbs. However, if he began to struggle overtly, the orcs would only bind him tighter and kick him even more, to prevent his escape. Boromir wriggled slightly to dislodge a hunting dagger he had sheathed under his belt, that the orcs, careless and impulsive as they were, had forgotten to take from him. To them, a small dagger might appear no more dangerous than a toothpick, Boromir thought, as he moved carefully, causing the dagger’s crossguard to catch on a small rock jutting out from the ground. The dagger slid out of its sheath; it was now lying under Boromir inside the sack. After some effort, careful not to raise any suspicion on the outside, Boromir maneuvered the dagger towards his head. He listened and made sure that no orcs were walking directly near him and all of them sounded occupied with… well, with whatever it was that they were doing, then got ahold of the dagger’s grip with his teeth. He jerked his head, managing to pierce the sack through and drive the blade into the ground. They say to always keep one’s blades sharp and they are right, he thought triumphantly. He might have also chipped one of his teeth in the process. Better to walk out of this with a chipped tooth than to become orc dinner with a perfect smile. The orcs had tied his hands, but not his feet, evidently having assumed that he couldn't run if he couldn't see - that had been their mistake, as it gave him more options. Having made an opening in the sack, Boromir tried to guess how much time he had until the orcs decided to chop him and throw the pieces into the cauldron.

He had to rely on his hearing, but soon another of his senses took the lead. Something had gotten the orcs on high alert. They stopped their bustling near the cauldron, where Boromir lay, and all of them gathered on the western edge of the camp, close to one of their carts. Before Boromir could think of the root of this disturbance, he felt with his whole body a sensation that caused a burst of hope in his chest: a deep, reverberating through the earth, unmistakable vibration of hoof beats.

Boromir let go of the dagger’s grip and yanked his body, which, with the dagger still stuck in the ground, caused the sack to rip open. He peeked through the tear: the orcs were crowded on the other side of the camp, bracing for a fight, preparing to use two of their carts lined up as a barricade. He couldn’t see past the carts, but he could feel the vibrations grow stronger; they were now accompanied by the sound of hoof beats that seemed to resonate with Boromir’s very heart. It poured new vigor into his veins. He sat up abruptly, which caused the sack to rip even further, and emerged from the torn canvas, fully regaining his vision. He crawled towards the cauldron, and twisting his neck forcefully, he held his tied hands out close to the fire behind his back. His flesh sang with agony - muscles taut, tendons overstretched; his skin burned when the flames licked his leather gauntlets, but he achieved his goal: the rope that bound his wrists caught fire. He tugged at it forcefully and it gave way, knots coming unraveled momentarily by the flames. He bit his cheek to stifle a cry of pain, but was not afforded any time to examine his singed armor nor the burns underneath it, for the Riders of the Mark descended upon the orcish camp in that moment like an angry tornado, and it was all Boromir could do to scramble from under their hoofs to avoid getting trampled.

The orcs started shouting in Dark Tongue and hacking blindly at the Men with their crude weapons - vicious giant scimitars and heavy war hammers. Boromir used the commotion to stand up and disentangle from the remains of the sack and the ropes. He wasn’t much help in the fight without his sword, that could not be located among the wild tangle of orc, horse and man. He prayed to the Valar that none of the goblins would remember him and think to strike him down before he could make an escape, but the orcs, who evidently held a vendetta against the Rohirrim and were eager to meet them in battle, paid him little heed. Avoiding errant blows, he picked up his dagger from the ground and looked around in search of any other weapon he might claim for himself. 

The battle was in full blow. The Eored counted about a score of warriors, and as many horses. The Lords of the Mark evidently had had some practice with raiding similar orcish camps, as they were making short work of this one. The carts had only served to slow them, but had not prevented the riders from invading the encampment, and the space around the fire pit was crowded with Rohirrim on their horses trying to skewer orcs on their long pikes from above. The orcs in turn would either try to knock the riders down, or they would attack the animals directly - a bad move on their part, for one would be hard pressed to find braver and more formidable opponents than the steeds of Rohan. Any goblin that tried to come at one of the chargers would inevitably end up with a horseshoe in their skull. 

Suddenly, a loud thud to the right alarmed Boromir. He spun and saw one of the riders fall to the ground. The young warrior's plate got cleaved in two by one of the orc’s ugly hatchets, rivulets of blood sprouting from the wound in his chest. The goblin that had attacked him now raised the hatchet and readied for the final blow that would have finished the effort - but for Boromir, who readily jumped the monster from behind, with a knife to its neck. He felt the warm juice flow through his fingers and pushed the blade in deeper. The orc tried to shake Boromir off his back, but he was too late - already he was gurgling and gasping for his last breath, and swaying on his knock-kneed legs. Together with Boromir, the two of them toppled to the ground, right beside the wounded rider. The goblin uttered his last, blood-curdling shrieks, as Boromir was trying to disentangle his limbs and rise from the ground.

Unfortunately, another goblin, mayhaps the fallen one’s companion, rushed to Boromir to deliver swift retaliation, with his giant club raised and ready to strike. Boromir, whose right arm was pinned to the ground by three hundred pounds of dead orc, had nowhere to run and no way to shield himself. He was tempted to close his eyes, but he resisted, wanting to meet his death bravely, without flinching. Here ends my quest, he thought, as the world around him slowed down. He saw his attacker swing the club overhead; the mismatched plate that covered the orc’s torso rode up revealing the rippling, cording muscles of the orcish underbelly, as the warrior prepared to drive the club into Boromir with all the might in his robust grey body…

… at once, a blurry mass of hooves and plate slammed into the orc from the flank. He was knocked down and trampled, yelling and swinging the club blindly, until a well measured kick to the head silenced him for good.

“Bathor!” cried Boromir, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. Bathor stood proudly over his goblin victim and neighed at Boromir with self-satisfaction.

That was entirely too close, Boromir thought. Around them, the sounds of skirmish were slowly dying down, signifying that the Horse Lords had conquered the camp.

"Up you go," said a voice over Boromir’s head, and he felt the weight that was pinning him down lift. An outstretched hand appeared above him; Boromir took it and hauled himself upright.

“Hail Boromir of the White Tower,” said the rider who had helped him up. Boromir recognized his pointed helmet with horsehair crest as the sign of the Marshal of the Mark, but even without it, his voice was familiar and gladdened Boromir’s heart.

“Hail Eomer, son of Eomund!”, he said.

“Ever are the Lords of Gondor welcome in the King’s Folde, and Boromir first among them,” said Eomer, who seemed to be in high spirits, still in battle frenzy. “Even when he appears mid-fight, out of thin air, no less. We heard someone blow a mighty war horn in the morning, and we rode out, ready to aid whoever be in need. Yet, none of us expected we’d find you. Now I must know, whatever were you doing in this orcish camp, alone and unarmed?”

“Preparing for dinner,” said Boromir tersely. He was glad that he’d decided to blow the Horn of Gondor when crossing into the Eastmarch. “‘Tis true what they say, then, that when the Horn of Gondor sounds, her friends and allies listen,” he remarked. “I was on my way to Edoras, when I chanced upon this camp; you’ll hear all about it. But first - one of your men is gravely wounded,” Boromir turned and pointed to the unfortunate dying soldier. The young man was lying on the ground, bloodied and unconscious, and already the other riders were by him, wiping and tying his wounds. Eomer knelt down by the man and beheld his pale face. His brow grew heavy.

“Reinmar son of Reinhold. You fought bravely,” said Eomer. “Bema guide you,” he invoked reverently. “I fear he is past hope,” he added once he stood up. “Eorlingas! Build a pyre! We cleanse this place and then we take our fallen brother back home!” he bellowed. The riders of the Eored were already busying themselves with piling up the dead goblins and all the filthy remains of the encampment in one place. Eomer once again turned to Boromir.

“Your horse fought well too,” said Eomer. “Valiant Bathor, Rohan welcomes you back,” he addressed the horse, who wouldn’t leave Boromir’s side ever since the skirmish had ended. Boromir couldn’t help but smile, despite the loss of the young rider’s life still weighing on him. That Eomer remembered the name of every horse that had ever come out of Theoden King’s stables, and could greet each of them as an old friend, never failed to astound him.

“Aye, that he did,” he agreed readily. “I’d be orcish marmalade by now if not for him. Best boy in all of the Western Kingdoms,” Boromir patted Bathor’s head.

“I’d say he deserves a good night’s rest in Aldburg’s cozy stables, and a sack full of Rohan’s best oats,” said Eomer. “And we deserve some mead.”

***

The Eored did not talk much on their way back to Aldburg, and they reached their destination just as the sky began to blush. Even in the best of  years, compared to Minas Tirith, or even to Edoras, the town of Aldburg wasn’t much to behold - two dozens of wooden houses and several shops crowded around a few cobbled streets. The settlement served as a commercial center and the lonely guard to the farm fields that stretched far and wide around the fortifications. Now the town seemed to Boromir even more empty and quiet than he remembered. The main street led to the Hold, where Boromir headed with Eomer’s men, while Eomer himself went to return the body of the fallen rider to his kin. The castle consisted of a walled courtyard with two watchtowers and the well maintained stone Keep. Boromir beheld the old fortress that had once served as the seat of Eorl the Young. Out in the courtyard, the Men of Rohan busied themselves with their chores - mighty warriors in their prime, tending to their horses and their weapons, just as it had likely been in the times of the First King. Boromir left Bathor with the stable hands and followed Eomer’s lieutenant Eothain into the Keep, to clean himself and have some refreshments.

No sooner had Boromir finished the supper of bread, sop and cold cuts, that the Lord of Aldburg returned to the Keep. Boromir had known Eomer since the latter had been a lad with a loose tooth and scraped knees, barely able to lift a shield. In fact, Boromir distinctly remembered several occasions on which he, along with Theodred and Grimbold, had tutored young Eomer on footwork and proper defensive stances, during Eomer’s years as a squire. 

"I see you have been fortifying Aldburg," Boromir said, when Eomer approached him in the hall of the Keep. "Though ancient, the Keep holds strong. The masonry is in excellent condition."

"Aye. We spared no expense," said Eomer proudly.

Boromir also remembered that the House of Eomund had a daughter, a wispy yet fierce young thing, that would follow Eomer everywhere and try to fight men twice her height with swords thrice her weight. The people of Rohan valued bravery and battle prowess, and took great pride in warcraft. Boromir knew that, in the ages past, some of the Ladies from the House of Eorl would choose to train as shield-maidens. He had often wondered if little Eowyn would follow in their steps one day. Only, she is likely not so little anymore, he thought. After all these years that I’ve been absent, she will now be a woman in her prime.

"Is the Lady of the castle present?" he asked.

"My sister dwells in Meduseld nowadays,” said Eomer calmly, even though his face tensed up. When Boromir said nothing, Eomer clarified. “She bears great love for Theoden King. Our uncle requires care in his old age."

"Old age?” Now Boromir could not halt himself and spoke out in surprise. “Mine own father has nigh to a score of years over the King, yet he would allow none to dote on him!”

“Aye, that might be true that the Steward has weathered more winters, but his must have been kinder than my uncle’s. He has been infirm of late, and very jealous of his health.”

“Has aught unfortunate befallen the King? An ailment, or a misadventure, Valar preserve?" asked Boromir. He had long harbored filial sentiments towards Theoden King, and was now struck with guilt. I ought to have at least written to him and inquired about his health once in all those years, he thought with self-recrimination.

"I wish I knew," said Eomer, leaving Boromir still somewhat puzzled and very worried. "Come, Boromir,” he said, aiming to change the topic. “We ought to stand vigil by Reinmar's bier tonight."

Boromir felt tired and discouraged after the day's adventures, but he wouldn't disrespect the Rider who gave his life to liberate the orc camp. Together with Eomer they left the stronghold and passed through the evening streets of Aldburg. Reinmar’s home was lit and its door opened wide, inviting any who wanted to pay their respects to the fallen warrior. Several men were standing vigil out on the street, and once Boromir and Eomer entered the house they saw even more mourners crowded inside. The body of young Reinmar, already cleansed and dressed in finery, was laid out on a makeshift bier. By it stood a young woman, her cheeks tear-stricken, but her head held proudly up. She carried a tyke on her hip, who was also crying and clutching her neck. On the other side of the bier, a young lad lamented the departed by intoning a sad dirge.

"Lord Eomer!" exclaimed the grieving woman, interrupting the chant.

"Hail, Léofdis" said Eomer. "We are come to honor your departed husband. May he ride in Bema's hunt."

"Lord Boromir," said Leofdis, turning to him. “Yours was the hand that killed the one who took my Reinmar's life, as I was told. That is a kindness you did to my son, as his would now be the duty to avenge his father, despite his young age. I thank you."

Boromir was moved by this display of magnanimity. Truly the people of Rohan are pure of heart, to greet death itself with such grace and dignity, he thought.

"May your noble husband rest in peace and with honor," said Boromir. “He died bravely, and may have very well saved my life.”

"I shall take solace in that, when there is little to be had," said Léofdis.

She intoned another dirge, pathetic and heart-wrenching. Boromir listened to her hypnotizing song. It appeared to him as if even the flames of the numerous candles lit by the bier flickered to its rhythm, casting long, trembling shadows of the gathered mourners on the chamber’s walls. After the sad song, Léofdis opened a cask of mead, and everyone present drank of it, toasting the departed - only then did Boromir finally get that cup that Eomer had promised on the road. The vigil lasted for hours afterwards; Eomer and Boromir stood by the bier with the others and listened to the tales and the singing, and once the midnight oil had been burned, they returned to the Keep in sombre silence.

A sturdy bed with fresh linens had been prepared for Boromir in the Keep’s barracks. Going to sleep next to the other warriors would be a comfort, he decided, as he would not relish solitude on such a night. The kinship felt with the Riders of Rohan contented his spirit.

"I will see you in the morning," said Eomer. "We will go to the Golden Hall together. I must report to the King about our recent battle, and you should seek out Theodred. He and Elfhelm have been battling Dunlendings in the Gap of Rohan for some time now and I imagine he has much to tell you.”

***

On the next day, Boromir and Eomer left Aldburg early. They were traveling with several of Eomer’s men, Eothain among them. The White Mountains towered on their left, and the seemingly unending meadow and the open sky of the Folde enveloped them. Here and there, they would pass farmhouses and hamlets - they were now approaching the very heart of Rohan, and Boromir suspected that, here at least, his journey would be safer than on the borderlands of the Eastmark.

Eomer was in a better mood than on the day before and considerably more chatty.

“Tell me, Boromir, what do you seek in Edoras?” he asked, as they rode on. “If you’ve come to seek allies, to recruit men to fight the Enemy in the East, I fear you will not win them easily.”

“Why?” asked Boromir, incredulous. “Have the Men of Rohan forgotten their friends in Gondor?” He would sooner believe in Mordor freezing over than in the Sons of Eorl forsaking their oaths.

“Friends to Gondor we remain,” said Eomer, not a little indignant at the accusation, “and yet we have to first and foremost protect what is ours. Uneasy times for Rohan are coming.” The Marshal’s face darkened.

“Aye, you do not have to tell me,” said Boromir. “It is the same in my homeland. Goblins on the prowl, towns and farmlands abandoned… Even Aldburg, the seat of your House, I have found much changed - once a place of bustling commerce, now more akin to a military base.”

"I have been fortifying the whole of Eastmarch,” Eomer admitted. “It's all we can do to weed out the orcs and the bandits from Dunland, but they keep appearing like mushrooms after an autumn rain. Most of the farmers have evacuated."

"To where?" asked Boromir “To the Folde? Or to Edoras?”

“To Dunharrow,” said Eomer.

“To the mountain fortress?” Boromir exclaimed. “Is it truly so dire? Surely while Minas Tirith and Cair Andros yet stand, Edoras cannot fall?”

"You are thinking of the threat of Mordor, like many with you," said Eomer with pain in his eyes. "Yet it is not Barad Dur that has me worried - it is Orthanc.”

"Orthanc!?" exclaimed Boromir. "It cannot be! Though I harbor no great love for the White Wizard, long has he been a friend to Gondor and other tribes of the Men of Numenor."

Eomer scowled.

"Yes, I have heard that already, from my uncle and cousin alike. We have had no overt signs of hostility from Isengrad so far, they say. And yet, in my very bones I feel it, the tides have changed.” Boromir noticed Eomer’s fists tightening about the reigns. “Saruman the White is arming for some secret ill-doings. The weapons that the goblins lug on their carts are Orthanc-forged.” He sighed. “Theoden King will sadly not heed my counsel in this. And you know how Theodred is."

“Aye.” Boromir knew Prince Theodred and his constant nature. In contrast to the hot-blooded Eomer, Theodred, with his diplomatic inclinations, was unlikely to throw accusations or see hostility where there had been none previously.

“I am hoping the news from Gondor that you bear shall serve to open their eyes to the direness of our situation,” said Eomer. “And about that, you never answered my first question - what is it you came here seeking?” he turned on his horse to regard Boromir with renewed curiosity.

“I seek only a safe passage through the Gap of Rohan,” said Boromir. “The Lord Steward entrusted me with a mission, and for this reason I must reach the Old Arnor.”

Eomer looked like he wanted to ask more questions about this secret quest, but he must have sensed that its nature was delicate, and, perhaps for the presence of Eothain and the other men, he refrained from further inquiries. Instead, another matter captured his focus.

“You mean to climb the hills of Dunland and traverse the ancient woods of Edenwaith with Bathor as your steed?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Boromir. “Why should I not? You said it yourself, yesterday: Bathor is valiant and has ever served me well!”

“Aye, that may be - during grand battles! As a cavalry horse, part of an entire rank of other riders,” said Eomer. “To brave the wilds, you need a steed that isn’t easily provoked, that is cunning and effortless to guide.”

Boromir knew that when a Man of Rohan offered advice on horses, a wise Man of Gondor listened. Bathor, on the other hand, yanked his reins and stomped his hoof, neighing in indignation at Eomer’s words.

“Peace, Bathor!” said Boromir. “Let it be known far and wide that you are plenty cunning and stout of heart!” he declared.

Eomer laughed at the horse’s antics. 

“Nay, Bathor,” he said. “None would ever dare to suggest that you are slow-witted,” he amended, which served to appease the proud stallion.

“'Tis true what Eomer said, that you love the open fields much more than woodland paths and rocky passages,” said Boromir. “Though, I am loath to part with Bathor.”

Such was their chatter for most of the way. They dined in one of the roadside taverns, then admired the view of Edoras, as it first appeared from behind the Ironsaw Mountain, and as it grew bigger and more splendid with their approach. Boromir let Bathor drink from the Snowburn. Must be like tasting mother’s milk again for him, he thought, for he knew that Bathor would graze on the grasslands surrounding Edoras and drink from the icy river in his foal years.

“Ah, Bathor,” Boromir said when they passed the hallowed Barrowfield, “you are home again and I am among brethren.”

And yet, the ‘brethren’ did not welcome Boromir and Eomer with overmuch cheer at the gate. This was a change from what Boromir remembered from the time of his frequent visits to Edoras in the past, when the guards at the gate would greet him as a celebrated guest. What did you expect, when you have been absent from so many years? he gave himself a light reprimand. But he found it hard to dwell on his disappointment, when the Golden Hall glinted invitingly in the afternoon sun and he was momentarily overcome with a new wave of warm nostalgia. 

Together with Eomer they climbed through the meandering street uphill on their horses. Despite Boromir’s cherished memories that readily lent color to all things around, not everything in Edoras was as he had remembered it, either. The burg had lost some of its glow in his absence. The local folk seemed downtrodden and dreary, the houses weren't as clean as they had used to. Could it be that the people of Rohan have lost their pride? His initial enthusiasm at being back gave way to creeping sadness by the time they reached the summit.

The crown jewel of Rohan, Meduseld - the Golden Hall, towered now over them. How many times in his youth had Boromir climbed up the stone steps, only to be met with Theodred’s warm embrace, and greeted as a friend by Theoden King? He would inquire after the health of the Princess; on a good day, he would even be allowed to meet her and escort the Lady on a walk around the Hall. Countless nights had Boromir passed under Meduseld’s golden thatched roof, drinking mead with the King and his family.

And yet the Hall’s doors, with their heavy wrought-iron hinges and weathered wood carvings, that Boromir had always, in the past, found wide open, akin to a mother’s arms beckoning a child, were now closed. In front of them, two guards were stationed, as had ever been the custom. Only this time, the men did not look like they had been put there just for the sake of appearances. An even greater shock came, when Boromir and Eomer approached the door. Boromir had thought they would be readily allowed to enter, and yet the guards made them wait, as one of them went to fetch someone.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Boromir. “Surely the Marshal of the Mark is allowed to enter the King’s Hall?”

Eomer only shook his head, resigned.

“This is a new edict of the King - all must be first questioned who come knocking, no exceptions,” he said. “Better just wait -” But he was cut off by the door opening, and out came Hama, the captain of Theoden King’s guard. Boromir knew him well, and was pleased to see him in good health, even if the years had sprinkled Hama’s temples with more silver. 

“Who comes here?” the doorward asked solemnly.

“Eomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, and Boromir of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower,” Eomer answered. Boromir elected not to comment any further on the new closed door policy. I am a guest here. I would be amiss to put my nose into Rohan’s internal affairs, he thought. Only after hearing their names announced according to the new custom did Hama’s face lighten. 

“Lord Eomer! Lord Boromir!” he spoke with candor. “Your arrival gladdens me, as it is sure to gladden the King,” 

“We shall see,” Eomer muttered darkly, so quiet that Boromir barely caught it.

“Enter in peace,” said Hama, and pushed the door wider for them, allowing them a passage.

The Golden Hall took its name from its outside appearance - made entirely of Firien Wood’s hallowed oak timber, thatched with the straw mowed from Rohan’s grassy plains, it would blaze golden under the sun’s caress. The Hall’s real treasure lay inside, though. The walls, the wooden supporting beams, the floor, and even the stone fire pit had been decorated over the centuries by the hands of Rohan’s most talented artists and craftsmen. Its carvings, paintings, tapestries and mosaics depicted the history of Eorl’s people and everything they held dear. The silhouettes of the Horse Lords of old would ever dance, and chase, and battle, animated by the flickering flames of the central fire pit and the numerous torches that bathed the Hall in their warm glow. It made for an almost religious experience, and it had never failed to render Boromir awestruck upon entering the chamber. Never until now, it seemed, for this time the Golden Hall did not seem to Boromir all that golden. 

The hearth at the center was dead, with only mounds of cold ash remaining where the fire had used to burn. The hall was illuminated only by the bluish light falling through the louver in the roof and the small windows high on the eastern wall. The air was foggy with incense smoke and dust lingering in the air, which completed the eerie, chilling ambiance. The masterpieces of Rohirric arts and crafts remained covered by the heavy shadows lingering about the chamber’s corners. The Hall was empty of people, save three: Theoden King, sitting, or rather - slumping, upon his throne, a tall, handsome Lady clad head to toe in white, and a third man dressed in all black, whom Boromir had never met before.

"Hail, Theoden King," said Eomer as he bowed before the throne. "Your servant Eomer greets you. I bring with me Boromir of Gondor, who is seeking hospitality in your Kingdom."

"Hail, Theoden King," Boromir echoed and bowed before the King as well.

"So you have come to me, at last, Eomer," spoke the King, his voice feeble, but with a stony undertone. "A long time has passed since your prior report,” he remarked. 

“I have been keeping busy, Sire, with defending the Eastmarch,” said Eomer and bowed again. The King ignored him.

“Longer still since last the son of Denethor has graced these Halls with his presence,” he said. Boromir perceived the jab and had the conscience to feel sufficiently chastised. “Rohan welcomes you, Captain of the White Tower."

Standing before the throne allowed Boromir to assess the monarch’s health for himself. Theoden King appeared much changed. He was bent and dourly clad, with his once bright face now overshadowed with a frown and obscured by a tangled beard. But the greatest change appeared to be in Theoden's manners. Boromir had always known the King as an energetic, jovial man, generous and kind to all guests, cordial with his family. The cool distance, the underhanded remarks - this did not agree with Theoden King’s character, and yet…

“Theoden King,” Boromir began. “None is more saddened by my long absence from Edoras than I, and none more happy to be standing here again,” he said. “I bring with me dark tidings from Gondor, and I humbly ask for a safe passage through the Gap of Rohan for myself.”

“Aye, aye!” said the King. Ha waved his hand impatiently. “You may respite in our Guest Hall, then pass and be on your way.” This felt an awful lot like a dismissal. Theoden did not appear at all concerned with any news from Gondor that Boromir might relay.

Boromir was shocked. This was the first time that he’d been greeted so curtly in the Golden Hall. In the past, Theoden King would invite him to his private chambers, where they would discuss in detail the state of Gondor's affairs, the Steward's health and Boromir’s present tasks. He would also be given accommodations in Meduseld proper, with the King’s family. Relegating him to the Guest House was a new development, one of which Boromir was hard pressed to figure out the meaning.

“My Lord,” the white Lady spoke out. “Allow me to escort Lord Boromir to his chambers and see to his needs in your name.”

Boromir had guessed the dame’s identity immediately, though reconciling her present image with his memory proved more of a challenge. Young Eowyn, sister to Marshal Eomer, as Boromir had remembered her, had favoured boys’ attire, and would wear her hair tightly pleated around her sun-bronzed, perpetually scrunched visage. Now, standing on the dais tall, in all her womanly glory, with the cascading hair catching any sparse light and creating a halo around her, she made for a study of contrasts. Her skin was clear, and yet unnaturally pale, her face as gentle as it was unresponsive. The youth that adorned her seemed eclipsed by burdens beyond her years. A sad and pathetic image she made, and Boromir's heart was gripped with grief. She had used to be a cheerful child, always so eager to meet and greet him. Now - nothing save the barest nod of her head signified she had even noticed his coming. Boromir was tempted to yank her from the gloomy Hall, which might as well have become her tomb.

“Yes, go, sweet daughter. See to our guest, if it be your will, and return swiftly to me,” the King allowed. “Eomer, you shall stay. There are things we must discuss in private,” he ordered, and Eomer once again bowed in acquiescence.

The Lady moved, yet as she descended the dais, another voice spoke out - an oily, whimpering opposition, the source of which Boromir had at first some trouble placing.

“Be this strictly wise, my Liege,” questioned the advisor, to whom Boromir paid little attention until now, “to let the sweet Lady go alone with the foreign Lord? Could not some ill fortune befall her, away from our watchful eyes?”

This insinuation outraged Boromir. Beside him, he saw Eomer also bristle, and lay his hand on the pommel of his sword, Guthwine. Boromir’s first impulse was to challenge the impudent to a duel. How dare the lowlife suggest that he, Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, could ever allow, or worse yet - cause any injury to a dame in his presence? This could not stand! Only the advisor’s measly stature and the lack of any weapons on his mean person, which would make for a rather uneven match, stayed Boromir’s hand.

“Mark your words, sir!” he warned instead, but, as it turned out, he need not have worried, for he found an equally staunch defender in the Lady herself.

“A sad day would it be for our Kingdom, indeed, and cause for much shame,” Eowyn declared coldly, not even gracing the advisor with a glance, “on which, instead of a soft bed and a warm meal, our noble guest would be met with cowardly mistrust and discourtesy.” The advisor winced and blanched. The Lady’s disdain wounded him more severely, it seemed, than Boromir’s iron ever might. 

“You may leave,” said the King, and that was apparently all he was going to contribute to the matter. Deeply saddened, Boromir bowed.

“Come, my Lord,” said Lady Eowyn and passed him, swishing her white gown. “If you would follow me.”

They came out of Meduseld, into the last light of the day. As they descended the stone steps, the Lady addressed him again.

“I beg you, my Lord, do not take my uncle's manner as a slight meant for you,” she said, and looked to Boromir solemnly. “No one, save for the Crown Prince and I, has been allowed to reside in the Golden Hall for some moons now. The King’s health has unfortunately worsened, of late. It has made him reclusive and less trusting." Lady Eowyn's words were measured but even Boromir could tell her distress ran deep. “Believe it, he is glad for your coming,” she offered.

“Do not trouble yourself on my account, Lady,” Boromir said. “I am, and I shall ever remain, a friend to the King your uncle, and to your people.” Lady Eowyn nodded, thankful. “That advisor, however, is, if you’ll allow it, a right piece of work.”

“Oh, I allow that and much more,” Eowyn bristled. “Grima son of Galmod, he calls himself, though good old Galmod must be turning in his barrow for all his mischief. Ever since Grima became an advisor, he has sown only discord and worry among the court.” She sighed. “But, he is very attentive towards the King. My uncle came to rely on him greatly in his infirmity, so all of us must suffer the wretch.”

“If I may, Lady,” said Boromir, “you did not strike me as particularly long-suffering when you had told him off.”

The Lady smiled privately, at that.

“I have my ways,” she said.

Though she made light of it, Boromir marvelled again at the burdens that young Eowyn had to shoulder daily. 

"I laud your spirit, Lady. I hope it never dims," he offered, and admired the first tinge of colour that dawned on Eowyn’s face in response. 

The Guest Hall was a spacious wooden building, with stone foundations and decorative carvings on the walls, erected in the vicinity of Meduseld and the King's Stables. Boromir followed Lady Eowyn through its well lit main chamber with several rows of wooden tables and a big fireplace with a stone chimney, to one of the adjacent suites meant for the guests. The Lady then ordered that a bath be drawn and a meal prepared for Boromir.

"The Prince my cousin should arrive shortly,” she said. “A patrol in the Westfold must have delayed him.” Then she departed, bidding him a good evening. 

The legendary hospitality of the Horse Lords did not disappoint. Boromir could not stifle a groan when he entered the steaming bath, feeling the flesh of his back and legs release the tension that had accumulated during the days spent on the road. He washed the highway dust off of his body and hair. Would that I could clear my head of all the worries just as easily, he thought. He realized that this might be the last time he got to enjoy a warm bath and a meal freshly prepared for him. Whatever awaited amidst the treacherous hills of Dunland, and among the ruins of the lost kingdoms of Arnor, he very much doubted scented oils were part of it.

Thoroughly refreshed, Boromir left his clothes to be cleaned and emerged from his assigned chambers. He was unprepared for how the sight of Prince Theodred, who had been sitting by one of the tables in the hall, and now stood up to greet him, would affect him. When the bath had lightened his body, Theodred’s embrace eased his mind.

Boromir and Theodred had been friends since childhood, acquainted at an early age during one of the formerly frequent diplomatic visits between Gondor and Rohan. They weren't exactly kindred spirits. Theodred was a calm and reticent man; he often had a mollifying influence on Boromir. It had been the similarities between their circumstances, and their shared lot in life that had made brothers of them. There used to be a time when they would correspond daily. Now, as statesmen and warriors, they had less time to continue with the frequent letters, but Boromir knew that it had not diminished the honest regard in which they held each other.

"Welcome," said Theodred.

“It has been too long,” said Boromir. Tears nearly choked him, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “I almost forgot how your face looks,” he resorted to humour. “I certainly don’t remember it being so long.”

Theodred released him and frowned, regarding Boromir earnestly.

“Your brow is also marked by worry,” he said. “If the unrest brewing in the East has clouded the sky of Rohan, then Gondor has been weathering violent tempests for years now because of it.”

“I take it you have heard of Osgiliath?” Boromir asked, not really needing a confirmation.

“Aye,” said Theodred. “The waves made by the Great Bridge falling have reached Rohan in the end.” Boromir frowned. Theodred's words and manner seemed to indicate at something hidden.

"The waves? What do you mean?" he asked. He saw Theodred hesitate, as if he were mustering the courage.

"There are tales of frightful Black Riders, among the people," said the Prince finally. "They have passed through the Wold, leaving despair in their wake."

"The Black Riders of Mordor?" Boromir gasped. He trembled even at the mamory of their last encounter. "Whither did they go? Do you know?" he asked urgently.

"They rode to the West," answered Theodred. "Beyond that, none here could tell you aught."

Wonderful, thought Boromir. They rode west, which is, coincidentally, where I am also going. This did not fill Boromir with much confidence. He had hoped that in Osgiliath he had seen the last of the Morgul Knights.

Some of Boromir's morose thoughts must have shown on his face, for Theodred made an attempt to lighten the mood.

“There are no Black Riders here at present, at least," he said. "Come, Boromir, let us sit in peace and dine together.”

Theodred signaled one of the serving girls, and they sat down at the table. Before long, platters laden with fresh bread and roast meat, along with two tall tankards of mead, appeared before them. For a time, they traded news as they ate. Boromir recounted the defense of Osgiliath and Gondor’s fortification plans. In turn, Theodred told him about the heavy trouble that the riders of the Mark were facing on their Eastern and Western borders.

“Of late, it feels as if Rohan was squashed between two hostile forces, Mordor and Dunland,” he said. “The White Wizard has made no move to help us during the last raid, nor have we heard any news from him for some time now.”

"Eomer seems to believe that Saruman broke faith with the race of Men," Boromir ventured.

"Aye, I have heard that," said Theodred. "Eomer has had his hands full, defending our eastern borders. Out of despair he gives way to such dark thoughts."

“You do not suppose there might be some truth to it?” asked Boromir. "You said it yourself, Curunir has allowed the Wildmen to cross the Gap and challenge you in his wake."

“The Eorlingas have never known Saruman to side with evil,” said Theodred. “I only wonder what he is doing, locked up in his tower like that."

"Mayhaps he is pondering his orb, or whatever else the Wizards be doing in their long hours," Boromir said tersely. In truth the situation wasn't funny. It's always something with the Wizards, isn't it, he thought. I sure hope there are no Wizards in Imladris.

"We have to hope Saruman will keep faith," concluded Theodred, "for I do not think we can challenge Mordor without his support. We shall try sending envoys to Orthanc, once the valley is cleared of the Dunland Men.”

To that, Boromir said nothing. He had his own matter to bring to the Wizard, as per the Lord Steward's instructions. And yet, could the old Curumo be trusted? The riddle of Saruman's alegiance rattled Boromir's mind in vain.

They finished the repast and then raised their tankards.

"Your arrival here gladdens my heart, Boromir," said Theodred and they drank together. "Only looking upon you brings to mind a happier time. I dearly hope it will serve to cheer up my Lord father, as well. Say, Boromir, will you stay for longer?”

At that, Boromir grew wistful.

"Would that I could,” he said with genuine regret. “Alas, I have to push on to the West as soon as I am able."

"You mean to go into the land of the Dunlendings? Now, so soon after the raid? Whatever for?" asked Theodred, mighty surprised.

Boromir looked around the crowded Guest Hall, which afforded for excellent company, but very little privacy.

"I shall tell you, but not here,” he said. “Let us walk to the stables, if you will. There is a thing I wanted to ask of you, anyway.”

Theodred agreed easily and the two ended their meal. They went outside, enjoying the warm air of summer night and full stomachs. Boromir afforded himself a minute to forestall his awesome tale and simply walk with Theodred. Edoras, the Golden Hall surrounded from all sides by golden fields, would during the warm months erupt after dark in cricket song so loud, that Boromir often wondered how the dead could slumber in the barrows amidst such clamour. The chirping of insects now served to cover Boromir's secrets, so that none save for Theodred could learn about the sword that was broken, his quest for Imladris, nor about Isildur's Bane. He recounted the dream and the riddle in full to his friend.

"Why would you need a sword that was broken?" asked Theodred soberly. "Wouldn't it be a disadvantage in a battle?"

"Doesn't sound very helpful, does it?" Boromir grimaced. "These visions are filled with such nonsense. Though, Faramir says it could be the lost sword of Elendil, if you can even imagine it. I suppose I won't know until I find this land of Imladris."

"I've never heard of it," said Theodred. The whole thing clearly perplexed him. "And what about the so-called Halfling? There are songs of Halflings from ages past, but I do not think anyone has seen a proper gnome in hundreds of years, if indeed they ever existed," the Prince mused.

"Let there be a Halfling, or even a flock of them, I care not," Boromir bristled. "It is the part about Isildur's Bane that has me worried the most. The lore is forgotten, the ancient scrolls misplaced or stolen. I find myself venturing in search of the Bane, not even knowing what it might truly be." Boromir fell silent for a while and felt Theodred's eyes on him in the darkness. "Do you suppose it is some terrible weapon?" he asked quietly, dreading the answer. "It must be, to have felled so mighty a King. Who will I have to fight for it? To what lengths will I myself have to go to secure it?"

The welcome weight of Theodred's hand settled on Boromir's shoulder, anchoring him to the present.

"Nothing good comes of guessing. Venture out, see the Bane for yourself, and only then decide the course of action," Theodred said, ever the voice of reason. "Tomorrow, I will see you off with my men. I have cleared the path west with Elfhelm's Eored, yet I cannot in good conscience let you travel through the Westfold alone, so soon after the raid."

"Very well," said Boromir. "Thank you for the advice and for your company." The words failed to encompass the depth of gratitude that he currently felt, but they would have to do. Their walk had taken them to the King's Stables. The light of torches spilled out from its open gate. The musty smell of animals that wafted from it had a calming quality.

"Let us go inside," said Theodred, "and make sure our horses are ready for the journey."

"Ah!" said Boromir, entering the stables after Theodred. "That is the very thing I wanted to ask you." They passed along the row of stalls, that housed the horses in the whole of Middle Earth. Boromir halted in front of Bathor's cubicle and opened it for Theodred's appraisal. "Behold my steed. What do you make of him?"

Theodred approached. Bathor snorted in way of friendly greeting and let the Prince pat his head.

"That is the horse you mean to take with you to Arnor?" Theodred wondered.

"His name is Bathor. He was a gift from your father," Boromir said defensively.

"Aye, I recall," Theodred nodded. "And do not mistake me; he is a fine steed, picked especially for you. But - a war destrier? In the wilderness?"

Boromir sighed.

"Eomer advised against it," he admitted.

"As he should!” exclaimed the Prince. Horses were the sole topic that could get him excited in no time at all. “Bathor can push through and trample, but will he find his way alone, in the wilds?” Throdred tutted and shook his head. “A lone rider on a treacherous terrain, with some need for stealth, as you will be, shall have more help from a lighter steed, with a shorter back and surer hoofs.”

Theodred beckoned him and they passed onto another stall.

"Here. Felar has been uneasy to venture forth for some time now,” he patted the horse’s neck. “He is nimble, wicked smart and easy to reign in. Should you get lost in the wilds, he can find his way home without mistake.”

Boromir heard the wisdom in Theodred's words. He knew better than to argue with the Prince of Rohan about horses. But Bathor was his friend, the only friend he had thought he'd be allowed to take with him to Imladris... Was he to part with all that were dear to him after all?

As if reading his mind, Theodred spoke further.

"Unused as he is to braving the wilderness, he might come to harm on steep mountain paths, or drown in a bog," he warned.

Sooner will I leave him behind than let any ill-adventure befall my friend in the Wild West, Boromir thought, and his mind was made.

"And what will become of Bathor?" he asked.

"I will take care of him personally,” offered Theodred. “When you come back, you can claim him again."

"Nay," Said Boromir. “Better you send him to Minas Tirith, with a rider and a missive for the Steward. I am not sure when I shall return, or indeed if I shall pass through Rohan on my way." He did not mention the possibility of him not coming back at all, because that in Boromir's mind wasn't a viable option - he was under oath. He had to keep it, or else Gondor would perish, and with her - dearest Faramir, and the Steward, and Derufin, and the beloved White City, and Rohan, and Theodred...

***

Despite the long journey that awaited him, sleep eluded Boromir that night. Ere the first rays of dawn he rose, got dressed and left the Guest Hall. His feet took him down, and down, seemingly of their own accord, through the languidly rousing city, through the gate, towards the Barrowfield that stretched outside of it. Covered in mist, the meadow appeared to him akin to the Sea, as it had been on calm summer mornings he’d spent in Belfalas as a child - with an archipelago of burial mounds of the Eorlingas covered in white bloom. Though the barrows looked nearly identical, even after all the years, Boromir had no difficulty seeking out the one that he had come to find. He waded in the mist until he stood before the sealed entrance to Princess Idis’s* tomb.

Not for the first time he wondered how his life would have been, had fair Idis had survived her illness and had they wedded. Would she have stayed in Minas Tirith, while he had gone off in search of Imlardis? Would he have left a child in Minas Tirith, as well? Or several small ones? He could hardly wrap his mind about the idea. Going to war would have been much harder, had he had a family of his own to orphan. Aye, but returning might be easier, he thought, remembering Celeg, so eager to be with his young wife again, and Reinmar, whose body had been washed, and dressed, and looked after by his kin. I should be glad, he thought, to one day return here, to Idis's barrow. It was easy to lay down his life for an entire nation - had something happened to Boromir, someone, likely his brother, would readily take over his duties. But who would have been a father to his children and a husband to his wife, in case of his untimely death? Do not think along those lines, Boromir, he told himself. First, you do not have a wife. And second, even now, there are people that would grieve you. His thoughts went once again to Faramir. Would they yet have a chance reconcile their wounded hearts?

Right then, Boromir felt a presence near him and turned around to see who had come. He blinked, wanting to dispel the remnants of sleep clouding his sight still, for the vision before him appeared taken straight from one of Faramir’s prophetic dreams. Here, among the buried bones of the Eorlingas, one of the great Kings of Rohan from yonder days marched through the mists - his brow solemn, his back straight and his step plenty spry. Boromir knelt before the Lord of the Mark.

“Rise, Boromir of Gondor,” said Theoden King. For it was Theoden King, and not Eorl the Young himself, as Boromir had at first guessed in his awestruck wonder. The proud, noble Lord that Boromir remembered from his youth, and that now stood before him, was an image so far removed from the dotard that had greeted him on the day before in the Golden Hall, that it left Boromir disoriented, with a vague sense of his mind reeling. “Though you already have a father to claim you, in my heart I still name you my son,” the King spoke further, unheeding of Boromir's inner turmoil. “And even so, even for all the love I bore for you, Death became my daughter’s groom before Boromir did, and this cold tomb became her alcove. A shroud in place of a gown. A dirge for a hymn. Where are Boromir and Theoden to find consolation, when all hope appears lost with the Ladies that we have loved?” Though the King’s face was clear again, his speech remained mournful and marred with despair.

“In the memory of their goodness and in the service of our Kingdoms, Valar permit,” said Boromir, his voice raspy from unshed tears. The deaths of Queen Elfhild and Princess Idis, while tragic, had fallen on the House of Earl years ago. And yet it appeared that to Theoden’s heart these wounds were as if fresh, opened anew and bleeding.

“Ha!” Theoden uttered a mirthless chuckle. “That was rightly spoken indeed,” he said. “The Steward has taught you well. Is that what you have come here seeking? The solace of her memory?” To that, Boromir said nothing, feeling his supply of wit depleted for the moment. “Tell me this, Boromir. Why is Gondor’s most valiant protector leaving her fields on the eve of a great battle?”

And Boromir almost told the King about Isildur’s Bane. Almost, for he saw in that moment, over the King’s shoulder, another figure approaching. A thin, mean silhouette, that appeared to be skulking even when traversing an open field on a bright morning. Boromir knew him - it was the advisor, Grima, that had offended him yesterday in the Throne Hall. A strange feeling of suspicion and ominous foreboding seized him. Do not reveal your true purpose, the spirits of the barrows whispered in the wind.

“In search of allies beyond Gondor and Rohan,” Boromir answered instead, which was true, but vague enough to conceal his quest for Isildur’s Bane. One day I shall tell Theoden King all about it. I shall tell him when my purpose is fulfilled, when he is himself again, and this dark malady of the spirit has abated in him, Boromir vowed.

Theoden sighed and his shoulders rounded.

“You will have to forgive this old man for not having been a better host yesterday," he said, regretful. "I lose my temper easily these days, it seems.”

"No harm done, my Lord," Boromir rushed to reassure the King. "I harbor only gratitude for you and yours." The King smiled. Over his shoulder, Boromir could see the advisor steadily clearing the field, heading in their direction.

"Thank you for not forgetting about her," said Theoden. "One child I have lost already. If aught happens to Theodred..."

Boromir almost choked on his own tongue, hearing that.

"My Lord!" he objected. "The Prince is in good health. Why say so?"

"My heart grows heavy with worries sometimes," said Theoden King. It seemed that his strenght was leaving him again. “Every time the Rohirrim ride out to battle, I get this vision of another burial mound sprouting from this hallowed ground…” Theoden’s eyes became glassy, as if he bore witness to some yet unheard of grim future, that only he could see.

"My Liege!" sounded an oily voice from behind the King. It was the man, Grima, who had finally reached them. "My Liege, you shall surely catch a cold if you are out this early! Be this Lord Boromir's doing?" he asked, throwing an accusing glance Boromir's way.

"I do not recall that we've been introduced," said Boromir coldly, indignant at Grima's continued impudence.

"Ah," Theoden sighed. "A more concerned advisor than Grima I could not have hoped for. But hold Lord Boromir blameless for my escapade - the thought was independent; I see it's folly now," the King rambled on, in every way now the dotard that he'd appeared yesterday. "A chill has overtaken my bones, indeed, I must hurry inside."

Was this how the mighty Theoden King spent his days, then? Cowering inside the golden walls, behind the closed doors? Boromir wondered this, as he watched the King and the advisor retreat towards the gate. I must allow an old man his eccentricities, he decided finally, more to reassure himself. Seeing what had become of Rohan, he felt all the stronger the import of his mission. Once again he made a vow to himself, to his father, and to the bones of Princess Idis, that he would not fail. Wherever you are, Lady, please, guide me and watch over the success of my quest, for much depends upon it, he prayed.

Trust your heart, and do not give in to despair, the ghosts of the barrows answered, or mayhaps it was just the wind. With a heavier heart, Boromir returned to Meduseld. Theodred awaited him by the stables.

***

Boromir and Theodred made good progress through the Westfold. It took them near to two days to reach the Fords of Isen - they sheltered for the night at a small riders' outpost, in one of the farming villages surrounding Hornburg. They whiled away the hours spent on horseback with idle banter, talking about this and that, just like they would in the old, much simpler times. It would be hard for Boromir to express how much that camaraderie meant to him, how blissful was it to hide in the illusion that nothing had changed, that this was just one of his many friendly visits to the Land of the Horse Lords. 

And yet so many things were different. Theodred, for one, had ever been a solemn, thoughtful man, but now he came across as downright broody. In those moments when the Prince thought Boromir wasn’t paying attention, his face would become drawn and his eyes downcast, as if he were shedding a mask of good humour he only kept up for his friend’s sake. The March seemed eerily silent - abandoned in the wake of recent raids, as if the land itself held its breath.

And finally, the fantasy of a carefree country ride shattered completely, for when they reached the Fords and looked upstream, through the Wizard’s Vale, the sight of Orthanc, that stood proudly erect and seemed to dwarf even the mist-clad Methedras itself, made Boromir remember the Steward’s parting words. Seek out the Wizard Saruman on your way to the West. His father’s charge had weighed heavily on him even before, and caused some inner confusion, so he had not mentioned this design to Theodred on their way through the Fold. And now that he beheld the sight of Isengard’s walls glistening in the distance, a heavy and bitter dread entered Boromir's heart. He remembered the strange feeling that had seized him upon beloved Idis's grave, the bone-penetrating, ominous foreboding that nothing was in truth as it presented itself.

He decided then and there not to go to the White Wizard and to forgo his counsel entirely. He had promised his father he'd bring the Bane back to Gondor - and he would. However, how he went about it remained his concern. Boromir might not have been a strategist like the Steward, nor a clairvoyant like his brother, nor a wise man like Saruman, but even he could tell, after nigh to ten days of his journey so far, that some unforeseen powers were at play in this entire quest for Imladris, and he would do well not to tempt them. The Wizard's betrayal was unthinkable. And yet, to trust him fully was also an impossibility. He could not, he would not in good conscience appeal to Curumo as a friend. Ignoring his father’s advice sat ill with him, as it ever had in the rare cases where he had not heeded the Steward’s word in the past. Yet, a strange thought occurred to him: Perhaps by not going to Saruman when his allegiance remains untested, I am indeed protecting my father, and Gondor as well. But protecting from what? That, he did not know.

Theodred must have guessed that Boromir’s thoughts were heavy, for he had not intruded upon Boromir’s brooding and only spoke up once Boromir looked to him, his dilemma finally resolved.

"This Ford is the limit of the Westfold,” said Theodred. “You are leaving the King’s Land behind and entering the Great Wilds. The Valar avail you, for none else will."

“What of Felar?” Boromir asked, rubbing the horse’s neck affectionately.

A rare glimpse of mirth chased through Theodred’s face.

“Aye, Felar shall aid you, so long as you do not slack off with his care.”

Boromir dismounted and took Felar’s reigns. Slowly, solemnly, he approached the Ford. He would not go to the Wizard, but neither would he cower from Orthanc’s sight. Nor from anyone or anything that might meet him in the Wilds. He unfastened the Horn of Gondor, inhaled a lungful of fresh mountain air and blew with all his might.

To Felar and Brego’s credit, the horses did not spook, though their ears twitched and Brego snorted loudly, clearly offended. Theodred, who had also dismounted, only shook his head, but knew better than to tell Boromir off for blowing the Horn. 

"Theodred, Prince of the Horse Lords, from the bottom of my heart I thank you. And Gondor thanks you,” Boromir said, clasping the Prince’s arm. “We may not be brothers in blood, but we are brothers in mind and heart."

"So we are. Be safe, brother. And Boromir…" Here Theodred’s voice faltered wetly, so overcome he was with feeling.

"Aye?"

"I pray that you come back bearing hope for our people. It is long since we had any hope."

=======

* Princess Idis of the House of Eorl is JRRT’s own OC, not mine. In the initial drafts, Theoden King had two natural children: Theodred and Idis. Tolkien later either scrapped her parts or gave them to Eowyn. You can read about her on Tolkien Gateway (they cite Christopher Tolkien’s The Treason of Isengard). I used the discarded lore to give Boromir a more setting-appropriate backstory. It just didn’t make sense for an heir to the Stewardship, with such a controlling father like Denethor, to never have made even an attempt at courtship and marriage. Their engagement also adds to the reasons why Boromir was so well liked in Rohan.

This part of Boromir's journey ends here. See you in other works!

Cover image gifted by @quillofspirit. Thank you so much! <3 I want to also thank Ecthelion again for the helpful Middle-earth history corrections.

[electroniccollectiondonut]

season two of rings of power just came out and i'm watching it with my grama because she thinks it's delightful to activate my Sleeper Tolkien Nerd Rant Mode and i'm happy to oblige and yknow i think a lot of my problem with this show (aside from the total disregard for plot and lore and the fact that it's a blatant cashgrab) comes from its lack of aesthetic sincerity. like, if you're gonna make a show set in middle earth you gotta commit! and it doesn't. the elves are just people in shimmery robes. the southlanders are just people with dirt on them. the numenoreans are just people in armor. the hobbits are just people with plants in their hair. i don't hate the portrayal of the dwarves actually but it still has nothing on the Erebor In Its Prime scenes from the movies.

like, i was neutral about the casting in the movies. there was nothing wrong with them but none of them really hit like "they're the Visually Perfect Actor for that character!" (although some of them are pretty damn close.) the reason the casting in the movies is so good is because they cast people with acting chops and a fairly close appearance and then actually made them look the part. they made the elves ethereal yet diminishing and the rohirrim weathered but still standing and the gondorians grand but in decline and the hobbits quaint and the dwarves enduring. and the wizards werent Always otherworldly but when they needed to pull out the otherworldly ainu vibes they DID. but they just have not put in that same effort in rings of power. everyone is is a guy in a costume and you dont really get to forget that.

and the SETTINGS in the movies. O. M. G. bigger nerds than me have written many many words on this topic. the settings in rings of power are gorgeous in wide landscape shots but then you get into focus on the characters and its just okay. and the second age is middle earth in it's prime, so if your scenery is just okay you've fumbled the bag HARD.

[emyn-arnens]

Hello! I've been meaning to ask this question since I read Sword-hearted but I was wondering if you've any headcanons you'd like to share about Théoden's sisters (only the unnamed ones or Théodwyn or both, I don't mind!)? (no pressure at all!)

I do indeed! I’ve been working on fleshing out Éowyn’s aunts for a WIP, and International Women’s Day seems like a good a day for sharing these.

Théodburga (born in 2946) was Thengel and Morwen's eldest child and daughter. She took after Thengel in appearance and Morwen in personality. She held greater love toward Rohan than her father did, and during her youth in Gondor, she would often ask her father for stories of Rohan, to which he would (usually begrudgingly) indulge her. She was often more successful if she asked Morwen, who had learned all that she could from the libraries of Lossarnach of the stories and culture of Rohan during her courtship with Thengel. As she grew up, she came to appreciate both sides of her ancestry.

Théodburga married Éoforheard (uncle of Éomund), lord of Aldburg, in 2970 and had three daughters with him (who, though Éowyn grew up in Aldburg with them, had such a gap in ages from her that she never was able to befriend them, and all were married and settled by the time Éowyn was taken to Edoras, leaving her without cousins to ask to come with her and keep her company). After Éoforheard’s death, Théodburga took up rulership of Aldburg until Éomund came of age and she relinquished the rulership to him. She was held by all the people of Aldburg as a greater ruler than her husband had been.

Despite their differences in age and personality, she grew close with Théodwyn after they had both reached adulthood, and she grieved greatly at her sister’s death, wracked with guilt at not being able to draw Théodwyn from either her illness or the depression she had fallen into after Éomund’s death.

Trewred (born in 2952) was the second daughter and took after Morwen in appearance, inheriting her dark hair. Having been under a year old at the time their family moved to Rohan, she had no memory of Gondor, and as a child often begrudged the people of Edoras for speaking ceaselessly of her Gondorian looks, when she herself felt little connection to Gondor.

She applied herself to learning the history of Rohan and often kept company with Gléowine, the court minstrel, learning the songs and tales of Rohan, and spent much time in the company of the older men and women of the court and city, who were held as elders and sages. She became known as a wite, or wise woman, and the people of Edoras often came to her for counsel.

In 2977, the lord of Hytbold in the Eastemnet visited Edoras, and Trewred married him a year later, seizing the chance to escape Edoras, where she felt she could never fully shake off her Gondorian ancestry, however much she immersed herself in the history and lore of Rohan. She and her husband were never able to bear children, and he died only a few years after they married. She never remarried and chose to remain in Hytbold, where she became greatly esteemed among her people for her wisdom.

Trewhild (born in 2956) was the third daughter, and like Trewred, she took after Morwen in appearance. As children, she and Trewred were the closest of the sisters, since Trewred was too young to have any memory of Gondor and Trewhild was born after their family moved to Rohan. That they both visibly reflected their Gondorian ancestry the most of their siblings and yet had the least connection with Gondor bound them all the closer. Trewhild loved (and was greatly skilled at) sparring and feats of arms and often joined Théoden as he trained with the men of his father’s Éored.

Trewhild never married (and as the fourth child felt little obligation to produce an heir) and instead chose to relinquish her title and duty. She stayed often in Hytbold with Trewred, and during the spring and summer would join the nomadic Rohirrim in the Wold, who named her a shield maiden, and protected their herds from Orc raids. It was Trewhild who first inspired Éowyn to want to become a shield maiden.

As a child, Théodwyn was greatly curious about her Gondorian heritage and the land that had been home to all of her siblings but her and Trewred, and often begged Morwen to tell her of her youth in Gondor and to describe for her the flowering vales of Lossarnach. She harbored some resentment over never having seen Gondor and couldn’t understand Trewred and Trewhild’s desire to distance themselves from their Gondorian ancestry. For this Thengel loved her dearest of all his children.

Théodwyn was closest with Théoden, often following at his heels as he went about his duties. When he returned from patrols and from hunting Orc raiding parties, he often brought her little gifts—a wooden horse he had carved while sitting on watch, an Orc arrowhead he had collected after a battle, a bundle of sweet cakes he had bartered from the Éored’s cook—and Théodwyn cherished these.

All of Théodwyn’s sisters were still alive at the time of her death, and though Théodburga would gladly have taken in Éomer and Éowyn, she knew how deeply Théoden had loved Théodwyn and did not want to rob him of the last memory he would have of her, and so she did not counter his offer to raise Éomer and Éowyn.

The general consensus from most fans seems to be either that the three unnamed sisters had died by the time of Théoden’s death and had left no sons who could lay claim to the throne of Rohan (or those sons had died), or that they had moved back to Gondor and married there and thus effectively removed any potential children they might have had from the succession. I don’t personally care for all of Théoden’s sisters and their children having died before the time of his death. It seems implausible to me that absolutely everyone would have died by then, and thus my headcanon about only Théodburga having children.

And I don’t really buy the idea that the two eldest unnamed daughters would want to move back to Gondor because of having spent their youth there, as the oldest daughter would have been between six and ten years old at the time of moving, and the second eldest somewhere between infancy and four years old—too young, imo, to have formed much of a connection to Gondor, or at least the kind of connection that would induce them to move back as adults.

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

I would so dearly love to be able to draw ideas and images that come from my own mind, and I just don’t have it in me. But I can kinda/sorta eke out a maybe OK version of a real person if I closely follow a solid reference, don’t make it too detailed, and spend an absurd amount of time on it. So this is my Guthláf, shamelessly face- and pose-stolen from this very handsome gentleman who appears in The Two Towers for a few seconds.* Guthláf is at the very top of my list of obscure Rohirrim obsessions and starring in my current fic. And I’ve got a real artist making an actual creative interpretation of him (and Wídfara!) soon, but maybe this will tide me over til then.

* It’s kind of funny to me that there’s this random background actor who had a tiny moment of glory standing next to Bernard Hill in a shot at Helm’s Deep before probably going on to lead a perfectly normal, under-the-radar life as just another regular Kiwi. But because I decided that his unnamed Rohirrim character is Guthláf, his face now appears on my blog semi-regularly. I hope he wouldn’t hate that.

[celeluwhenfics]

Random Rohan headcanon: The Creek Game

This horse game was first recorded in the late 29th century of the Third Age near Aldburg, although it has possibly existed in some form for much longer. It has since spread widely across the Mark. By the mid-30th century, it was acknowledged as an unofficial national sport in Rohan, and a great favourite amongst young Rohirrim.

To play the Creek game, you need: -A creek or small river, passable both on foot and by horse, by jumping or fording, or even swimming if the season allows. -Several miles of open plain on either side of the creek -Eighteen "runners", boys and girls of all ages -Six riders, usually the older boys who have started military training, but some strong, tall girls have also been known to excel in this position -Six good horses Note: the game is usually played bareback (without saddles)

The game starts with the runners and the riders on either side of the creek. For example, the runners are on the north side, and the riders on the south side. On the signal, the runners start running north, away from the creek. After giving them a headstart of the duration of the "creek song", the riders go after them. Once a runner is touched, they climb behind the rider, who turns the horse southwards at a gallop, and pass the creek. Once on the south side, he rider decides how far to let their captive runner off, and then moves on the catch another runner. Meanwhile, the previously captured runner makes their way north to pass again onto the other side of the creek. The game ends if the riders manage to get all runners on the south side at once, or when the sun sets. It is the responsibility of the riders that no one, horse or runner, gets severely injured and that all runners are accounted for by the end of the day.

Other rules that are more or less consistentky applied: -Riders can only pick up one runner at a time. -Runners must comply and get on the horse at the best of their ability once touched. No running away, or faking to be unable to get on, to gain time. You're an able-bodied young Rohirrim, you CAN get on a horse at a halt with the help of a strong rider in seconds. Do not pretend otherwise. -When on the horse, a captive runner cannot impede the rider, fall on purpose or try to get down before the rider decides to let them off. Hang on and ride.

Do ankles get turned, horseshoes lost, knees scraped, toes crushed,  manes pulled, clothes torn, tears shed, even bones broken? Yes, sometimes. But could there be a better way to build endurance in horses and young people? To train girls and boys in running on rugged terrain, to build their strenght, orientation, independence, resourcefulness and team work? To get future war horses accustomed to keep a cool head amidst running, pursuits, screaming, rough play and some chaos around them? To impart in young men responsibility and awareness of their comrades over vast areas, in addition to a solid seat without the support of a saddle or stirrups?

Memorable quotes include: 'Have we lost Gárulf and Wylfrun again?! Come on, they could be a little more subtle...' 'Rowena, don't cheat, I touched you already... Hey, COME HERE or I'll pull you up by your braid!' 'Please get off now. I don't care if you drown, I'm not making Arod jump that with both of us on his back.' 'Are you for real? You're running so slow when my brother is around. Be a real Eorling shieldmaiden and put up a fight, or he'll never like you.' 'I know I'm supposed to hang on tight to you, but let's say that you could use a dip in the river when we pass by, so I'll just trust Hasufel to not buck me off until then.' 'Bréda, we're supposed to run NORTH, you know. North is that way.'

...And that time when Théodred had to find, comfort and load on his horse no less than three crying children because Folcred had brought them unreasonably far south of the creek and the sun had long set.

Being an occasion for the girls to admire the riding prowess of young men from up close, and for these dashing riders to enjoy the tight grip of their giggling passenger, the creek game is admittedly the spark that started many an idyll amongst teenage Rohirrim.

It is also an excellent (if somewhat over-elaborated) excuse for an author to include the Only One Horse trope in her upcoming fic.

[thegoddesswater]

10 People I’d Like to Get to Know Better

I got tagged by @lanonima Thanks, Lano!

last song: Achilles Come Down - Gang of Youths

favourite colour: Probably blue (purple is a pretty close second, though)

last book: That I finished? Eesh. Death Troopers by Joe Schreiber. Currently reading Salmon of Doubt by Douglas Adams (also currently stalled hard on the newest Night Angel, it hurts my soul)

last movie: If we're talking theatres, then The Wild Robot. At home? I think it was War of the Rohirrim

last tv show: Avatar the Last Airbender

looking forward to: a number of things! Getting the MRI to maybe find out what's wrong with my hearing, getting to see a friend I haven't visited with in months, this year's comic expo...

current obsession: Eh. Nothing new, I think? Jak and Daxter still has a tonne of my attention, and then Talentless and ML are warring for my attention in addition to my fanfics. My brain is a very cluttered place right now.

Tagging: I dunno, mate. @darkgreenfangirl - you usually join me in tag games! Anyone else who would like to participate, really.

[indra-istari]

Saw LOTR in theaters: Thoughts and Feelings

1 - Fellowship of the Ring (2001) just saw this movie [Fellowship] for the first time in theaters (extended edition) and i love it. I love it so much. If i could be on any film set i’d go to the Lord of the Rings. This movie feels like coming home, i wrote my college essay about lotr, i passed my english class bc of lotr, these films are what made me want to make movies. I’ve been watching these movies for the past 8 years, i’ve loved these movies with the past 8 years. (i’ve also yearned to be Aragorn for Halloween since i was 12, but that’s a different story)

Tolkien Estate, please call me I have a banger silmarillion adaptation idea

(anyways Two Towers tomorrow, and Return of the King monday, thank god my parents like the lord of the rings)

2 - The Two Towers (2002) my “least fav” of the trilogy, not bc it’s bad, just bc the other ones are really good. ngl ive been growing my hair out mostly bc if these movies, with the hopes of being a Gondorian Ranger or a Silvan Elf, but we can only dream. 

Love the trilogy, probably gonna go home and watch the behind the scenes like a nerd

3 - The Return of the King (2003) As I hold this film close to my heart, i still really hate spiders. The sets, the scenes, the dialogue, the characters are all sort of a part of me. I spent a hot second in the theater wondering if my hair is long enough to be tied up like Aragorn’s in the Battle at the Black Gate. I explained the Sindarin meaning of Cirith Ungol and the Valar to my brother despite his slight annoyance. Basically i’m a nerd, but these films made me who I am, this story made me who I am. And for that I am grateful.

(though the portrayal of the Haradrim has a hard touch of orientalism)

seeing these movies in theaters is a dream come true, and definitely left me excited to see both rop s2 and the Battle of the Rohirrim later this year! I have hope for both, rop s1 was pretty good if you don't look at it from the lens of 'silm adaptation' I think the fact that it operates in a grey area is good, but they should embrace original characters more. Anyways yeah i love lotr, and I hope RoP is good cuz I want a chance to work on a silm adaptation in the future.

[personaei]

" Women of Rohan learned many ages ago that those who did not know how to use a sword could still die by them. I learned as you did. Through practice. " For the second time in as many weeks, it seemed, she had to repeat that phrase. But her temper was back in check, biting back her frustration at this man and his dismissal of her abilities. A Rider of the Rohirrim at least would understand that much, the height of frustration that a warrior would feel at an abrupt end to the combat -- safety coming as almost a slammed door in the face, all at once. Of course, such a thing was predicated on safety, on survival. Once you could breath again, you would almost feel embarrassed by the sense of frustration that it was all over.

Almost.

" -- my thanks, " she finally managed, her breath still coming in ragged gasps as the reality of the dozens of dead orcs surrounding them, still and scattered along the floor causing Eowyn to return to herself. The practical daughter of Edoras very aware that her strength had been flagging and that this man's timely intervention had likely saved her life as well as all those young and old huddled behind her in the caverns. They were already crying out in thanks at their deliverance -- but Eowyn was leaning against the cavern wall, still trying to find herself after the blur of battle. To give gratitude to this unknown man, the thanks that was his due at breaking the last of the invasion. " Truly, I -- I'm not sure how much longer we could have held out. "

We rather than the more accurate I. Eowyn couldn't admit to even herself just how closely she had come to defeat.

@personaei con't from here

Had it been a necessary comment in the moment? No, but it was the heat of battle and she had almost tried to slice through him. It came out with the anger at the sudden need to block what he had been told was an ally. Sure, he was a blade for hire but in this scenario, this world that was shaping up, if there less people then he wouldn't have much of anyone to accept jobs from. He'd been told they needed help down here and he could see why, slicing through every orc he encountered until he reached them. Seems they at least did have some form of protection until he arrived. However, he only was able to make it down here for one reason. The siege was broken.

"I saw, but then I also saw your sword coming for me." He points out, though he knew it wouldn't entirely help the situation but his temper couldn't help it. But then her questions at least bring him back down to reality as much as they could. A deep breath taken in before a nod is given and shoulders relax. "It is broken, part of how I am standing here now to tell you is because of that." His own sword is lowered, caked in the blood of the orcs he had cut through on this night. Of course armor and exposed skin had the dark liquid splattered about as well. He looked a gruesome sight but such was battle.

"I came to inform you of that and clear out anyone else who may have been here trying to harm you." Green gaze falls to the orcs around them. "Where did you learn to do that?"

[windandwater]

Okay! I’ve been working on the most ridiculous fic I’ve ever written, which is, if you’re new or don’t follow me, a multi-part Legolas/Gimli journey through Lord of the Rings, behind-the-scenes style, essentially annotating the book with what was going on with them, along with a lot of extra material fleshing out some stuff that the book never covers.

And part 3 is done! I did headcanon posts for the other two installments, so here’s one for this part, titled You Shall Come With Me, as well.

A note: I didn’t plan to do this, but part 3 (following Return of the King) got really long, so I’m going to need to do a part 4 that will serve as an epilogue/follow-up to some stuff that’s covered in the appendices/off the page, as it were. To be clear, part 3 does not end on a cliffhanger and I think it closes in a way that won’t leave you ripping your hair out waiting for more; if you’re the type who never reads unfinished fic (cough me cough), you can read this one without wanting to murder me at the end.

Some links!

Series link: Where You Go, I Will Go Part 1 :Wondered at the Change Part 2: He Stands Not Alone Part 3: You Shall Come With Me Part 1 headcanons post: here Part 2 headcanons post: here

Legolas, in response to Merry becoming a Knight of the Mark: oh thank goodness someone else will be looking after him and making sure NOTHING HAPPENS TO HIM. DID YOU HEAR THAT, THEODEN/EOMER/EVERY SINGLE ROHIRRIM? NOTHING. BETTER. HAPPEN. TO. HIM. Gimli: *glaring, waving axe threateningly behind Legolas* And now you know the real reason Théoden banned Merry from riding to battle in Minas Tirith.

Legolas calls Aragorn “mellonamin,” or “my friend,” in Elvish fairly regularly, but he never, ever, ever, uses Elvish endearments for Gimli. Ever. This is, of course, because he has trouble being less than honest in Elvish, and he’d have to switch to melamin, “my love,” and he can’t—he can’t answer “what does that mean?” just yet, if Gimli asked. (Gimli wouldn’t ask. He would be afraid to.)

Elladan and Elrohir are way too nice to tell embarrassing stories about baby Aragorn to everybody. It would be kind of unfair considering he doesn’t really have any ammo in return—not that Elves don’t have an embarrassing phase, just that Aragorn didn’t get to be around for it. Once they get to Gondor, however, and once everything is over and done and they’re cleaning everything up and Aragorn is in serious discussions about What To Do Next, they do stand slightly to the back behind serious people and make faces at him to see if he’ll crack. He doesn’t. He’s been traveling with Legolas and Gimli and Merry and Pippin for months. He’s got his poker face on lock. But he does, occasionally, sneak faces back, very quickly in the half seconds when no one’s looking, and that makes them laugh, and they have to leave the room, and Aragorn finally gets one over on them, and that’s why he’s the King of Gondor, motherfuckers.

I alluded to this before, but I’m fleshing it out more now: there are women among the Dúnedain, and they fight. There used to be women fighters in Gondor, too. Only because of the dark days of Gondor’s past and wisdom that has been lost do they no longer do so. When Aragorn, who has fought among women all his life, is crowned, he will restore that wisdom and there will be no more evicting women from the city because of war. If you have the will and skill to fight, you stay. He knows from both Elves and Men that there are many ways to be strong, and that a wise leader puts the right people in the right place for the right jobs, no matter who they are or what they look like or any other ridiculous surface-level classifications that people think are so important. Also Arwen’s looking over his shoulder, making him and everyone else want to be their best self. Reminding him how many forms strength comes in. It always goes easier when she’s around.

The construction of the Black Gate is trash. Just ask Gimli. Impenetrable my ass, he’d tell you, if he was using modern vernacular. He doesn’t and he wouldn’t say that but it’s shoddy, shoddy work. Apparently Sauron was more interested in pretty shiny things when he was stealing secrets from Elven smiths than, you know, learning how to make shit look cool *and* actually work. Guy had no idea how to work with iron. Gimli took one look at that thing and immediately found 8 different weaknesses to exploit. Coulda broken in in a heartbeat. Get him drunk enough and he’ll go on a rant about how the only reason that thing and the towers next to it were still standing were 1) Gondorians built the towers and 2) he had slave labor, slave labor do you hear me, Dwarves would never, disgusting, to manage the upkeep. Ridiculous. Our shit stays up, and craftsmen work on it. Craftsmen, do you hear me? I’d help kick his ass all over again just for making me lay eyes on that monstrosity. If I’d been there the hobbits woulda been in and out, no problem, I don’t care how many eyes were on them, I’d kick all their asses, all their asses do you hear me, Legolas gimme my beer back I’m not done—

Sometimes people ask what prompted Legolas or Gimli to finally make a move. Legolas always answers by going into an extremely long answer, filled with poetry, praising Gimli in horribly purple prose when he switches to prose—until the person gets uncomfortable and takes it back or goes away. It’s nothing against anyone. It’s just. That moment was private. He’d like everyone to mind their business. (Gimli lets him field the questions. It makes him laugh, in that secret way where only his eyes are laughing and the rest of the laugh is hidden under his beard but Legolas can see it anyway. Legolas likes that laugh a lot. It works out very well for everyone.)

Faramir doesn’t want to fight anymore, either. He hangs his sword on a hook on the wall, next to Éowyn’s, and never picks it up again. He tells Aragorn he will go back to his books, and will not fight again, and Aragorn accepts. If war comes again to Gondor, he will do his duty, but he will do it from the Houses of Healing, with his wife. They will both help with strategy and healing but will not go to battle. He truly intends to go into the library and never come out. Maybe he’ll learn healing, too. He doesn’t know. He’s never had a choice before. Instead he’s the one who starts a garden. Éowyn goes there, but he’s the one who tends it and works on it and becomes the expert. He finds rest, growing instead of destroying. He grows athelas and other healing herbs but he also just grows flowers. He heals. He never fights again. He uses his helmet as a pot to start seeds indoors, wears the livery but never the armor. The swords grow dull and tarnished on the wall. Faramir rubs Éowyn’s feet by the fire after long days and is thankful, so thankful, that they survived.

Tolkien has some weird stuff about Elf biology: that sex itself is the marriage act for Elves, that interest in it fades after they have kids (…can we talk about how it’s extremely obvious a Catholic came up with this), and that, imo weirdest of all, other Elves can tell once an Elf is, uh, married. (What. Tolkien. What. That is so weird.) Anyway the second thing is a huge Middle-Earth myth—look, when people are together for a long time, intimacy can look really different than in did in the beginning, and people make up weird rumors. Some Elves are never interested in physical intimacy, of course, just like some people in all the species of Middle-Earth, but that doesn’t mean having children is the only goal of it for them any more than it is for anyone else. They may be hyper-monogamist but they still like to be with their partners! As for the third thing, that’s just ridiculous. Not a thing at all. However: everyone who knows Legolas and Gimli can tell when they finally get together. Not because of weird Elvish biology, but because they’re horribly obvious. Their body language goes from sexual frustration to radiant contentment in a flash, and they all know why. Aragorn thought he would stop begging for the sweet release of death when it happened, but he was oh so very wrong. They’re still staring into each other’s eyes too much only now they leave rooms really quickly when they do it instead of looking away in a hurry when he clears his throat. It’s terrible. He couldn’t be happier for them.

Faramir is a hugger.

Aragorn never gets enough fucking rest. He makes sure everyone else takes theirs, and is very strict about it, but as for himself? Never. Legolas and Gimli are the only ones who can convince him to do it, and they usually have to resort to outright bullying. They hatch their plan with Arwen, they day after she arrives in Minas Tirith. It goes like this: after everything is over and they’ve all left and Aragorn is left to rule the city on his own, Legolas and Gimli still plan to visit, and they do. Arwen will write them a letter mentioning what time would be good for them to come. They pack up and make arrangements, and arrive in Minas Tirith, and find Aragorn exhausted, overwhelmed, in dire need of a break. And Arwen just so happens to have vacation plans ready to go. Wouldn’t it be nice to get away, with your old friends and your wife? And oh, Faramir happens to be in the city this week, and is fully filled in on everything that’s going on, he can take over for a few days no problem. Éowyn is actually in Rohan for a bit and he could use a distraction! And Aragorn relents. Every time. They’ve never had to drag him bodily out of the city, but they’re always ready to.

Speaking of, Aragorn eventually gets so tired and absolutely done with everything that it’s actually less work to draft up a constitutional monarchy and slowly transition Gondor into a democracy. He has the fully support of Legolas and Gimli while he does this. He retires once the country is fully stable, and spends the rest of his time napping and hanging out with his kids. He’s earned it. No one argues with him. Anyone who tries gets glared into submission by his very, very battle-hardened friends.

Yes. Every single one of Aragorn’s advisors is slightly terrified of Legolas and Gimli. The staff are not. The staff & regular citizens adore them. There is a very deep divide depending on how you treat Aragorn. Arwen finds this all hilarious.

Gimli is really well-spoken but sometimes he just—loses words—because he only has Dwarvish for the emotions he’s feeling and the Common Tongue/Westron just doesn’t cover it. He could probably think of something if you gave him an hour or three to translate but in the moment it’s always really hard and he just gets choked up and silent. He doesn’t mean to come across as stony or emotionless when it happens. It’s the opposite. His friends know this and don’t mind but strangers get the wrong idea sometimes.

Legolas absolutely will not stand around and let people put themselves down while he’s in earshot. Nope. Not today. Humility, he gets, but not taking credit for the good thing you did? Stand aside, you’re getting a dose of self-esteem and you’re going to like it. If Gimli’s standing behind him glaring at you so that you feel too intimidated to argue, even better.

Sam eventually gets married to both Frodo and Rosie Cotton. Did I write hobbit polyamory into this fic so that I could eventually set this up? maybe. or maybe it just makes sense. maybe that. But anyway, it’s book canon that he and Rosie move into Bag End, because there’s enough room for both of them and he doesn’t want to abandon Frodo. It’s also canon that Rosie is really invested in Sam taking care of Frodo; I see this as a really natural relationship for all three of them, just taking care of each other and being a family for a few years before Frodo has to leave for his own sake.

Merry and Pippin secretly really wanted to throw a hobbit rager for Aragorn’s wedding, and when they’re blocked out by Aragorn, Gandalf, Galadriel, Elrond, Arwen, and every single official of Gondor, they’re determined to have another go at it for the Elvish half of Gimli & Legolas’s wedding, which ends up being held in Minas Tirith. They don’t quite get their way, but they do get--well. Read the fic.

It shakes out like this: they get married in Minas Tirith the Elvish way, because there are Elves around and they don’t want to trek all the way back to Mirkwood unmarried (or get married the quick & dirty--emphasis on dirty--way and skip the ceremony). The traditional (for both Elves and Dwarves) year-long engagement is not in the cards for either Legolas or Gimli, who have been through a war together and are very sure that this is it for them, but aren’t so sure how their families are going to react or how much longer it’s going to be if they have to wait until they get home. And they would very much like to have their friends around them. So: Legolas considers them both fully married. Gimli does not. Gimli thinks they are half married (part 1: complete, part 2: pending). The vows are certainly binding, but in his mind he’s still sleeping with his fiancé (half-fiancé?) outside of marriage. This isn’t necessarily wrong? I wrote Dwarves as hardcore demisexual and I fit that into canon as not being usually ready for sex until they’re engaged anyway, and at that point, according to canon, they’re ceremonially separated for the length of the engagement (a year). But sexuality is still a spectrum and everyone’s different so casual sex happens, as well as fiancés-sneaking-around shenanigans. Dwarves aren’t super uptight about it so long as no one’s getting jerked around (which also happens—and that’s when things get ugly). And there’s no way they’re not getting Dwarf-married, even if they have to find their own cave and do the ceremony all alone. (Gimli hopes it doesn’t come to that.) It’s a weird situation to be in--for now, both of them are just glad they decided to deal with it together.

As for just like. regular sleeping. This fanart is of course entirely accurate (except Gimli, as I mentioned before, doesn’t snore). Until they made it official, Legolas and Gimli never could sleep quite right except next to each other—usually with Gimli’s head on Legolas’s shoulder, and maybe it’s a little uncomfortable on the nights when he doesn’t take his helmet off, but Legolas would never say a word, because he can’t slip into Elvish meditation at all without Gimli anymore, and oh, the nights when he does take it off— Anyway. Once they do sort everything out, they both stop pretending to have any dignity at all about the situation. Legolas wraps himself bodily around Gimli, and he’s allowed to think, to say out loud, even, how much he loves to rest his head on that soft, warm cloud of hair, to hold his beloved close so that even in the waking dreams of Elves, wandering in thought under starlight, he’s not alone, not really. Gimli never thought of such a thing—if asked, before, whether he would prefer to be held or not, he would not have had an answer—would not have known how to give one. Now, though—oh, he understands now. He wonders if this is what gold feels like, in the hands of a Dwarf—if the gems he works into silver and gold know this feeling, of being beloved and held and valued for their whole worth. And yet he would not trade places with them, for he cannot imagine anything better than this feeling, of every night being held like the most precious thing in the world, feeling safe and warm and loved and cherished. After the war, they refuse to be separated at night. They’ve both spent too many nights apart, over the course of their lives, to ever do it again.

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

To Love a Ranger Chapter 17- Aragorn x OC

Aragorn x Issa

Description: When Rohan's aid turns up less soldiers than expected, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Issa decide to seek out other sources.

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: Now that I've finished the Fluffuary challenge (which you can find at the bottom of my th/lotr masterlist if you're interested) I'm back on my bs with this series.

Three days passed with no word of Gandalf, Pippin or Gondor. Issa only grew more and more anxious every day that passed. Anxious about whether Gandalf and Pippin had made it safely, whether Lord Denethor, the Steward of Gondor would accept their company, and whether he would call for aid with what was to come. 

On the fourth day Issa sat on the steps of the Golden Hall in Edoras, wishing to have a few minutes to clear her head. The nerves she felt were impalpable, and just staying inside for so long wasn’t helping her case in the slightest. Aragorn had joined her after a few minutes to check on her. They sat in silence, eyes trailing over the bustling town below them.

After a short while Issa’s eyes trailed to the distant mountains. She suddenly perked up in surprise upon realizing something had changed in them. A beacon built onto the mountain closest to the Kingdom had been lit. Gondor was calling for aid. 

“Aragorn,” she grabbed his upper arm in alarm, which caught his attention. He looked at her in confusion, but upon following her gaze he reacted the same as her. Without warning he shot up from the step he sat on and ran back into the Golden Hall. Issa followed closely behind as he burst through the door. 

“The beacons of Minas Tirith,” he called loudly, which caused Theoden and his generals to turn to him. “The beacons are lit!” 

“Gondor calls for aid,” Issa concluded as they stopped right in front of the King. They, along with everyone else in the room, stared at him intently as they awaited his answer. After a minute of complete silence a smile formed on Theoden’s face. 

“And Rohan will answer!” He exclaimed before turning to face Eomer. “Muster the Rohirrim.” The Prince nodded and bowed to him before the two of them left as a bell rang out to gather the Rohirrim together.

“Assemble the army at Dunharrow, as many men as can be found,” he instructed Eomer, who walked beside him. “You have two days. On the third, we ride for Gondor, and war.” The Prince nodded at him then mounted his horse. 

“Forward!” He called, leading a few of his riders out of Edoras. As Theoden walked away to speak to Gamling Issa headed to the stables with her weapons in tow. 

“Do you ride with us?” She heard Aragorn ask from the stable in which Brego stood. He was speaking to Eowyn, who was tending to her own horse beside him. 

“Just to the encampment,” the Princess answered. “It’s tradition for the women of the court to farewell the men.” The Man stared at her for a second, then moved the blanket on Eowyn’s horse to reveal a sword. She was quick to snatch the blanket and place it back over her horse. 

“The men have found their captain,” she continued, though it was obvious that she was diverting the subject after what he’d seen. “They will follow you into battle, even to death. You have given us hope.” She smiled at him, but he merely turned away. Issa didn’t miss the uneasy expression on his face. 

It was a two day’s ride to Dunharrow. As they reached the campsite that had been set up by the soldiers gathered over the lands Theoden and Aragorn rode ahead of the army with Legolas, Gimli and Issa close behind. The girl was silently relieved to see that they’d managed to find more willing Men to ride to battle. The more they could get, the better. 

“Grimbold, how many?” The King asked as they stopped beside his generals. 

“I bring five hundred men from the Westfold, My Lord,” the soldier answered. 

“We have three hundred more from Fenmarch, Theoden King,” another called. 

“Where are the riders from Snowbourn?” The King asked as he dismounted his horse. 

“None have come, My Lord.” 

Issa shared a concerned look with Aragorn before the two of them climbed off their own horses. While the Man followed Theoden towards the edge of their encampment Issa led Eleo to get some food and rest. She kept her eyes on them, despite not being able to hear what they were saying. Aragorn continued to look worried, but the King looked as if he were reaffirming the Ranger. It was only when she heard a neighing horse that she turned away from them. She was quick to notice that the Men were having difficulty in calming down the horses. It looked like the poor animals were nervous about something that she couldn’t quite see. 

“The horses are restless and the Men are quiet,” Legolas spoke from beside her, speaking to Eomer who stood in front of the girl saddling his horse. 

“They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain,” the Prince explained simply. Issa’s eyes trailed from the disturbed creatures around her to the small cleft that split the mountain’s rocks. For some reason it made a shiver run up her spine. Something felt off about it, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. 

“That road there, where does it lead?” Eomer, Legolas and Gimli followed her gaze. 

“It is the road to the Dimholt, the door under the mountain,” the Elf answered. 

“None who venture there ever return,” Eomer added, shaking his head. “That mountain is evil.” With that he walked away, leaving Issa to focus her gaze on the cleft once again with uneasiness. She felt Aragorn walk up beside her, and she didn’t have to look at him to know he was also looking at it. His breath hitched, which finally made her face him. 

“Aragorn?” She called quietly upon noticing his worried expression. When he faced her she shot him a concerned and confused expression, though neither had time to say anything before Gimli called out to them (apparently having begun to walk away with Legolas). 

“Aragorn, let’s find some food,” the Dwarf said. Issa watched as her fiance glanced back at the mountain before taking her hand and eventually beginning to follow Gimli. 

Later that evening Issa was making her way back to Eleo, an iron chaffron to protect his face in her hands. She walked past a campfire, which Eomer and Gamling sat around. Just as she began to pass a tent just behind the fire the flap suddenly opened. 

“To the smithy, go,” she heard Eowyn call as Merry ran out in armor, running directly into Issa with a small grunt. 

“Oh, sorry Issa,” he called, though he didn’t stay for long as he continued on to what Issa assumed was the smithy. The girl shook her head amusedly then stepped aside as Eowyn stepped out of the tent with a smile on her face. It was obvious she hadn’t noticed Issa yet.  

“You should not encourage him,” Eomer suddenly spoke, which made both women’s smiles drop. 

“You should not doubt him,” Eowyn retorted. 

“I do not doubt his heart, only his reach of arm.” The Prince’s response made Gamling laugh and Issa frown. Just as she prepared to speak, Eowyn beat her to the punch. 

“Why should Merry be left behind? He has as much cause to go to war as you. Why can he not fight for those he loves?” She began to turn away angrily, but then Eomer spoke again. 

“You know as little of war as that Hobbit. When fear takes him, and the blooming and the screams and the horror of battle take hold. Do you think he would stand to fight? He would flee, and he would be right to do so,” he muttered before standing and placing a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “War is the province of Men, Eowyn.” With that he and Gamling walked away, leaving Eowyn standing there with a frustrated expression. Issa decided it was time to make her presence known by stepping up beside the Princess. 

“Don’t listen to him,” she said softly so that the surrounding people couldn’t hear them, making the younger girl face her. “Men riding to war would be nothing without the women supporting them. Sometimes support needs to follow them to the battlefield, both metaphorically and physically. That is where you come in. The shieldmaiden of Rohan ready to protect her people.” Eowyn couldn’t help but smile at her words as she nodded. 

“Thank you, My Lady.” The girl nodded, then paused before leaning closer to her. 

“If you were to somehow end up in my tent, I would take a look in the chest beside the door. There may just be some armor fit for a woman in there. I’ve found that men’s armor is just a little too clunky to move swiftly in,” she whispered, waiting for Eowyn’s smile to widen as she nodded before continuing on her journey. 

Issa stayed with Eleo for quite some time. She brushed his mane and dressed him for battle, all while talking him through it. She didn’t know the likelihood of the horse understanding anything she was saying, but it made her feel better nonetheless. Finally she decided to let him stretch his legs by walking him around camp. It was as she was doing so that she noticed Aragorn with Brego. He wasn’t feeding him or placing armor on him, however. It looked like he was preparing to leave, which confused her. And she wasn’t the only one, apparently. 

“Why are you doing this?” Eowyn questioned worriedly as she approached him. “The war lies to the East. You cannot leave on the eve of battle, you cannot abandon the men.”

“Eowyn-”

“We need you here,” she continued desperately, cutting the Man off. Aragorn sighed. 

“Why have you come?” 

“Do you not know?” The girl asked softly. Things seemed to connect in both Issa and Aragorn’s minds, and the latter sighed. 

“It is but a shadow and a thought that you love,” he finally broke the news to the Princess as gently as he could manage. “I cannot give you what you seek, for my heart belongs to another alone.” Issa watched as Eowyn took a step back, obviously upset. Aragorn offered the girl an apologetic look before touching her face with a gentle hand. 

“I have wished you joy since first I saw you,” he concluded softly, his hand falling from her face as he led Brego away. Eowyn watched him in silence, though upon looking closer the woman could see tears beginning to slip down the Princess’ face as she watched Aragorn walk away. Issa, despite herself, couldn’t help but pity the poor girl. It wasn’t her fault that she’d fallen for Aragorn. Matters of the heart are not forced, after all. But, she had a feeling that she wasn’t the one Eowyn wished to see at the moment, she instead opted to lead Eleo to follow Aragorn and Brego. As Aragorn passed a tent that Gimli sat beside, the Dwarf spoke. 

“Just where do you think you’re off to?” He asked. 

“Not this time,” was the Man’s only response. “This time you must stay, Gimli.” The Dwarf merely hummed before Legolas walked up on the other side of Aragorn, leading Arod beside him. 

“Have you learnt nothing of the stubbornness of Dwarves?” He asked with a knowing smile, making Issa smile as well as she walked up behind him. 

“You might as well accept it,” she added. 

“We’re going with you, laddie,” Gimli concluded, standing up. As Aragorn looked between the three, a smile formed on his face and he nodded. The four of them mounted their horses (Gimli riding with Legolas) then rode away from the camp along the Dimholt road. As they grew closer Issa grew nervous once again, but she swallowed her fears and continued to follow Aragorn. 

They traveled the path through the night. There was no time for sleep. Whatever Aragorn planned to do needed to be done as soon as possible. They finally came upon a barren canyon as day broke. Riders moved through it, much to Gimli’s surprise. 

“What kind of army would linger in such a place?” He asked once they dismounted their horses. 

“One that is cursed,” Legolas answered. “Long ago the men of the mountains swore an oath to the last King of Gondor to come to his aid, to fight. But when the time came, when Gondor’s need was dire, they fled, vanishing into the darkness of the mountain. And so Isildur cursed them, never to rest until they had fulfilled their pledge. Who shall call them from the grey twilight, the forgotten people? The heir of him to whom the oath they swore. From the North shall he come, need shall drive him. He shall pass the door to the Paths of the Dead.” Issa looked at Aragorn in surprise. 

“Aragorn, do you really think…” she trailed off hesitantly. 

“If Minas Tirith is to end victorious, we need as much help as we can get,” the Man responded. “They will answer to me, trust in that.” Issa was still reluctant, and he seemed to sense that. 

“If you do not trust words, trust in me,” he said much softer this time, taking her hand in his. The girl finally acquiesced, sighing as she nodded. Once he received confirmation he squeezed her hand gently and continued to lead them to the entrance of the Paths of the Dead.

“The very warmth of my blood seems stolen away,” Gimli muttered unsurely just as they reached the door. There was an inscription above it that Legolas read aloud. 

“The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut.” Right after he finished speaking something came out of the door, brushing past them in a rush. It sent a chill down Issa’s spine and spooked the horses. The girl’s wrist was nearly broken by Eleo’s reins as he reared back. She just managed to slip her hand out of them before he along with the other horses ran away from them and the door. She held her arm close to her chest in surprise as Aragorn shouted after Brego, then he shook his head. 

“I do not fear death!” He exclaimed before walking through the entrance. Issa hesitated for merely a second before following after him along with Legolas and eventually Gimli.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Timeline of Middle-Earth

To develop a clearer sense of the sheer scale of the timelines we’re dealing with in Middle-earth’s Ages of the Sun, I thought I would put it in perspective by comparing it to real-world history. This can be done comparatively simply because the main events of The Lord of the Ring occur in 3018-3019 BC. (3020 in Middle-earth is a very good year, conspicuously unlike our 2020.)

So if we analogize T.A. 3019 to our 2019, we can get a sense in our terms of how long ago various Middle-earth events were to (mortal) characters in The Lord of the Rings. The beginning of the Third Age, for example, would line up with 1000 BC (approximately the time of Solomon). The beginning of the Second Age would be 4441 BC, and the beginning of the (much shorter) First Age a little before 5000 BC. A lot of my dates will be from the history of the Ancient Near East and Europe, simply because those are the periods of ancient history I’m most familiar with.

Using this comparison, the beginning of the Second Age and the foundation of Númenor is roughly contemporary with the earliest development of the wheel (~4500 BC, Wikipedia tells me) and the earliest forms of writing. So if you want a timescale for just how old any elf who saw the First Age was, that’s a helpful starting point (Maglor and Galadriel are, of course, much older).

The forging of the One Ring (c. S.A. 1600) corresponds to a little before the construction of the Great Pyramid of Giza.

The imperialist era of Númenor, under Tar-Ciryatan, begins at about the same time as the building of the Great Pyramid of Giza (~2500 BC) and lasts until roughly the end of the New Kingdom of Egypt (that’s the one that included Hatshepsut and Ramses II) a little before 1000 BC. That makes ancient Egypt really quite helpful for envisioning the span of Númenor’s history, except that Númenor also had about 1900 years of being non-terrible prior to that.

The Last Alliance of Elves and Men corresponds to around 1000 BC, around the tine of the start of the Chinese Zhou dynasty (for context, this is still well before Qin Shi Huang and the Terra-Cotta Army) and the time of David and Solomon in ancient Israel.

Arwen is born in the year 241 of the Third Age. This roughly corresponds to the time of the composition of the Iliad and Odyssey by Homer. So when Elrond tells Aragorn that Arwen is far, far older than him, he is, if anything, understating the point.

The breakup of Arnor into three realms occurs in T.A. 861. We have now skipped over a quite considerable period of time (past the Assyrians, Babylonians, and Alexander the Great in the ancient near east, andpast Qin Shi Huang in China) to the time of the Roman Republic and of the Han dynasty. So that gives some perspective on what Aragorn re-founding the kindom of Arnor means - the the people of, say, Bree, this is a kingdom from ancient history.

Around T.A. 1000 - corresponding to the time of the New Testament and the early Roman Empire - the Istari arrive in Middle-earth and the first hobbits come to Eriador (i.e. the land west of the Misty Mountains). However, the hobbits don’t cross the Brandywine and found the Shire until a long time later (T.A. 1600).

The centuries around T.A. 1300s-1400s see civil war in Arnor (incited by the Witch-king of Angmar) and Gondor, and in invasion of Arnor by the Witch-king. This corresponds to around A.D. 300s-400s in our time, and the fall of the Roman Empire.

The Shire is founded in T.A. 1601, corresponding to around our A.D. 600. This is roughly equivalent the time of the founding of Islam in our world. So the Shire’s got a very considerable history behind it!

The fall of the north-kingdom of Arnor to the Witch-king occurred in T.A. 1974. Also in the late 1900s of the Third Age, the Witch-king returns to Mordor; a Balrog appears in Moria and drives out the dwarves; and Thrain I founds the Kingdom Under the Mountain in Erebor. A little after (T.A. 2050) the line of the kings in Gondor ends and the time of the Stewards begins. This is equivalent, in our terms, to around the time of the Norman Conquest of England, and of Cahokia in North America. When Boromir asks his father why the Stewards of Gondor are not considered kings yet, he has a point.

In 2463, the White Council is formed; this is also around the same time that Gollum obtains the Ring. Roughly speaking, this is equivalent to the time of the Renaissance in Europe for us. Gollum had the Ring for a really freaking long time.

The arrival of the Rohirrim, and the granting of Calenardhon to them as the realm of Rohan (irrespective of its actual inhabitants) occurs in 2510 of the Third Age, or close to equivalent with the beginning of the Reformation for us.

The Bagginses, Tooks, and Brandybucks can trace their ancestry back to the years 1000s to 1100s in Shure-reckoning (2600s-2700s of the Third Age), equivalent to a family in our time being able to trace its lineage to the 1600s-1700s A.D.

Smaug’s destruction of the Kingdom under the Mountain is in T.A. 2770, shortly followed by the War of the Dwarves and Orcs when Thror (Thorin’s grandfather) is killed by an orc in Moria. In our terms, corresponding to 1770, around the time of the American Revolution. Thorin dies in T.A. 2941 (equiv. A.D. 1941), to to get a perspective on dwarf ages, Thorin’s lifespan is equivalent to someone being able to fight in both the American Revolution and World War II.

Bilbo is born in T.A. 2890, equivalent to 1890 (the Gilded Age) in our time. The Fell Winter, when wolves attack the Shire over the frozen Brandywine, happens when he is 10 years old.

Aragorn and Denethor are born at almost the same time, Denethor in T.A. 2930 and Aragorn in T.A. 2931. Huh, hadn’t realized that. How mich does Denethor resent that he’s an old man while Aragorn is still in the prime of his life. Anyway, this is around the 1930s in our terms.

The events of the Hobbit take place in T.A. 2941, equivalent to our 1941 - a happier year for Middle-earth than for us, certainly.

Frodo is born in 2968, equivalent to our 1968.

Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday, and the events of The Lord of the Rings, occurs in T.A. 3001, equivalent to our 2001.

So, hopefully that gives some perspective on how long ago the various events of Middle-earth’s history would feel to the mortal - or at least, human and hobbit - characters of The Lord of the Rings. The major difference is that the existence of elves mean that both written records and living memory go back far, far further for Middle-earth than they do for us.

[mercurygray]

Hey Merc! In honor of the 20th anniversary of the LotR films, can I make a request that you should totally ignore if you aren't feeling it? Another part of your LotR girl gang AU(because I absolutely adore it)?

The Rohirrim were a thing apart.

Not the men - the men he could understand. Eomer's household spoke the same language as he, of sword and bridle and bow, though they did not think much of high stone walls and battlements, and he did not think much of cavalry charges, but it was all one and the same at the end of the day.

No, it was the women that confused him - for the women spoke of war also, and just as fluently as the men.

It was not the fashion in Gondor, for a woman to bear arms, or ride to war, and yet here was the Lady Eowyn and her serving women, all of them proficient on a horse or off it, who spoke of defense, and strategy, and seemed to fear nothing.

The gate had called for him when two women had tried to ride out alone just as the sun was beginning to set and the watch was ready to close the doors. "They won't hear of being delayed, sir."

He wished he'd saddled his horse, just so he could look her in the eye - staring up at this red-headed hellion from where she sat on her mount certainly wasn't helping his case.

"Captain. Your men will not let us pass."

"It's dangerous for a lady to be alone outside of the city gates at night."

"I am no lady," she said, just as quickly, "And I am not alone. Malle will ride with me. And what should I be afraid of? The dark?"

"Brigands and thieves are abroad."

"Your brigands would do well to fear me." She sniffed and made a small gesture to her sword, easy on her saddle. Whether she knew how to use it was a matter for another time. "I have seen worse things in my own country - and killed them, too."

Have you, now. "What business takes you out of the city at nightfall?" he said, evenly. "Cannot it not wait until daylight?"

"Malle's brother lies with the others on the plain. It is midsummer and the dead are out walking. We have brought cakes and ale for him." She stared, as if daring him to disagree with her, her mount dancing a little with impatience. "The Lady Eowyn is in the Hallows with your Lord Faramir, doing the same. Would you stop her, if she were riding out?"

"If she were with my lord, no, I would not." He knows the road better than you - and the dangers upon it. "You do not fear them? The dead?"

She smiled, and there was something like the shine of a blade in it, a grimness that said he'd do well to pay attention to her and heed what she said. "They will not harm us."

Just as she was saying so, the second woman arrived, her saddlebag bulging with what must have been her offering to the dead. The two women spoke quickly in Rohirric, the redhead's annoyance palpable. She would not be swayed - that much was evident. He sighed. "Unbar the gate," he said, finally, the suddenness surprising the men around him. But first - he grabbed for her horse's bridle, the animal making a sudden sound. "Your name, lady. In case I must tell the lady Eowyn where you are."

She sat up a little higher in her saddle, proud and almost unapproachable. "Sieglinde."

He repeated the name to himself, and nodded. "Toast him, from us," he added quickly. "Your friend's brother. Gondor remembers her debts - and the Tower Guard, too."

The second woman looked at him, surprised, and nodded, waiting a moment before the gate was fully opened before they galloped off into the approaching dark.

Sieglinde, and Malle. He'd have to remember the names - and tell the morning watch they were coming in.

"Now that's a woman," he heard Talbert say from behind him, voice rank with appreciation. "Think she'd teach me how to ride?"

Not likely, he thought to himself with a brief smile, if that's the way she just treated me. "Unless you've a mind to be a gelding after."

That set them laughing and he left them as they were, crowing at Talbert's misfortune. "Did you hear that? The captain just made a joke!"

[writingfromkitchenator]

Eomer ~ I’ll Be Sure To Remember That

1,300 Followers Challenge!

Round 2

Masterlist

Requested by Anon

Based on an imagine found here by @imaginexhobbit

Words: 978

Warnings: Neutral Reader, battle, smidge angst, protective Eomer, defiant reader

If there was one thing Eomer took peace in knowing as they got ready for the charge, was that you were safe, back with his sister in the city.  Facing the overwhelming forces before them, seeing the white city burning, it was almost enough to make hope falter.

No, this was something you did not need to see, no matter how confident you were that you could handle it.

Eomer let out a steadying breathe, bracing himself as Theoden gave out orders.  He would survive today and whatever else may come, then the two of you would finally be able to settle into a life together.

The thunderous roar of hooves charged forward towards the orcs, battle cries on soldiers’ lips, and Eomer couldn't help but smirk as he saw many an orc begin to cower in fear.

The hearts of men would not be taken this day.

Orcs fled as blade and spear spilled their black blood on the ground, standing little chance against the onslaught.  They were no match for the speed of the Rohirrim though, many falling before any sort of help arrived.

It was as they were reforming the line, readying themselves to face the new approaching threat, that something familiar caught his eye.  It was only for a fleeting second, but it was enough to make Eomer suddenly doubt his judgement.  

He continued to scan his fellow soldiers faces as they started the second charge, but when he came up blank, he shook off his doubt and focused on the battle.

That cannot have been you. You were safe back at home.

The thought didn't last long in amongst the chaos of the Mumakil, Eomer catching sight of a rider charging straight to one of their legs, starting to stand up on the saddle.

There was only one person he knew that made it look that easy.

You.

Anger bubbled in his stomach but he had little time to process it as it turned quickly to concern. You leapt from your horse, getting a firm grip on the ropes and arrows, and starting to climb.

Eomer did his best to stay close, watching you fight above, trying to provide what support he could, including keeping your horse by his side.

He watched, almost holding his breathe, as you approached the head rider.

Your sword pierced him and you quickly grabbed the reigns, slightly out of breath.  “I’ll just…take that.  Thank you sir, have a nice day!”

A quick look at the battlefield and a hard tug of the reigns had you guiding the Mumakil straight into another.

Eomer thought his heart was going to explode from his chest as he watched.  "Y/N!”

He lost track of you, the two Mumakil's crashing together, taking them both down, dust rising thickly in the air.

There was no time to look for you, no time to worry, the battle still a long way from over, but still he tried.  He had to know.

He would never forgive himself if something happened to you.

It seemed like an eternity had passed before Aragorn arrived, before his undead army could finally put an end to Sauron’s forces. They were lucky to be alive at all.

Eomer's eyes scanned the faces around him, both living and dead. An icy feeling filled his stomach. He did not want to find you here, not like this, you were safe at home, it had not been you that he had seen.

He froze mid step as he saw you, bloody and filthy, but smiling all the same as you scratched the nose of your horse.

“Y/N.”  Eomer growled, a thousand emotions and thoughts rushing through him at once as he marched forward.  "Just what do you think you are doing here?"

You tensed and met his gaze a little sheepishly.  "Hello Eomer, um, I was helping?"

"Do you have any idea what could've happened?" He asked.  "You could’ve been killed!  And climbing up the- the Mumakil!  Leading it into the other one!  It could've – you could've-"

"I couldn't just sit back and do nothing.”  You said.  “And I'm alright.”

Eomer stared at you, at a complete loss of words, his mouth opening and closing several times before he managed to think of anything.

With a quick step, he closed the remaining distance between the two of you, pulling you to him, his lips crashing hard with yours.  You staggered slightly, but managed to hold onto him, accepting the bruising kiss, knowing that the battle had scared you both.

He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against yours, catching his breath for a moment.

"If I ever refuse to bring you into battle again," He said quietly.  “You have permission to come anyway.  That was incredible."

You beamed at him.  “I’ll be sure to remember that."

Eomer smiled and kissed you much more gently this time. “You are amazing, my love, no matter how much you gave me a heart attack."

"I'll be sure to remind you of that to," You giggled, but then your expression became concerned.  "Now, I don't suppose you've seen Eowyn?  I lost track of her and Merry early on."

He sighed, but found himself unsurprised, although the icy feeling returned to his stomach, suddenly wishing he had seen his sister in battle as well as you.  “I have not. Let us find her quickly.  I would... rather know sooner."

You gave his hand a squeeze.  “I’m sure she's fine Eomer."

Eomer just nods, not letting you go.  There was no peace to be had until he knew you were both safe.  This battle had not been for the faint of heart, and while he knew neither of you were, he still wanted to prevent as much heart ache as possible.

He hoped, more then he ever had before, your hand firmly in his, that Eowyn was alright.

[somanylivestochoose]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28867125/chapters/70813077 

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13796146/1/Healing-Loss

Chapter 5

Lothíriel

The sun warmed my cheeks while I sat on a broken stone wall that looked over the city. Closing my eyes, I focused on the warmth and the peace around me. To give myself a break from looking at the destruction that devastated the city.

For the first time in months I have the morning off, maybe it’s because I’m hungover or maybe it’s because the other lead healers know I need a break.

Most likely the first one. My head is pounding, my eyes are sore and my fingers are so tender there is no way I can do any sewing if necessary. Yeah, probably best I don’t touch any patients at the moment.

Stretching against the wall I leaned to sleep on the white stone. My legs crossed while I got comfortable; ready to take a nap at the herb garden or what’s left of it since its mostly ruins now and the herbs are ash.

As I drifted away from present; my mind brought up memories of last night’s victory banquet. The party. The food. The dancing. The joy of being free to enjoy a night without any weight of grief, but one filled with hope and lightness. A feeling and night I have not had in years.

But there was one other part of the night, one that was unexpectantly… enjoyable.

Éomer. The Rohirrim.

There was no reason to try and trick myself and say that my time with him was not the most exhilarating part of my night. It should have been meeting my new king and his queen, but no, it was the dam Rohirrim.

King Éomer.

Because, oh of course the Rohirrim I kept meeting, kept having no filter around would end up being Rohan’s new king. The man I have sassed, pushed around and straight up said I didn’t want to be given to a man to bed. And he is a king.

Yeah, great job me. How very ‘Princesses of Dol Amroth’ of me to put my foot in my mouth and be sarcastic in front of the new king, and second most important man after my king of Gondor. Now I understand my brother’s horror when they saw me talking with him.

From the countless number of strict of governess, I had as a child, I would have thought he would have despised me for not being able to act accordingly around him, for being so blunt. After all, the code in Gondor is one of strict code of conducts. But I suppose it has to do with him being from Rohan, where he said they appreciate bluntness. But still, I had not acted towards the king as I should have as Princess.

Maybe I can blame the war and the hospital? My weariness in tending to the wounded? Is that a card I can pull?

Yet, the way he smirked anytime I gave him sass told me he didn’t mind it, no I’d say he enjoyed it. Last night I was worried, and as Faramir said, I had coward from going to the party mainly because I didn’t want to risk disappointing my father in front of everybody in case acted wrong.

But last night will be a night I will always remember. The feast with the fellowship was so full of joy and light that everyone could feel the war of the ring was truly over and new times would come.

My lips pulled up when the memory of Éomer came up again, the dances we shared together. I was surprised when he came to me to ask for the first dance of the night, and the next and the next and the next. And each dance was as exhilarating, if not more than the first. The night was one of victory, the dances matching the mood. No longer were dances of no touching for proper reasons but instead were full of life and touching. My mid-section still burned from where he had touched me so often.

A princess should not wonder down that path…

“My lady?” My body jumped hearing someone call to me so close, my hands quickly steadying me on the wall before I fell off. Stabling myself I swallow and curse, yeah, a perch on a wall may not be a good sleeping spot.

Opening my eyes, I see a group of people now beside me. Clearing my throat and drowsiness, I put on a smile and Princess graces. “Master hobbits, my lady Éowyn, good day to you all.”

“Apologies my lady, we had not meant to startle you.” Master Samwise said with a bow.

Shaking my head, I offer the party a warm smile; I had come here for time alone but they were nice and genuine. “It is my own fault, even children know they ought to not sleep on stone walls. How fair you all this fine morning?”

Pippin took a step forward, bowed and then looked up. “Quite hungover but otherwise cannot complain, for your beauty this shinning morning takes away all feelings of un-wellness.”

I chuckled at Pippin. “Are all Hobbits so well spoken and have a silver tongue?”

Merry stepped forward. “Do not mind my cousin, My lovely Princess. He has no manors or grace to speak to one so kind as yourself.”

Frodo shook his head. “Fool of Hobbits. How was your evening last night my Lady?”

Smiling at the ring bearer I nod my head in greeting. “It will be a night I will remember forever; yourself?”

He smiled, one of longing in his eyes. “A night to be sure but you will have to visit Hobbiton to see a true party.”

“Well we should go, I’m in need of food.” Merry said looking down the corridor, his face wistful of a meal. I gave them a bow of my head letting the Hobbits wander off while Éowyn sat down on the wall next to me.

Smiling at her I thought about how based on my interactions with her, she would be good for my dear cousin. Someone who was strong, kind and would love my cousin for who he is.

“How are you feeling this morning my lady?” I asked, making her scrunch her nose.

Leaning against the wall her lips puckered. “I’m not going back to the House, I was losing my mind stuck in those walls, thankfully the hobbits were able to break me out. I am healed.”

Laughing I shook my head. “I could understand that, though I was asking about your head, mine feels like there is a drummer in it.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Rohan’s ale and wine are much stronger. Your Gondorian wine, did nothing to my head.”

My eyebrows rose. “Well that it a good thing to remember if I am ever in the mark. So, you and my cousin seemed to have sought no-one’s company beside each other’s.”

Her mouth slightly opened. “I thought you would only tease him and not me.”

I shrugged. “I like you, just checking your views on my cousin. And if I tried to be coy and ask around the question; you wouldn’t appreciate that.”

She gave me a look. “Or your head is pounding too hard for you to think about being polite.”

Laughing I shrugged. “Good thing I don’t have to be a perfect princess with you. Now answer the question.”

“I like your cousin very much but if you are teasing me then I should ask about how you danced with my brother so many times, and you were the only woman he danced with?” Her face held triumph as I threw a handful of blades of grass at her.

“I’m a high-ranking lady of Gondor, it is customary for someone of my station to dance with someone of his.” I say with a high pitch voice making me burry my face in my hands as she laughed. “You are cruel to play with me, you will fit in with court life quite well.”

A grimace crossed her face, mostly likely she and Faramir have been busy getting to know each other that she didn’t think what life in Gondor would be like. “Is it bad in the court.”

Shrugging I lean back. “Court during Denethor was not that great but we have a new king, a new age. I am sure the court will be more pleasant. Anyway, you have killed the Witch King, you can handle catty ladies.”

“Are you serious about my cousin?” I asked bluntly, she is of Rohan and would rather me speak in their blunt ways then my going around the bush as is custom in Gondor.

A soft smile passed over her facing lighting her, the expression showing her affection for Faramir. “I did not expect him, he was there at the house of healing and I was drawn to him. I always wanted to fight, that the glory of battle is what I need in life but I found that lacking. What I found was the love Faramir has for what he fights for, that I had been blinded and he acted like the spring rain to remined me of the joy in the world. Oh god that was so gross talking about your cousin as such, are you upset that I already love him so?”

Shaking my head, I hold back a chuckle at the relief flooding her face. “Are you kidding? No one would dare torment me when they find out my cousin in law killed the Witch King, plus as I said, I like you, it would be nice to have a true friend.”

Her cheeks blushed, something I wouldn’t have thought possible of the fierce shieldmaiden. “We are not married.” The yet hung in the air. “And even so, what of Rohan?”

“What of it?” Seeing her face fall, I sigh reaching over to take her hands. “Rohan has a new king who will look after it. It is time you let yourself put you first and if you can’t just think how great it would be if you and Faramir marry for it will strengthen Rohan and Gondor’s relationship. There, everyone’s happy, mostly you.”

“I guess so, you speak more frankly then I was expecting.”

Laughing I let go of her hands. “Figured you would rather we talk in the way of your people then if I were to talk in circle and circles. Also, I am far too tired for Gondor ways.”

She chuckled leaning back, her head turned towards the sunshine. “I appreciate it Princess, hearing some of the long mincing of Gondor talk makes me tired and head ache.”

“You’ll learn to speak in our ways.” The White Lady of Rohan glanced to me. “Or keep your ways.”

There was something in her eyes, some mischief that wasn’t about her and my cousin. But, rather one that she had when teasing about her brother and I.

“Excuse me, my lady.” Turning my head, I find a young healer causing me to smile, her body bouncing with anxiety “Sorry to bother you but the king has asked for a represenative from the house and none could be spared so I was sent and I uh… I don’t know...”

Smiling to ease her anxiety I nod. “I can go talk to him, thank you Myra.”

Getting up from the wall, I bring my arms up to stretch; my back cracking as I went. Wincing I turned to Éowyn. “Apologies my lady, should not have done that.”

“You have been working non-stop; if you need to stretch by all means stretch.” She chuckled shaking her head.

I smile and bring my hands down. “I really do enjoy you, my lady.”

Éowyn winked and leaned her head against the wall, closing her eyes in peace. “I have a feeling we will be seeing each other quite often.”

Chucking I turn to walk down the corridor. “I have to agree with that my lady, good day.”

Walking away Éowyn called her goodbyes. With a deep breath it was time to head to the house, gather paper work and get back to work.