#even as tar-elessarnë!

[anghraine]

It's not really surprising, considering that I'm a lesbian, but it's still kind of incredible to me how much many characters I dislike or feel meh about become far more appealing when I mentally cast them with women or imagine their stories as women.

I'm also into this for my faves (this is obvious if you're familiar with my AO3 account, lol), but a beloved blorbo becoming an even more beloved blorbo isn't nearly as much of a change as ... idk, my profound frustration with canon Maedhros vs "whoa, that'd be awesome" when I think of Maedhros As Played By Katharine Hepburn. Or there's my ambivalence about canon Aragorn vs my affection for female Aragorn, who breaks the father to son chain of heirs of Isildur, but manages to hang onto the heirship anyway, and who is, additionally, 6'6" with shaggy, greying hair and an appearance that ranges from foul to beautiful depending on how regal she feels at that moment.

(I once wrote a fic about female Aragorn having a nightmare about taking the Ring and morphing into the dreadful Tar-Elessarnë. And Tar-Elessarnë would be dreadful. But 100x hotter than canon, also.)

[anghraine]

venndaai said:

@anghraine aw… I gotta try my hand at it now I guess

I support you in this!! I just dug up my tags on the main fic snippets and it was just this monologue like:

#i'm sorry but like ... canon aragorn is interesting in both his virtues and flaws but also frustrating in some ways #f!aragorn is interesting in both her virtues and flaws and also ... super hot #even as tar-elessarnë! #idk i'm gay and weak

#adfjlk i'm just thinking of aranor arriving in southern gondor #from their perspective it's like ... this greying middle-aged woman just shows up to help?? with a small force following her?? #and then holy shit she's got an army of dead people wtf #and looks ... different #and then she's freeing the slaves from the ships and asking the southern gondorians to follow her into battle #and like ... one hand following a woman to battle?! and otoh a woman who just saved them all with an undead army... #also just thinking about aranor in the helmet-crown—i mean. a LOOK

I had a really good time today thinking about Arwen/Aragorn/Eowyn/Faramir lesbian love quadrangle drama

Yessss, the good stuff :D

And I'm glad you enjoyed :D :D :D

[anghraine]

For some reason, I woke up thinking about the f!Aragorn verse I came up with years ago.

The idea is that all the Númenórean throwbacks in LOTR are genderbent, so it’s also f!Denethor (Steward Andreth), f!Faramir (Lady Míriel), and f!Imrahil (Lady Imraphel). I never wrote much of it, and I don’t care for everything I did write, but I'm still fond of two pieces: 1) a prompted fic in which Aranor (f!Aragorn) has a nightmare of herself as Queen, and 2) Aranor finding Boromir’s body.

So here they are!

1.

Aranor drummed her fingers on the arms of her throne, the rings on her hands glinting in the brightly-lit hall, bracelets jangling a little. Even that small gesture was enough to make Arwen, standing behind and to the left of her, stiffen with fear. The other nobles in the court shifted uneasily, but for Boromir and a woman who looked very much like him; both of them gazed at Aranor with pride and admiration.

Andreth herself stepped forward to stare down at the four men kneeling before the throne.

“Tar-Elessarnë will hear you,” she said, then retreated back to Aranor’s right hand, malice curling her mouth.

They were tradesmen from Esgaroth, stammering that they were no spies of Sauron, and only wished to offer treasures from the Lonely Mountain to the great Queen. Aranor turned the dwarvish trinkets over in her hands.

“We well know of the Dwarves’ craft,” she said coldly, and held up a bright stone. “What is this? Not armour or weaponry. A bauble for a child. Do your masters take us for one? Do they think we shall be placated with such treasures?”

“No, of course—we only—” said the leader.

One of the men lifted terrified eyes to her face. Another crawled back; the last and youngest sprang up and ran towards the doors.

Boromir and Míriel laughed outright, soon joined by the rest of the court.

“Send them all to be questioned,” said Aranor indifferently, while the guards seized the young merchant. “Then put them to death.”

She tossed the baubles at Arwen.

“They should be sufficient to amuse you.”

The Ring gleamed bright on her hand.

Aranor woke slowly, the starry sky blurred above her. Frodo, who had kept the last watch, was bending down to shake her awake. The Ring on its chain swung right past her eyes.

She jerked away.

Frodo, looking hurt, said, “It’s your turn, Strider—”

“Forgive me! You woke me out of a nightmare.”

“Oh! I hope it wasn’t too bad?”

Aranor swallowed. It was everything she wanted, reflected in a broken glass.

Not like that, she thought. Never like that.

2.

It was months before Aranor and Boromir spoke privately again, once more beneath the trees. This time, they did not sit peacefully in the light of fair Lothlórien. Boromir now lay sprawled not far from Nen Hithoel, propped up against a massive tree. Aranor, after one glance, raced across the glade, crying,

“Boromir! Boromir!”

She fell to her knees beside him. He lay in a dappled pool of sunlight, and she had seen everything the moment she laid eyes on him: the black arrows piercing his chest, his sword broken in his hand, the great Horn of Vorondil cloven right in half.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. She knew already that not all the healing in her hands could save him; Elrond, greatest of their kind, could not have done it.

“I … tried to take the Ring from Frodo,” he said, his voice weak and faltering: not Boromir at all. But the Boromir she knew would never have threatened Frodo. Aranor swallowed her shock and horror, and was always grateful that she had done so, for he went on, “I am sorry. I have paid.“

His gaze drifted to the two dozen orcs lying at his feet.

"They have gone. The halflings. The orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them.”

His eyes drifted shut, and her last command sprang into Aranor’s mind. Whatever else had happened this day, Boromir had died a faithful soldier, following orders: her orders. It was now her duty to comfort him as she could, but all words stuck in her throat.

He managed to lift his eyelids once more. “Farewell, Aranor.” Anguish twisted his face, and his grey eyes looked directly into hers. “Go … to Minas Tirith … and save my people. I have failed.”

“No!” Aranor seized his hand and leaned down to kiss him. “You have conquered! Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall.”

Her words rang out with all the power of an oath. So be it. She owed that much to Boromir, the greatest warrior of Gondor, dying in her service and Gondor’s. Had any other fallen to the Ring and returned? It was, indeed, a great victory. He had reclaimed himself.

He smiled up at her.

“Which way did they go? Where is Frodo?” she asked. But he said nothing more: he was dead.

No longer distracted by soothing Boromir’s last moments, Aranor cried out in grief and despair. She should have seen this coming. She could have sent Legolas or Gimli with him, or gone herself; mighty a warrior as he was, how could she have done this? Why indeed had Gandalf trusted that she could? She could not have betrayed his trust more utterly. It is I who have failed!

And now Boromir was dead, her comrade and—yes—her friend. She had not known it.

Boromir’s hand lay still warm in hers. Aranor began to cry, painful wracking sobs that tore out of her throat, drawing the strength out of her until she was bent with weeping. It was there that Legolas and Gimli found her, and from her anguish thought that she must have taken a fatal wound.

Aranor just managed to regain some semblance of self-command: enough to explain some part of what had really happened. She kept Boromir’s confession to herself. He had repented; none else need know what he had done before.

Together they raided the bodies of the fallen orcs, to lay their weapons at Boromir’s feet. There was no time to bury him properly—much less as he would have been consigned in Rath Dínen—but they could send him home in honour and glory. As quickly as they could, they carried Boromir to the shore, labouring under his weight, and lifted him into the only spare boat remaining. Aranor combed his long dark hair while Legolas folded his hood and cloak under his head, for a pillow. Gimli, stern and reverent, placed the orcs’ weapons at his feet, and Boromir’s own across his lap. Then they cut his boat free, watching it float down, disappearing into the falls.

It was Aranor and Legolas who sang for him, her voice soaring high into the desolate air.

“Oh, Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze—” She remembered all of Boromir’s kin, Andreth’s fierce face softening as she swung her son up into the air, Gwindor kneeling beside him, teaching him to read, Prince Túrin and Lady Imraphel leading him by the hand, showing him paper boats. She remembered him tugging at her leggings, demanding to know but what next? And she remembered him in Lothlórien, haughty and suspicious until he began to speak of Míriel, the sister he had loved and protected through all the days of their lives. Boromir the tall, the fair, the bold, had died, and his treasured sister lived on; what was Aranor’s grief to that?

May the news of his loss come to you swiftly and kindly, jewel-maiden!

Aranor’s voice nearly broke at the thought. She forced herself to continue:

“—to Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days!”