#harad to find

[vintagerpg]

Greater Harad (1990) features one of Angus McBride’s oddest covers for MERP. It doesn’t feel at all like Middle-earth, though that doesn’t mean it isn’t awesome. The buildings in the background, in their sunset pastels, are absolutely gorgeous. And, I mean, come one, black-clad assassin with a cobra cowl riding a war camel with red eyes? The Art of Angus McBride book claims that guy is just some cultist, but my head canon is that it’s Akhorahil, the fifth Nazgul, and that’s just what Black Riders ride down south.

This is one of MERP’s big setting books. There are some adventure ideas in the back, but for the most part this is gazetteer of important people, places and things in the gigantic region south of Mordor. It forms the backbone of half the MERP product line, which developed the region for play as a way to avoid the preconceived notions that accompanied games set in the same region as the books. As such, this amounts to a cornerstone for a sizable “expanded universe” or an elaborate fanfic, depending on your predisposition.

I used to really dislike the Harad material. It was too big, it doesn’t feel like Middle-earth to me at all and lacks the plausibility that makes Star Wars EU stuff generally work. I’m a little more positive on it now, though. It’s so preposterous that I find it hard to dislike, and I think a lot of the design work winds up informing Shadow World in interesting ways. I also think it is a massive improvement over Tolkien’s depiction of the Haradrim. While he doesn’t position them as inherently evil (a common and understandable mistake) he does have them firmly and totally under the heel of Sauron’s boot. Here, though, there are plenty of Free People struggling against the Dark Lord, and many do so effectively. And while the Harad material often strays into tedious fantasy analogs of real world cultures, it is also kind of nice to have the kind of cultural diversity that’s on display here, which is unusual in RPGs. Like, all of them except maybe Talislanta and RuneQuest.

Interior art is by Ellisa Martin, who I am unfamiliar with. It’s fine, but she doesn’t reimagine cultural garb in a way that is anywhere near as interesting as McBride’s paintings.

[erulasse23]

comfort food

[the fellowship, fluff, 763 words]

written for @tolkienekphrasisweek day 5: culinary arts

“Do you know what I want? One of Bilbo’s honey cakes.” Pippin announced this aloud to the eight other tired, cold, hungry members of the Fellowship, who were just coming out of the harrowing snowstorm on the slopes of Caradhras.

“Don’t have none of those,” Sam said apologetically. “I’ve got a few potatoes I can cook if we can get a fire going. There should be some bread and cheese too.”

“Oh Pip, why’d you have to mention honey cakes? That’s all I can think about now!” Merry said. “We were always jealous of you Frodo, you must’ve had honey cakes every day, living with Bilbo.”

Frodo gave a small smile. “Honestly, I don’t think Bilbo cared much for them.” There were gasps of astonishment from the other three hobbits. The honey cakes were famous across the South Farthing. “It was always more about the ritual, with Bilbo. No matter what I was doing, he called me in for teatime. He would put a whole spread together, brew a pot, get out the nice teacups. He liked having someone to take care of.”

“He did the same at Rivendell,” Aragorn said. “Elves don’t have afternoon tea, not like hobbits. But he would always find someone to sit with him a while.”

“That sounds like old Bilbo,” said Pippin. “What about you, Boromir? What do you miss from your home?”

“Well… right now I would love a hot stew with harissa,” he said. “Warm me up a bit. It’s been years since I’ve had any.”

Merry and Pippin exchanged glances. “What’s harissa?” Merry asked.

“It’s a sort of sauce,” Boromir said in surprise. “It’s meant to be mixed in with other foods to add flavor and spice.”

“The Shire doesn’t have much trade with any peoples east of Gondor,” said Aragorn.

“Ahhhh. Well neither have we in recent years, that’s why it’s been so long since I’ve had any. We import it from Harad.”

“But when you say spice,” said Pippin, “you mean like peppercorns? Ginger?”

“I don’t know everything that’s in it,” said Boromir slowly. “It burns, somewhat similar to ginger, but it has peppers and chiles and a smokier flavor. It makes your mouth warm, your throat warm, even your stomach. When I was young, my friends and I used to challenge each other to eat it by the spoonful.” He laughed suddenly. “We’d see who could take it without turning red or getting teary-eyed.” Merry looked at Pippin, grin spreading across his face.

“Oh no, look what you’ve started now, laddie!” Gimli shook his head at the young hobbits, who had already started bickering again. “Me, I await the halls of Khazad-Dûm. They’ll have salted pork and beer at the least, maybe more if we’re lucky. Beer! How long has it been since I’ve had a pint? Elves and their fancy wines are no match for a good ale!” Boromir nodded in agreement, while Legolas quietly wandered away from the small fire that Sam was building.

Some time later, he returned with a sack full of berries and wild onions. The hobbits set upon the supply immediately. Legolas raised an eyebrow at Gimli, who huffed. “No meat?”

“You are welcome to go looking, if you wish,” replied Legolas. “It appears that animals have deserted this place, but I cannot tell why.”

“We will see what we find in Moria,” said Gandalf.

“Gandalf, what do wizards eat?” Merry smacked the back of Pippin’s head as Gandalf raised his eyes skyward, mumbling to himself about Tooks and foolish questions. “What, it was an honest question!”

“We eat hobbits, of course,” the wizard said. “What do you think?”

Pippin’s eyes widened and the rest of the Fellowship laughed at his expression.

Gandalf sighed. “I eat what I am given, for the most part. I have traveled far in my time and tried a great many things. Although I am partial to the offerings of the Shire.”

“If there’s one thing we know in the Shire, it’s how to cook up a proper meal,” said Sam with pride. “Not like this campfire cookin’ we’ve had. After all this is over, you’ll have to come pay us a visit in Hobbiton and I’ll get you a real taste of hobbit-fare. A nice roast, maybe, with carrots and mushrooms, and bread with herbs and butter, and a fresh garden salad, and, and spice cake!”

“It sounds wonderful, Sam,” said Boromir. “We would be honored.”

Sam blushed. “Well, we’ve a ways to go yet. I suppose there’s no use planning that far ahead. One day at a time.”

[starlightweave]

The BG3 companions if they were in Middle-Earth:

@window-on-the-west highly valuing your input here!

EDIT: I FORGOT ASTARION how could I, my 2nd favorite romance and I completely forgot about him 😭: a Sindarin elf of Rivendell I think, fought in the Seige of Mordor during the Last Alliance of Elves and Men and was badly scarred, physically and emotionally, by the war. Was taken prisoner for some time, tortured and enslaved ;_;

Wyll: a ranger of Ithilien who's lowkey in love with Captain Faramir (bc who ISN'T). Cries his eyes out at Aragorn's coronation

Lae'zel: ALSO a ranger of Ithilien, but originally a foreigner, a woman of Harad or Rhun, who was part of a very tiny minority of ppl who were against allying w/ Sauron (recall Sam's/Faramir's musings over the young dead Southron man, if he believed in the cause of Sauron, or if he only wished to be home, and was threatened/forced to fight). She escaped and made it to Gondor. The type of ranger who's like we should do a suicide mission into Mordor and end this once and for all I'LL tear down the foundations of Barad Dûr MYSELF

Gale: the approach I think most ppl would take is to make him a figure like Feanor, super talented but arrogant, flying too close to the sun and pissing off the gods lol. However 1) Feanor was a dick, not at ALL charming like our Gale 2) I think he needs to stay human (as I think the fact that he wants to accomplish SO MUCH in his life but has less than a century to do so cannot be discounted when we speak of his ambition). In which case he'd be like a Renaissance man of Gondor, like Faramir. Deeply learned in Gondor's lore, but also highly skilled in battle. Also thinks the Ring "is a gift," BIGLY. YUUUGELY in favor of using it against Sauron, CONVINCED his good intentions and knowledge of lore would allow him to master it for good (but also to grow his own power)

Shadowheart: a bit tricky since we don't have an abundance of cults kidnapping people, but what if she was a Dunedain girl, kidnapped at a young age by agents of The Enemy, and then sent back years later as a spy for Sauron

Karlach: another tricky one. Perhaps if she was a woman of Rohan, captured and badly wounded in an orc raid. Arwen's mother was so physically and emotionally scarred after she survived an orc attack that she left for Valinor; it's clearly a traumatic experience, so what about someone who couldn't run away to Valinor? Who has to live with what was taken from her in this attack, and then learn Wormtongue, one of her own people and the king's own advisor, whom they all trusted, was a spy for Saruman? And then learn that Saruman, who was supposed to be their friend and protector, sold them out to Saruon. Nobody gets betrayed like Rohan in LOTR so that's my argument for placing her there.

Minthara: one of the Noldor elves in the First Age who was captured by Melkor but survived and escaped Thangorodrim. I recall that these elves' old communities didn't always treat them well, finding them too traumatized and changed to accept them again :(. Fits w/ the taken hold of an evil cult and then made an exile. She'd start her OWN resistance against Melkor, with blackjack, and hookers!

Halsin: one of the Beornings. OBVIOUSLY. For those who don't know, in the Hobbit, Beorn, after whom the Beornings are named, is a giant mountain man who can shapechange INTO A BEAR. He lives with highly intelligent animals, can speak to beasts, has a giant garden with giant flowers and giant bees, and lives off honey cakes and cream. He also HATES goblins (ie orcs) and only offers his help to Bilbo & Co because they have fought and killed a whole bunch of goblins (also he knows who Gandalf is ffs don't trust his shitty adaptation in the movie 🙄 that scene is so much funnier and better done in the book)

Jaheira: a Silvan elf of Thranduil's realm. veteran fighter against orcs. Totally wanted in on the council of Elrond but she pissed off Thranduil with her lecturing about how did you let Gollum get loose lol

Minsc: also a Boerning. I know he's not a shapechanger but his animal companion, ability to speak to beasts, and the fact that he is GIANTIC and all muscle, pls, he fits right in with the mountain men. He'd also love living on honey cakes and cream, as would Boo lol. Being a Rider of Rohan also works for him imo - altho he looks way to big to fit on a horse lol, their culture surrounding war and martial prowess has parallels w/ Rasheman

The Emperor: a ringwraith 😂 THEE fucking ringwraith in fact, The Witch King of Angmar himself. No man can slay me 💅🏼 Thanks to @oryndoll for this one lol

[sallysavestheday]

End of Year 8+8+8+8 Fic Recs

It's that time again! This was a tough year to narrow down, so you get 8 of each, with no author repeats. There's such great stuff out there to read. Enjoy!

8 of my favorite long fics of 2024

sisyphus, unhappy by @tobermoriansass. M: 140K, WIP. Curufinrod after re-embodiment is the simplest description, but it's so much more. Philosophy, musical theory, racial and sexual politics, a very dark family comedy of manners. Featuring one of my favorite Maglors ever.

Two Half-Kings and a Full Lake Between by @melestasflight and @polutrope. T: 12K. A fantastic exploration of the period in Maglor's regency when Fingolfin had arrived but Maedhros had not yet been rescued. Tense and compelling. Another favorite Maglor.

Northern Stars by @idrilsscribe. T: 62K, WIP. An AU of an AU, featuring traumatized kidnapped-while-young Elrohir making his way back from Harad to Imladris with Glorfindel's assistance. Elegant, moving prose; fantastic worldbuilding; delightfully complex OCs; etc., etc.

I Do; I Will by @littlewhitemouseagain. M: 23K. Fingon fights all the Feanorions, back to back, at his own coronation. Glorious (and painful, and moving, and hopeful, in a very Fingon way).

i've been so worried (you've been so still) by @welcomingdisaster. E: 9.5K. Maglor is drawn to an acolyte of Este after Maedhros is taken. An absolutely fantastic OC, delicious worldbuilding, and peak Sexy Maglor. Just WOW.

a stranger in my bed (a pounding in my head) by vauquelin. T: 11K. A surprise new installment makes this a 2024 fic, hooray! Maedhros and Fingon wake up married. Maedhros wants it annulled because he can't imagine Fingon is happy; Fingon is miserable therefore. Hilarious and touching at once, with the best punchline of the year.

Across So Wide A Sea by @emyn-arnens. G: 20K, WIP. A fantastic epistolary fic: Galadriel writes to Finrod (after his death), as a deliberate historical record that quickly gets very personal. Rich and complex and humorous and poignant. Delightful.

The Other Daughter of Twilight by Anna_Wing. G: 16K. Maedhros/Thuringwethil. Just read it. Go.

8 of my favorite shorter fics of 2024

The Vigil by @balrogballs. G: 5K. Celebrian plans and delivers her own sendoff, the night before sailing. Oh, my heart.

A flickering flame by @camille-lachenille. G: 960 words. Andreth/Aegnor, Finrod, and a Gil-galad origin story, oh ow!

To Evil End by @zealouswerewolfcollector. T: 2900 words. Decades after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Fingon comes back to Maedhros. Or does he? GAH!!

Body and Spirit by @meadowlarkx. G: 1500 words. An anonymous scholar considers the food and drink customary during Elven pregnancy. Deliciously thoughtful and creative.

we could be kings by @queerofthedagger. T: 1600 words. The copper circlet Maitimo is crowned with is a work of art. He finds that he likes it much better on another's brow. Oh, babies.

Two Peredhil and an Elf in a Boat by @cycas. G: 5000 words. Elrond begins to make his peace with Earendil. Tender, humorous, touching.

precious stone set in the silver sea by rain_sleet_snow. G: 2000 words. A Celeborn/Galadriel origin story in which he is a Teler from Alqualonde. Gorgeous. Read the rest of the series, too.

The Warning Sounds Too Late by @eilinelsghost. T: 6000 words. Part 18 of the fabulous Atandil (Finrod/Beor) series, featuring a family dinner that, like so many, sparks insights and regrets.

8 oldies but goodies, circa 2013-2021, that I've recently reread and loved again.

The West Wind Quartet by @hhimring. T: 16K. Always a fave. Maglor unexpectedly takes on a Sinda as a student. Elegant, original, and moving.

Flawed and Fair by @a-tehta. M: 33K. Classic Glorthelion. Hilarious and tender all at once. Those GUYS!!!

Though All Whom Ye Have Slain Should Entreat For You by @thearrogantemu. G: 12K. Maedhros and Elwe have it out upon Elwe's return. A classic, for all the best reasons.

The Sound Below Sound by @adnirod. T: 35K. Gimleaf eloquence and angst and beauty. Spectacular.

Detour by @dawnfelagund. T: 8K. Reborn Maedhros is resigned to a gloomy life as a teacher in Fifth Age Tirion. Then Fingon Returns, with hope (and stickers).

Defiant Hope, Take Wing, by @lordnelson100. T: 10K. Halenthir: an alternative ending to the War of the Jewels, and a heartbreaker.

a light in darkness, hope in woe, by @admirablemonster. E: 4K. A Gil-galad origin story. Perpetual fave.

Letter 97 by @batshape. T: 9K. Orc academics, Russingon, and musings on the afterlife. Delightful.

8 favorites among my own fics from 2024. If you haven't read them, do give these a try.

When the Hurly-Burly's Done. G: 850 words. Elrond and Gil-galad and Celebrimbor picnic at the edge of the world.

The Blue Line Between Sea and Sky. G: 900 words, Idril/Tuor/Voronwe. Voronwe drowns. And drowns. And drowns.

Larded With Sweet Flowers. G: 400 words. Edrahil's last moments.

O, Blithe New-comer! G: 1000 words, background Russingon. Another origin story.

The Heaped Ashes of the Night Turn Into Leaves. G: 850 words. Glorfindel is being sent back to Middle-earth. Finrod has FOMO.

Deeper Roots Than Reason. G: 5500 words. The Oath of Fëanor makes its way across history and cultures, dragging Doom in its wake. TRSB 2024.

Among So Many Marvels. G: 1500 words. Early friendship between Eomer and Faramir, built around their people's stories.

Molded on One Stem. G: 3200 words. An exploration of Fingon and Aredhel's relationship, in which they are, fortunately and unfortunately, very much alike.

Everyone! What have you been reading? Consider yourself tagged. Please share!

[sauronpasta]

Rings of Power Sauron/Galadriel Fic Rec Post of Fics that are Exactly my Taste: Part 1/? Canon Compliant/Divergent One-Shots

Since I have torn through too many Rings of Power fics to count since the season 2 finale, I thought it was time to compile the best of them into some lists and send it out into the universe. I think I'm the last person on earth who doesn't know how to make fancy photo edits, but I am over-caffeinated and sleep deprived and will provide semi-detailed reviews for each fic to make up for my post being plain and simple. So don't scroll by! All of these fics deserve to be read and re-read, and please leave these great writers comments if you do partake! Also, if you know of these authors having tumblr handles, please let me know so that I can tag them!

ouroboros by Amuria, 17k, E: Post-S2 Finale Time Loop Fic. Galadriel keeps ending up on the raft with Halbrand and tries to change what happened. The best part of this fic, other than the gorgeous prose, is that it takes a well-loved fanfic trope, the time loop, and really ups the stakes with relentless pacing. It's not just a different versions of the raft scene, but short loops, long loops, loops where she tries to kill Sauron, and loops where they find that they are good partners. It's disorienting in a good way, because you are along for the ride with Galadriel.

salt by thefudge, 2.5k, E: HIGHLY recommend, one of my favorite pieces of fan fiction ever. One word to describe this fic: trippy. It takes place on the raft, after the storm and before Halbrand and Galadriel are rescued by Elendil. Galadriel falls deeper and deeper into various deceptions of Sauron, leading her into an un-reality where time is meaningless. The very definition of Sauron playing with his food. Artsy porn at its finest, mind the tags on this one, but definitely give it a read if it's up your alley.

Dragged by the Crown by fawningbruises, 12k, E: This is more of a Sauron character study, with a bit of Morgoth/Sauron and Sauron/Galadriel. So many great descriptions of first age Silmarillion stories and locations from Sauron's POV. If you enjoy Sauron being slightly snarky and an often exhausted evil bureaucrat, this is the fic for you.

Half Life by audreystark, 7k, E: Porn with Plot at its finest. Galadriel is making trouble for Sauron while he travels around Harad distributing the nine rings. I like that this fic explores the particular Halbrand/Galadriel dynamic, but post-season 2 rather than backtracking to season 1. I also like that Halbrand is hot as hell and Galadriel fights him tooth and nail the entire time, but still wants him. Just a great quick read.

The Waiting Game by ninathena (@athenasnina), 2.5k, G: I love a touch of sadness and tragedy with my Sauron/Galadriel stories, and this little fic explores the potential for a moment that I think about a lot. Would Galadriel feel it when Sauron is finally defeated in the third age? More importantly, would they be able to see each other one last time? The biggest tragedy with them is that no matter what, they are still bonded. I won't give anything more away here, go read! You will feel things.

I will make a separate list for multi-chapter fics and AUs. Happy reading!

[rohirric-hunter]

The flying glitch seems to be pretty common suddenly. I had it happen to me two separate times on Tuesday. I fear it will come to the devs' attention and they'll fix it.

But in the meantime, here's an overview of everything I know about it:

The Glitch

The way the glitch works is this: the game thinks there's a layer of water somewhere above you, and it thinks you should be swimming in it, so it moves you up to the level of this nonexistent layer of water. (At the same time, the game knows you're not supposed to be 30 meters in the air above Bree, so it's trying to get you to fall back down, thus the continuous falling animation.)

Understanding how the glitch works is important for knowing what you can do with it. You will rise to a specific height (seems to be random) and then remain at that height. You can't change your height. Because of this, you won't be able to fly everywhere; if you start flying in Bree and only go like 20 feet up then you're not going to be flying in Rivendell, which is significantly higher altitude and above your water layer.

I'm doing some more research with regards to height data in LotRO. I will update this post with more info if and when I get it, but my current theory is that the five major world maps (Eriador, Rhovanion, Gondor Pre-battle, Gondor After-battle, and Harad) all have different height data, thus why you will fly in some more than others. (Flying in Mordor is almost a guarantee, whereas flying in Eriador is pretty rare.)

The glitch seems to trigger upon loading into a new area, either via fast travel or going through a door. It can be hard to pin down exactly what triggers it, as it's possible for it to trigger and for you to never know. Recently it triggered for me when I exited Erebor, but I didn't realize it until I had gone quite a long ways downhill towards Dale. My fake water layer had appeared below me, but still high enough for me to fly. It seems likely that the glitch sometimes triggers below you and you simply never go downhill far enough to encounter it. Once the glitch triggers in a session, it will not end until you log out, even if it seems to. You're probably just above your water layer.

You will almost always fly in interior cells, but you will go up indefinitely instead of levelling off. If the ceiling doesn't have collision (most do, but not all) then you'll float off into the void. I believe this is because most interior cells (and most instances) are physically stored beneath the map, far below your fake water layer.

There's no reason to go floating off into the void. At first I was hoping to see unused assets or dev cubes or something. They may be there, but you can't see them; the culling in this game is very aggressive and it won't be too long before you get culled out.

I don't know if something bad happens if you float off into the void. I don't want to find out. I always fast travel away as soon as the culling starts. I recommend not pushing your luck in this department.

Avoiding Getting Stuck

In order to avoid getting stuck, I recommend flying around some safe areas first so as to get used to the camera movement. That way you'll be able to recognize when the game starts rubberbanding and flipping out, which is a sign you should turn back.

Most actually dangerous places are blocked off with invisible walls, but not all. For some reason the devs didn't have flying people in mind when they designed the barriers of the game environment. Cannot imagine why. But bear in mind, it's possible for you to get somewhere you can't get back out of, even with fast travel. I've never gotten badly stuck myself, but I know people who have. I tend to be a lot more cautious with this glitch on my non-hunter characters, because Desperate Flight has gotten me out of a few tight spots.

Personally, I divide normally inaccessible areas into one of three categories based on how safe it is to go there. This is just general guidelines based on my experience, don't take it as gospel, but it might help.

Green areas. This includes things like tall structures or steep hills that are in bounds but unclimbable. A good example of these are the towers in Umbar or the hills surrounding Esteldin. These are, mostly, basically fine to fly above or land on. Being on these is functionally equivalent to jumping on top of a barrel, just bigger.

Yellow areas. These are areas that are distinctly out of bounds, but clearly connected to the playable game world. Examples of these include the far side of the Anduin south of Pelargir and the top of the Ram Duath. You can go here. But bad things might happen. If you see anything -- and I'll use a technical term here -- fucky, be prepared to get the hell out of dodge before things get worse.

Red areas. These are fully out of bounds, unmodeled areas. Anywhere you can see the void, or outside the skybox, or there's no ground, or weird stretched out textures, or anything like that. Don't go there. Abort mission. Remember that this is an MMO, not a single player game. You can't revert to a previous save. There's nothing out there worth losing a character over, I promise.

A few pointers on getting unstuck if you do get stuck:

Fast travel might not always work. More on that and how to fix it in the navigation section.

You can get a friend to summon you. (Sometimes doesn't work for the same reason as fast travel.)

Sometimes entering a world instance helps.

The /stuck command is your friend. (It also might not always work.)

If you're a hunter, Desperate Flight will get you out of most tight spots.

If you're low enough level for it to kill you, try getting some Barrow-brie when you notice the glitch has triggered, just in case. This is a preemptive measure, and it can't be traded between players, you have to get it yourself. If you're unable to access the barrows, it can also be got from a Chest of Chance bartered from Rúnar in the 21st Hall, though it's a random drop and you'll need Marks of Victory to barter with.

I haven't tried it myself, but it might be worthwhile to bring along some of the mug festival consumables you can get during the Farmer's Faire, which might be able to get you out of a tight spot by teleporting you to a random location.

Sometimes logging out and logging back in to end the glitch will fix the problem. Occasionally it won't.

Maybe none of these work and you'll have to contact Support. I've gotten stuck for unrelated reasons before and they were able to move my character somewhere else.

Navigation

Getting places with this glitch can be a pain. Obviously it's ideal to get it on a hunter with lots of travel skills, but so far there's really no way to control which character you get it on. Fast travel or getting summoned by a friend is going to be your main way to get around, because you're not going to be able to reach most stable-masters. Some handy things to have on hand include a house with teleport items, such as the Mysterious Door or the festival kegs. Keep in mind that if your house has high ceilings you might want to position these things accordingly. Also note that there's a very high chance of getting stuck in a housing neighborhood if you start flying in it, so have an exit plan before you go home. (I have never flown in Kingstead Meadows and generally consider it safe from this, but bear in mind the limited dataset we're working with here.)

The first time you try to fast travel, the game may throw back a, "You cannot do that while moving," or, "Interrupted," error. The way to fix this is to find something high enough for you to land on. Look for a tall hill, those are usually your best bet. Once you've landed, fast travel once. The game should now allow you to fast travel while flying. I don't know why this works. But it does. If you can't find a hill, try loading into a world instance that's inside, like Halls of Night or Inn of the Forsaken. For some reason it's a lot easier to fast travel from inside than it is from outside. You still have to fast travel to somewhere you can stand on solid ground and then fast travel again in order to get fast travel working outside.

(Housing neighborhoods have a high chance of getting you stuck because there's often nothing to land on, and you go too high too fast to get inside a house, and you can't enter instances from inside them. Hunters can Desperate Flight out of the housing neighborhood, but other classes might have more trouble.)

Moving manually is extremely slow, since the game thinks you're both falling and swimming. There's not much to be done about this. Any old speed boost will help, but beyond that... open up settings and assign an autorun hotkey. It's a long trip to anywhere, but a very scenic one.

When you're done flying, just log out to land. (You may have to force quit the game.) You will log back in directly below wherever you were flying when you logged out. This is a fun opportunity to take screenshots in a place you wouldn't normally be able to reach. Be prepared for the possibility that you might immediately die and get sent to the rez circle when you log back in, though. It does happen.

LotRO Tumblr is pretty chill, so I probably don't need to say this, but this glitch is for screenshots ONLY!!!!!!!!!! If I find out any of you used any of this information to try and exploit the game, I will find you and I will poop in your shoes

[thedwarrowscholar]

Hello! I hope you’re still active on here, because I have a small translation question. How do you say “little lion” as a term of endearment? I know lion is “ibrizbunt” but since it’s kinda a compound word, I’m not sure how to apply the diminutive rules. I came up with “ibrizbuntanut”, but is that right?

Well met, foxtrot40!

What a fine question — and one that touches on several fun aspects of Neo-Khuzdul: compound word formation, diminutives, and terms of endearment. Let’s take it one step at a time, and I think you’ll find your instincts were already well on track.

🦁 On the Word “Lion” in Neo-Khuzdul

Yes, the word you're referencing — ibrizbunt — is indeed the correct term for lion in Neo-Khuzdul. It’s a compound word, literally meaning “sun-cat.”

ibriz = sun, lit.: "the bright red-one" - (from the radicals BRZ, also seen in Barazinbar, the “Redhorn” mountain of Moria)

bunt = cat

The origin of this term was first outlined in an older blog post: 🔗 Is there a word for lion in Dwarvish?

In that post, we speculated on the precise origin of the compound:

It may reference the scorching Harad sun, where lions might have been seen (or at least known by trade or tale).

Or it could refer to the golden manes of the lion itself, gleaming like sunlight.

Either way, the word ibrizbunt captures the (at times rare) poetic beauty present in Dwarvish when it comes to things admired for their strength, majesty, or fierceness.

🪓 Diminutive Forms in Neo-Khuzdul

Neo-Khuzdul features two types of diminutives:

Age Diminutive Used for youth, freshness, or newness. Often applied to young or newborn animals, fresh items, or newly created items.

bunt (cat) → bantith (kitten)

zagr (sword) → zagrith (newly forged sword)

tabl (apple) -> tablith (fresh apple) Note that you don't always just add "+ith", at times the base vowel will change, as seen in bunt -> bantith.

Intimate Diminutive Used to express affection or indicate smallness — often via reduplication of consonants.

bunt → buntanut (little cat, kitty)

kunb (dog) → kunbanub (doggie)

dag (fish) → dugadug (fishie)

These patterns are structurally inspired by Hebrew diminutives like khatul → khataltul for kitty, and follow a clear formula in Neo-Khuzdul (more info below).

🧱 How Diminutives Apply to Compounds

In Neo-Khuzdul, when a compound noun is given a diminutive form, only the final word in the compound is affected. The first part remains intact, and the diminutive is applied to the second part only. This is consistent with how Neo-Khuzdul compounds are treated grammatically, as the final noun in the compound governs the word type, declension, and verb generation if it’s used in verbal form.

For example: Let's take the word for "harp", which is siginzadkhlefam, consisting of:

sigin = "long"

zadkh = "line"

lefam = "musical instrument"

siginzadkhlefam = "harp" (lit. “long line instrument”)

Only lefam governs any declensions or verb generation, for instance:

siginzadkhlefâm = harps (lefam becomes lefâm in plural)

siginzadkhlefemôn = “they have played (a/the) harp” (Perfect / 3rd pl. masc.). Here the verb creation is done by only modifying the last part of the compound.

So in ibrizbunt, the diminutive is only applied to bunt (“cat”).

Some more information on Intimate Diminutive Patterns:

Pattern: 1u23a2u3 Meaning that for three radicals words, like "BNT" ("cat"), the pattern is a reduplication of the last two radicals, more specifically in the pattern: "1u23a2u3" ("buntanut" - "kitten"). While words that have two radicals, like "DG" ("fish"), the pattern is a reduplication of both radicals, more specifically in the pattern: "1u2a1u2" ("dugadug" - "little fish")

So for our focus right now, that would indeed be bunt → buntanut (“tiny cat” / “kitty”)

Thus: ibrizbuntanut = “tiny lion” or “little sun-cat” Like the age diminutive the intimate diminutive has both a singular and plural form. In both diminutive versions the plural is formed by extending the last vowel of the singular form (age: "ith" becomes "îth" /intimate: final "u" becomes "û").

Thus: ibrizbuntanût = "little lions" ibrizbantîth = "lion cubs"

💬 Saying “You are my little lion”

If you want to use this as a term of endearment, in a sentence, here's a suggestion:

Sâti ibrizbuntanutê → “You are my little lion” (spoken to a male)

Sâtiya ibrizbuntanutê → “You are my little lion” (spoken to a female)

Explanation:

Sâti / Sâtiya = you are (male / female form)

-ê = my (possessive suffix)

🧠 Summary

So your instinct was solid! Ibrizbuntanut is a valid and grammatically sound intimate diminutive for “little lion.” Just remember that the diminutive applies only to the final element in compounds.

I hope that confirms things for you. May your “little lion” roar on!

Ever at your service, The Dwarrow Scholar

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

I'm still thinking about banner bearers as I continue working on my Obscure Blorbo Guthláf story, and I do find it impressive how much context about the banner bearer role Tolkien shoved into LOTR in barely half a dozen sentences' worth of small references.

For starters, there are (by my count) 3 acknowledged banner bearers in Lord of the Rings: Halbarad of the rangers of the North, Guthláf of Rohan (♥️), and an unnamed Haradrim standard bearer. I reject the distinction Tolkien made between so-called high, middle and low Men, but it is notable nonetheless that he created a banner bearer character from each of these 3 groups. That shows how universally important the function was, at least to communities of Men, just as it was extremely common in the real world for many hundreds of years of human history. All kinds of Middle Earth's Men have them, no matter how different the Men are from one another.

In addition, all 3 of the banner bearer characters die at the Pelennor Fields, which effectively illustrates how incredibly dangerous a job it was, both in Middle Earth and real life. Given how intentional Tolkien is about everything, I think it's fair to assume that he purposefully killed all of them in recognition of the realities of ancient warfare. (The only banner bearer I can think of in any Tolkien book that survives their war is Eönwë in the Silmarillion, but he's an immortal Maia so...TOTALLY different circumstances.)

And finally, Tolkien shows us how significant the loss of a banner bearer was to both sides in a battle. When Théoden kills the unnamed Haradrim standard bearer (just before the Witch King rolls up), that's the moment when the forces of Harad founder and start to flee because they've lost their rallying point and their source of morale. They can't function without their banner bearer. On the opposite side, Théoden cites his felling of the black serpent flag to Merry as one of the singular achievements that will allow him to sit proudly alongside his ancestors in the afterlife, so he clearly also understands taking out a banner bearer to be a massive battle achievement.

We don't witness Halbarad or Guthláf’s final moments, but their deaths are just as significant. Out of the untold numbers of dead at the Pelennor Fields, they are both in the small handful of names to be recorded in the story because they were important and their deaths meant something to the broader battle. And we see in the immediate aftermath of Guthláf’s death what a huge deal it is to the Rohirrim—they stop to address his death and retrieve his banner so that it can be borne by another before they even take the time to tend to their mortally wounded king. Those are the actions of people who understand how strategically important a banner bearer is above almost all other battlefield functions.

I'm not trying to say Guthláf is more important than Théoden* but I am saying that Tolkien really demonstrated, through a handful of very economical little actions and asides and unremarked-upon events, how critical people like Guthláf were, as well as how ridiculously brave and selfless. And more than anything else, I guess I’m saying that now, as I approach 27,000 words about Guthláf in my Google docs, he’s…on my mind a lot.

*At this point, I would absolutely say this for myself. In my heart, there's no contest and it's Guthláf forever. But I know that’s because he’s my special li’l guy and I don’t expect that of anyone else!

[ridingforrohan]

The Tenth Queen of Rohan: Chapter 1

Hello everyone, I've been working on this fic since January and now that I have met a few more people interested in Rohan on Tumblr I decided to start posting it here to see if I can get it out to more readers! The story is based two years after the events of War of the Rohirrim and focuses on Fréaláf's attempts to rebuild Edoras and Rohan after the devastation of the long winter and Dunlending invasion. I also have it be in compliance with the events of my sister's fic to wild whispered places which sets the scene for what Héra and Fréaláf do in the immediate aftermath of the events of the movie, with minor changes.

This story expands on the lore of the characters and the Rohirrim as a people, including their customs and stories.

Chapter 1 finds Héra in Gondor on her wanderings, where she has befriended one of the daughters of a local nobleman and engages in some lighthearted tax evasion (weird but you'll see).

Read it here on AO3 or in the text below!

“Are you sure about this?” Héra asks as she wraps her arms around her friend’s waist. The little stallion they sit on prances in place, his unshod feet clacking on the wooden slats of the dock. His mistress give him his head and points him at the barge, “Yes, we do this all the time. Just hold on very tightly.”

The other woman gets a good hold of the horse’s mane and sends him forward into the night. He bunches himself up neatly from a trot and springs up from the dock onto the deck of the barge like a cat.

“I didn’t know horses could do that.” Héra says, a little breathless.

Her friend, a young Gondorian noblewoman named Halloth pats her horse on the neck, “Wídfara is clever, he learned from the mules my father keeps for moving cargo.”

“From your father’s mules?”

“Wonderful animals, I’ve never seen one put a foot wrong. I rode one until I was ten.” Halloth tells her.

Héra had met Halloth several months past. The princess of the Riddermark had been visiting Osgiliath on her travels. She had wished to see the white city for herself, sail down the Anduin to Pelagir and through Ithilien, then on to the coastal city of Dol Amoroth in the south. After a week in Minas Tirith she had been instructed to meet with Halloth’s father to secure safe passage on a ship with honorable enough crew to be entrusted with Rohan’s breakaway princess. Halloth’s father had read the letter and delegated this task to his eldest daughter. The two had met over dinner and after had gone to the stables to discuss their horses.

Halloth’s family mostly kept mules and a few gentle drafts, perfect for manning shipyards and moving cargo but not riding horses. Halloth had shown her the one exception, a short backed little gray stallion. He was odd in his form and Halloth had explained his breeding. Her mother’s people lived in Anórien and had considerably more pasture. When she had turned twenty she had traded a valuable necklace gifted to her for two mares from the Harad. Small but swift little beasts, hardy and graceful animals unlike the mûmakil the Haradrim rode to war. This stallion was the offspring of one of these mares bred to her grandsire’s stallion. A headstrong beast with a great black mane, known for his speed and dubious breeding.

They had spoken much of horses and when Héra sailed south she left her beloved Ashere in Halloth’s care, trading her for a borrowed mule Halloth promised would serve her better on shore and endure the voyage without fuss.

When she returned she found her mare fat and happy, having grazed along with Halloth’s stallion for the entire two months she was gone. In time they would see if she was with foal.

Now they find themselves on a docked barge, Wídfara nosing curiously at pallets of barrels. Halloth pulls him away, “That’s wine silly horse. You don’t want that.” “Why are we here to look at this again?” Héra asks.

Halloth leans over to inspect the seal on one of the casks, “My father has been sneaky in his dealings again. Beren put quite the import duty on wine from southern Gondor to try and fund more naval support to ward off piracy, which is all well and good except it drives up the price of wine in the white city significantly.”

“Can’t wine be made in Anórien or closer to Minas Tirith?” Héra asks.

“Did you ever wonder why it is not produced in Rohan? Not in any quantity anyways.” Halloth asks, swinging her leg over her horse’s neck and sliding down his shoulder to the ground.

“I thought my people didn’t care for it.”

“Wrong,” Halloth tells her, pausing to light a torch, “It’s because you can’t grow good wine and importing it all the way to the Folde would cost a fortune. Your climate is colder, your land drier, your season shorter. Fine for growing grass and horses but not wine grapes. This makes your wine less sweet and more acidic. Or rather, I don’t think Rohan really has vineyards, but the wine from Anórien is disgusting.”

“I had no idea.” Héra says, taking the torch and holding it aloft.

Halloth nods, “Now to keep the good people of Minas Tirith from rioting over this, my father has benevolently struck up a deal with the harbormaster who is supposed to inspect the cargo and verify it’s contents.” She points to the first pallet, “These bear the stamp with his seal which mean they have been counted, but the ones in the back do not. This is because he supposedly did not see him. He can take his cut and claim to have not been privy to the cargo brought in without his seal if we get caught. However, without his seal it’s harder to sell and it’s difficult to offload three hundred casts under the table and turn a profit. Luckily I have this.”

She retrieves a woodcut block from her saddlebags and a small jar of paint, “Now, unknownst to the harbormaster I have a copy of this seal. I traced it and had a discrete worker at the shipyard carve me a replica, so now, with a little work all of the cargo can be marked as officially documented by the port of Osgiliath, while we only pay taxes on the amount the harbormaster has put down in his ledger. Then we see it in bulk to a merchant who takes it to the white city.”

“Sneaky, pass me that, I’ll paint it on for you.” Héra offers.

They spend the better part of twenty minutes ensuring the casks are all stamped before Halloth instructs Héra to cast off the lines holding the barge to the dock. It drifts downstream with Halloth at the tiller, docking again a mile downriver. The undocumented part of the cargo is removed from the hold under cover of dark and a new crew comes to row it upstream to where it was docked before. Halloth and Héra remount the stallion watch the quiet operation, “I’m not sure what my father would do without me. He went to bed at sundown, too lazy to utilize the cover of night for his covert operations.”

One of the porters looks up at her, “He knew you would see it done my lady.”

She smiles and offers him a pouch of coins, “Of course, see the men are well rewarded for their efforts there should be more than enough to pay them and buy them breakfast.”

“Is your lord father still looking for a husband for you my lady?”

“He is doing his best, last week I scared off some poor spineless lordling from the city. I cannot imagine that is good for my reputation.” She teases, “Why Garrin, are you offering your hand?”

“Ha! As if I could my lady, shall I call for someone to see you home?”

“Wídfara can outpace any trouble I meet on the road, thank you Garrin.”

The horse leaps away and Héra looks out at the first light of dawn on the river. The Snowbourn river which runs from Edoras to the Entwash is a fast glacier fed river much unlike the wide expanse of the Anduin which moves gently through the city of Osgiliath to the sea.

“Does your family trouble you with thoughts of marriage Héra?” She asks jovially.

Héra feels an uncomfortable weight settle in the pit of her stomach, it had been some time since that had been spoken of.

“Well,” She starts, “The only family I have left is my cousin and if I marry he said he would abdicate the throne to my son. Only I don’t want to marry, so really we’ve been more concerned with his marriage. He won’t make me marry if I do not wish to, and I don’t. We’ve discussed it at length.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot about…well…from what you’ve told me it sounds like your cousin is a good man.” Halloth offers.

“The best,” Héra agrees, “I feel terrible leaving him in Edoras alone but I can’t stay. Not for too long anyways, we agreed I would stay for winter. He does not like the idea of me on the road when the cold sets in.”

“How much older than you is he?”

Héra considers, “Nine years.”

“A young king.”

“Very, my father didn’t take the throne until he was much older.” She tells Halloth.

They ride in silence for a few minutes before Héra asks, “Are you being forced into a marriage?”

“Not forced, but my father is getting older and my parents are anxious to see me settled. I think he regrets all the years treating me as his oldest son.” Halloth sighs, “Worse still he’s been very public about the dowry he’s offering, so he hasn’t even had to go looking for suitors.”

“How much?” Héra asks.

“Enough to build a small keep I think. His dealings have been lucrative over the years and the battles he has won at sea have not gone unrewarded. Much of it is in gold, legally he can leave me coin more easily than land and titles.” She explains, “Better yet while he lives it is easier to safeguard said gold from my husband, though he neglected to tell them that.”

“What would you do with it?”

“I don’t know, buy horses? Nobody really needs that much money do they? There’s nothing worth having just for yourself that can be bought with that.”

“Marry my cousin, you can rebuild Meduseld and have all the horses you like.” Héra teases.

“What a thought, though I’m sorry to say it, I don’t think a towering blonde horse lord would suit me well Héra. I’m sure he’s lovely, all the men of the Riddermark I’ve met seem like a good spirited and kindly type but the size of them is incredible and they are so…how to put this…I won’t say they are poorly mannered as that isn’t true but they are so much…I met prince Haleth once and he was…”

“My brother.” Héra warns.

“Don’t worry I was not going to speak ill of him,” Halloth says, “In truth he seemed a man of great character. I just meant that he filled up the room. His voice was booming and he was so tall and broad. I think most of the gondorian noblewomen seemed a little scared of him.”

Héra smiles weakly, “Yes, he was something. Fréaláf isn’t quite all that.”

“I’m sure he would have made someone a lovely husband, but not me.”

“You probably met Fréaláf as well, if it was the last time Haleth was in Gondor.”

“I don’t recall. It was a busy night. Your brother only stood out to me because well…as I said.”

She nods, “So what is it you’re looking for if not a man of Rohan?”

Halloth considers, “The same things one looks for in a horse I think, well built, sensible, good manners, carries themself well, does not descend into hysterics over the unexpected, easy on the eyes, that sort of thing Héra.”

Héra laughs, “Well aside from my cousin who you have so rudely rejected out of hand I don’t have anyone else for you.”

Halloth sits tall in her saddle, “Well, thank goodness for that. Everyone else seems to.”

“You could be like me, running wild and unattached.”

“Tempting thought.”

When they return to Halloth’s parent’s home they put her horse to bed and retire to her room,. Héra pauses for a moment before offering, “You could come to Edoras with me for winter.”

“Why?”

Héra shrugs off her coat, “Well, as you said, nothing happens here in winter. You’ll be stuck here with all of the annoying lordlings of Minas Tirith riding over whenever the weather is fair to court you. We just had a war, men of marrying age are scarce in Edoras at the moment.”

She meant it as a joke but she thinks of Haleth and Háma and suddenly it does not feel so funny.

“I think you are just trying to pass your cousin off on me.”

Héra flops down on Halloth’s bed, “Fine. I promise I will not. It will be fun. There will be snow and I think my people have had enough time to heal that they will be back to celebrating our winter holidays. You can see all of our horses.”

“I would not be a burden?”

She shakes her head, “I don’t think so.”

They pack the horses lightly, hoping to make the trip in a little over a week. Wídfara and Ashere are both fit and fat, they make excellent time the first two days and even stop in Anórien to visit Halloth’s kin there for a few days. A week later they arrive tired and dusty at the gates of Edoras.

“Are those barrows?” Halloth asks as the horses trot past.

Héra nods, “Our kings and some who would be.”

Halloth nods, “I’m so sorry.”

They ride in silence until the guards at the gate greet Héra and welcome them inside.

[not-ur-manic-pixie-dream-girl]

Yearlings | Chapter 18

Pairing: Aragorn x OFC, arranged marriage AU

Summary:

yearling (plural yearlings)

A young horse that is between one and two years old;

Still a wild thing, untamed, knowing only the endless horizon of the plains, the world vast and waiting. It knows neither the weight of the saddle or the pressure of the bridle, untouched by the responsibilities that will one day rest heavy upon its back.

Elira, daughter of Rohan, once knew only the whisper of the breeze and the freedom of the endless fields. Yet now, bound by an arranged marriage to a king, she finds herself standing at the crossroads of duty and desire. Within the shadowed halls of Gondor, where power shifts and secrets linger, she must learn to carry the weight of a future she never chose. Alongside Aragorn, a man whose own burdens weigh heavy, she will face the slow, inevitable taming of her heart—a heart torn between the wild call of freedom and the quiet, steady pull of love between two souls learning, together, to carry the weight of grand destinies.

In a world where future is yet uncertain, Elira will come to understand that love, much like a yearling, must be nurtured, tamed, and made her own, before it can bear the weight of all that is to come

Word count: 7,104

Content warnings: grief, angst

AO3

In the dim light of a chamber far from the king’s sight, the air was thick with the scent of burning tallow and damp stone. Shadows flickered across the faces of the men gathered around the heavy oaken table, their features carved with grim intent. The maps spread before them were worn at the edges, their inked lines marking roads, fortresses, and battlefields of old—but tonight, they were not relics of the past. Tonight, they were the key to Gondor’s future. 

Lord Arnald’s gaunt fingers drummed against the table as he studied the markings. He was a man of stern countenance, his once-dark hair now shot with grey, his eyes sharp as a blade honed for war. “It must be now,” he said, his voice low but firm. “We have lingered in the shadows long enough. The king will not be blind forever—if we hesitate, our opportunity will slip from our grasp.” 

Across from him, Morthar inclined his head slightly, his dark eyes calculating. He was younger, but no less ruthless, his features hard as if chiseled from stone. “I agree,” he said smoothly. “Already, Aragorn tightens his grip. He has begun to suspect, and his queen—” he nearly spat the word, “—moves too keenly for my liking. She watches. She listens. If we do not strike now, we will not have another chance.” 

A murmur of assent rippled through the chamber. 

From the far side of the table, a man clad in the deep red of Harad leaned forward. Unlike the lords of Gondor, his robes were unadorned by sigils or brooches of rank, but the air of authority about him was unmistakable. Marzan, emissary of Harad, studied the gathered men with an expression unreadable in the dim light. His face was partially veiled, as was the custom of his people, but his eyes gleamed with quiet calculation. 

“And what of your soldiers?” he asked, his voice measured but firm, his accent thick with the cadences of the south. “You have promised much, Lord Arnald, but promises do not win battles. If you move too soon, you risk being crushed before our forces can reach you.” 

Arnald’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile, though there was no mirth in it. “The garrisons that remain loyal to the king are stretched thin. The dissenters are more numerous than he realizes. They will rally to us when the signal is given.” 

Marzan inclined his head slightly, but whether in approval or mere acknowledgment, none could say. 

A man further down the table cleared his throat. His face was pale, his hands restless against the hilt of the dagger at his belt. Lord Seregon had not spoken much in these councils, though he had been present from the beginning. At first, it had seemed a necessary gamble—shifting power, a king too foreign for his liking, an old order disrupted. But now, sitting amongst these men, hearing their words, he felt the chill of something far more dangerous than ambition. 

A rebellion had been whispered of in shadows, spoken of behind closed doors. Now, it was at the precipice of open war. He could see it in the light of Arnald’s eyes, the certainty in Morthar’s voice, the quiet expectation in the emissary’s gaze. They meant to see this through. And that meant there would be no turning back. 

Unless— 

His stomach twisted. If he rode for the city now, if he reached the king before the first blow fell… perhaps he could yet escape this madness with his head attached to his shoulders. 

He forced his voice into steadiness. “And what of Minas Tirith itself?” he asked, his tone careful, betraying nothing. “Even if your men are ready, the city will not fall easily.” 

Morthar barely spared him a glance. “Then we do not let it come to that. We move swiftly, before he can call for aid. If we crush him in the field, the city will fall into our hands before his so-called reinforcements arrive.” He flicked his gaze to Marzan. “Your forces are in position?” 

A slow nod. “They march even now. The roads will be closed before their Rohan saviors can reach them.” 

Arnald exhaled through his nose, satisfaction flickering across his face. “Then it is decided. We send the orders. The time for secrecy is over. We march before the sun sets tomorrow.” 

The words fell like the toll of a bell, sealing their fates. The room stirred with movement—messengers were summoned, orders sealed, blades sharpened in preparation for the night ahead. 

Lord Seregon sat frozen, his heart hammering in his chest. He had thought there would be more time, another chance to pull away before the noose tightened. But it was too late for hesitation now. 

Unless he acted swiftly. 

Soon, the fields of Gondor would run red. And if he did not choose wisely, his blood would be among them. 

***

The halls of the Citadel had long since fallen into silence, save for the measured tread of boots upon stone and the low murmur of voices speaking in hushed, urgent tones. The light of torches flickered upon the great banners that hung above the throne, casting wavering shadows along the walls. Gondor’s royal guards had not rested since the night of the attack, their efforts unceasing, their search relentless. 

Aragorn stood at the head of it all, directing them with a grim determination that left no room for doubt. The weight of kingship had settled on him heavily in many ways, but rarely had he felt it as keenly as now, when the very heart of his court had been threatened. It was one thing to suffer such an attack himself, but Elira—Elira bleeding, Elira in pain—he could not abide it. The memory of it stirred something furious within him, something cold and merciless, an anger he seldom allowed himself to feel. 

The investigation had spread its roots deep into the city, reaching from the lowest rungs of Minas Tirith to the halls of the noble houses, unearthing whispers and old grievances long buried beneath the surface of civility. Men had been questioned, from guards to servants to council members, their words scrutinized, their alibis tested. The pieces were beginning to form a picture, but it remained blurred, incomplete. 

There were whispers of discontent among the lords, those who had once sworn loyalty to Denethor, those who resented the rule of a king who was not raised among them, who had spent his years in the wild rather than the courts of Minas Tirith. There were mutterings of old bloodlines clinging to their dwindling power, of men who looked upon the crown with wary eyes, unwilling to see their influence fade. 

And yet, beneath it all, there was something more. Something deeper, more treacherous. 

Some men spoke in careful, measured words of forces beyond Gondor, of unseen allies stirring from the south. The mention of Harad had come up more than once—never spoken outright, never more than a shadow of a name—but enough to send a chill through Aragorn’s mind. The war had ended, but not all grudges had died with it. 

Still, nothing had yet been proven. 

Aragorn stood now in the council chamber, hands braced upon the great oaken table, staring down at the reports scattered before him. His brow was furrowed, his jaw set. He would not rest, not until he had answers. 

Rendil, Captain of the Citadel Guard, stood beside him, arms crossed over his chest, his expression grave. “We are close,” he murmured. “They have grown careless. Another night, another questioning—something will break.” 

Aragorn nodded slowly. “Aye. But not soon enough for my liking.” His fingers tightened upon the wood. “Whoever orchestrated this thought themselves untouchable. They dared strike within my own halls.” His voice was low, dangerous. “They will not go unpunished.” 

Rendil studied him for a long moment before saying quietly, “And if it is true? If Harad’s hand is in this?” 

Aragorn’s gaze was like steel. “Then we must be ready.” 

A silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of unspoken possibilities. The days of war had left scars upon Middle-earth, and though peace had been won, peace was fragile. There were always those who would seek to shatter it. 

At last, Aragorn straightened, exhaling slowly as he pushed the reports aside. His anger was a fire in his chest, but he could not let it consume him. He would act with the patience of a ranger, the wisdom of a king. 

But he would act. 

“Continue the questioning,” he said. “Search the records—see who has been traveling to and from the city, who has been meeting in secret.” His gaze darkened. “This is no longer merely a search for assassins. This is a hunt for traitors.” 

The chamber was silent, save for the distant hush of the wind against the stone walls, the muted crackle of the fire in the hearth. The light had dimmed to embers, casting long shadows across the floor, and the city beyond the windows lay wrapped in the hush of night. 

Aragorn stood before the great oaken desk, his hands braced upon the wood, his head bowed. In his palm, he held the Evenstar. The silver chain gleamed faintly in the low light, the delicate gem cool against his skin. 

For years, it had rested against his breast, a weight both light and immeasurable, a token of love and promise. It had been a part of him for so long that he had almost forgotten what it was to be without it. And yet, as he looked at it now, as he traced the familiar curve of the pendant with his fingertips, something in him knew. The time had come. 

He exhaled slowly, feeling the quiet in his bones, the finality of this moment. 

Arwen. 

He had loved her with all the fire of his youth, with the longing of years spent apart, with the steadfast devotion of a man who had carried her image through war and hardship, through doubt and despair. She had been his beacon, the guiding star upon which he had set his course, the dream that had sustained him even in the darkest hours. He had been hers, wholly and without question. 

But she was gone now. 

Gone across the Sundering Seas, beyond the circles of the world, where he could not follow. Her choice had been made, and so had his. And though he had known this would come, though he had seen the parting in her eyes even before she had spoken the words, it did not make the ending any less real. 

For so long, he had held on to this token of her, to the memory it carried. At times, it had felt like the only thing tethering him to the past, to the man he had been when he first took it into his hands, when her love had been his solace and his certainty. And yet, as he stood there now, feeling the cool metal warm beneath his touch, he realized the truth. 

Had he held on too long? Clung to a love that had faded into memory, to a promise that could no longer be kept? 

No, he thought. Not faded. Never that. But changed. 

The love he bore for her had not vanished, but it no longer burned with the same fire. It had settled into something softer, something gentler, like the last golden light of the sun before it sank below the horizon. He would never forget her, never cease to honor what they had shared. But he could not live in shadows. 

And Elira— 

A deep breath filled his lungs, steady and sure. 

Elira had come into his life like a wind sweeping across the plains, stirring everything into motion, unsettling things he had thought long settled. She had been bound to him not by choice but by duty, by the will of others, and yet somehow, against all reason, she had become more than an obligation. 

She had become a presence he sought, a voice he listened for. 

She challenged him, met his will with her own, and yet, in the quiet moments, when the world fell away, she made him feel—made him feel in a way he had not in a long time. 

He had fought long and hard for this life, for this kingdom, for the peace they now clung to with weary hands. And yet, for all his victories, for all he had achieved, what was it worth if he did not allow himself to live? Truly live? 

He had spent years walking through the halls of his own heart as though they were empty corridors, speaking Arwen’s name in his thoughts, carrying her with him even when the weight of it turned to sorrow. And now, at last, he felt that sorrow ease—not into forgetfulness, nor into regret, but into something gentler. A quiet, a peace. 

It was time. 

With slow, deliberate hands, he lifted the chain from around his neck. The cool metal slipped through his fingers like water, and for the first time in so many years, he felt the air upon his throat, unburdened, unmarked. 

He laid the Evenstar down into a small wooden box—carefully, reverently. It was not cast aside, not abandoned, but placed where it belonged now: among the past, among the things he cherished but no longer carried. He closed the lid and, after a moment’s hesitation, set the box into the drawer of the desk. The wood slid shut with a quiet sound, final and sure. 

For a long moment, he simply stood there, his hands braced against the desk, his breath steady. He felt the rise and fall of his chest, the pulse at his wrist, the warmth of the fire upon his skin. He was here. He was now. 

And he wanted to live. 

Not in memory, not in longing for what had been, but in the present—in the sound of laughter in the halls, in the weight of his sword in his hand, in the rush of wind through his hair when he rode across the plains. He wanted to feel his heart beat not for ghosts and promises, but for what was before him. 

For Elira. 

She stirred something in him that he had not expected. Something fierce and wild, something steady and sure. 

The first time he had truly seen her, seen beyond her sharp words and wary glances, was on horseback. She had ridden like a storm upon the earth, with a lightness, a grace, a confidence that seemed effortless. She was at home in the saddle as others were in their own halls, commanding without force, guiding without effort. And in those moments, she was utterly herself—unburdened, unfettered. He had seen it again in rare instances: the way her eyes shone when she spoke of the horses she loved, the quiet way she ran her fingers over their coats, the softness in her when she thought no one was watching. 

She had been a mystery to him once, but now, he thought he was beginning to understand her. 

She was a woman of contrasts—fierce and untamed as the wind over the plains, yet steadfast as the earth beneath his feet. She had endured loss, as he had. Had carried burdens not of her own choosing, as he had. And yet, where others might have yielded, she had stood firm. Where others bent beneath the weight of expectation, she met it head-on, defiant and unbowed. 

He admired her for it. He desired her for it. 

The realization settled into his chest like a truth long known but only now acknowledged. 

And yet, how could he tell her? 

How could he put into words what had grown between them—slow and sure, like the dawn creeping over the horizon? It was not yet the right time. She had already endured so much, bore wounds both seen and unseen. He would not burden her with this, not yet. 

But he knew, now, that he would not—could not—turn from it. 

One day, when the moment was right, when the shadows that lingered over them had faded and she was ready to hear it, he would tell her. He would tell her that in her presence, he felt the weight of the world lessen. That in the quiet moments between them, he found a peace he had not thought he would know again. That in the way she looked at him—challenging, unafraid—he had begun to believe he might be worthy of something more than duty, more than sacrifice. 

That she made him feel alive. 

For now, he would wait. 

With a final glance at the drawer where the Evenstar now lay, Aragorn turned from the desk. The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting flickering light across the stone walls. He stepped toward it, feeling the warmth against his skin, the quiet hum of his own heartbeat. 

Tomorrow, there would be more battles to fight—both in the open and in the shadows. There would be councils, decisions, dangers still lurking in the dark. But for now, for this moment, he allowed himself to simply be. 

He touched his chest where the pendant had rested for so many years, feeling instead the steady rise and fall of his own breath. 

Yes. He was ready. 

***

The halls of the Citadel were quiet at this hour, wrapped in the hush of the deep night. The lanterns, hanging at even intervals along the stone walls, cast long shadows that flickered and swayed with the faintest stirrings of the wind. Elira walked with steady steps, the soft rustle of her skirts the only sound accompanying her. But there was something else—something just beyond the edge of her senses, a presence that did not belong to the silence. 

She felt it first as a prickle at the back of her neck, the way the air seemed thicker, charged with something unseen. Her breath slowed, ears straining to hear past the muted whispers of the night. A shadow moved—just a flicker, barely more than a breath of darkness shifting behind her. 

Her fingers curled at her sides. 

It was not the first time she had felt this unease in the winding corridors of Minas Tirith, not the first time she had caught the glint of something—or someone—watching from the edges of her vision, vanishing before she could be sure. But tonight, the feeling was stronger. The hush of the halls no longer felt peaceful but waiting, expectant, as if the very stones were holding their breath. 

Elira was a hunter. She had spent her childhood tracking deer through the high grasses of Rohan, listening for the faintest snap of a twig, the subtle shift of the wind that might betray her prey. She knew how to sense movement without seeing it, to read the silence when it grew too deep, too expectant. And now, the silence of the hall was wrong. 

Not the emptiness of the sleeping Citadel, nor the solitude of the late hour—this was something else. Something watching. 

A memory came unbidden, sharp as a blade’s edge. 

The dark line of trees, the whispering hush of the wind moving through the branches. The damp scent of the earth beneath her boots. The golden afternoon spilling through the canopy in broken pieces. And the wolf. 

She had been a child—small, defenseless, alone. She had stepped from the trees and found herself face to face with the creature. It had been close enough that she could see the pale glint of its eyes, the slow rise and fall of its breath. She had not moved, had not made a sound. She had only stared, caught in that moment between fear and awe, her heart a steady, thudding drum in her chest. 

Then—the arrow. 

A sharp whistle through the air, the soft thud of impact. The wolf crumpling to the forest floor, its breath rattling out in a single, final exhale. She remembered the silence that followed, the way the world had seemed to still around her. And then, her father. 

He had gathered her into his arms, strong hands gripping her shoulders, pulling her close. He had been trembling. 

Only now, all these years later, did she understand. It had not been rage that shook him, nor the thrill of the hunt. It had been fear. He had feared for her. Had been helpless in that single, frozen moment before the arrow had flown. 

But now, there was no one to save her. 

Her father was long buried beneath the green hills of Rohan. And she—she was no longer a child. There would be no arrow whistling through the air to strike down whatever shadow moved behind her. There was only herself, her own strength, her own will. 

Her hand went to the dagger at her hip. The cool metal met her fingers, familiar, steadying. 

Another step, soft as a whisper, behind her. 

She moved without thought, her body remembering before her mind could give the command. The motion was practiced, familiar, just as her father had taught her—how to turn in an instant, how to draw steel and strike before an enemy could do the same. Her hand unsheathed the dagger, and she stepped into the movement, twisting as she caught the man’s wrist and drove him back against the stone wall. Her dagger pressed against his throat, her body braced against his as she held his wrist in her free hand, keeping him from reaching for his own weapon. 

A sharp breath, a muffled curse. The man’s face was half-hidden in the dim light, his features obscured by a hood. But she could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles coiled beneath her grip, the quick rise and fall of his breath. 

Elira’s voice was low, steady. 

“Who sent you?” 

The man did not answer. She pressed the dagger closer, feeling the pulse of his throat hammer against the steel. 

“You follow me through the halls like a thief,” she continued, her voice calm, controlled. “Did you hope I would not notice? That I would not hear you?” A slight tilt of her head, her green eyes narrowing. “You know nothing of hunting, or you would have moved more softly.” 

Still, no response. 

Her lips curled slightly, but there was no amusement in it. Only cold certainty. 

“I could end this now,” she murmured, shifting her grip just enough to remind him of the sharp edge at his throat. “And none would question why.” 

She felt the man swallow. 

Then, lifting her chin, she raised her voice—not in fear, not in desperation, but in command. 

“Guards!” 

The sound rang through the halls, echoing off the stone. In the distance, the sharp clang of boots against the floor. The man tensed, but she did not release him, not yet. Not until she heard the armored figures approaching, not until she knew he could not slip away like mist into the night. 

Only then did she step back, her dagger still raised, her heart still steady. 

And as the guards seized him, as the questions began, as the night wrapped itself once more around the White City, Elira stood in the flickering lantern light, her fingers still curled around the hilt of her blade, and knew that she had saved herself. 

***

The fire in the hearth burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the stone walls of the study. The air smelled of parchment, ink, and the faint trace of woodsmoke—earthy, comforting. But to Aragorn, none of it was grounding. The familiar surroundings seemed distant, like a dream he could not wake from. The storm that raged within him was all-consuming, and he could not shake the gnawing sense of helplessness, of fear for the woman who stood across from him. 

Elira leaned against his desk, her hands lightly gripping the polished wood as though it could anchor her to this moment, this argument, this tension that seemed to be spiraling further out of control. Her hair, slightly disheveled from the scuffle, fell in a golden cascade over one shoulder, her stance defiant. She looked… unbothered, in a way he could not understand. She had just been followed, had faced a threat, and yet she stood there as if nothing had happened, the fire in her eyes only growing brighter. Meanwhile, his own blood ran cold, his thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. 

“You should not have put yourself in danger,” Aragorn’s voice was sharp, edged with frustration. His feet moved restlessly beneath him, back and forth, unable to find peace. He needed her to understand, to see the peril she had put herself in. But it wasn’t just that—it was everything else he couldn’t voice. The way her independence terrified him. The way he couldn’t always be there to protect her, even if he wanted to. “You should have called for help the moment you realized you were being followed.” 

Elira exhaled sharply, irritation biting at her. Of course, he was going to say that. She had known it the moment she walked in, the moment he laid eyes on her, all blood still pumping from the confrontation. The anger in his gaze wasn’t just about the stalker—it was something else. Something deeper that she didn’t want to face just yet. 

Her sharp exhale echoed in the stillness, and he watched as she straightened, her movements deliberate, almost challenging. “I did call for help,” she countered, her voice steady, unyielding. “After I had him pinned to the wall.” 

She could see the way he stopped, his broad chest heaving as he turned to her, his jaw locked tight. His frustration seemed to mount, but he didn’t speak for a moment. It was as though he were trying to force down his words, trying to come to some sort of resolution in his mind. But Elira knew the truth. He wasn’t angry at her for not calling the guards sooner. No. He was angry because he couldn’t protect her. 

He took a step closer, his brow furrowing in frustration, his voice tight. “That is not the same thing.” 

She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Would you have had me stand there like some helpless maiden, wringing my hands and waiting for someone to save me?” 

The question pierced him, and his thoughts tumbled in disarray. He had always known her to be strong, capable—too capable sometimes. But this was different. She wasn’t just a woman with a weapon in her hand—she was the one woman he could not bear to lose. The one who had the uncanny ability to make him feel both more alive and more vulnerable than anyone else. And when she looked at him like that, with that fire in her gaze, that strength in her posture, he was reminded of how much she meant to him. 

“I would have had you be careful,” Aragorn said, his voice thick with emotion, but his frustration still evident. His pacing resumed, the rhythm broken by his need to make her understand. “You do not know what he might have done, how many others might have been waiting in the shadows. You were alone, Elira.” 

Elira’s pulse spiked at the thought of the danger that still lingered on the edges of her mind, but she refused to let fear overtake her. She had survived worse in her life. She had been raised to endure. She could hold her own. 

“And yet I was not the one with a dagger to my throat,” she said, crossing her arms. 

Aragorn’s heart raced at her words, but the pulse of fear and anger intertwined in his chest. He could not let this go. He could not let her think that this—this recklessness—was okay. She was not invincible, no matter how much he wished she were. 

“That is not the point,” he replied, his voice low, a dangerous edge to it now. The flicker of doubt in his mind flared again, and he almost didn’t want to admit it. What is the point, then? The words stuck in his throat, but they were not the ones he was ready to speak. 

“Then what is the point?” she demanded. “That I should live in fear? That I should hide away and wait for others to act on my behalf?” 

The frustration within him bubbled over, threatening to crack him open. How could she not understand? The thought of her in danger, of losing her to some unseen threat, tightened his chest like a vice. He had known loss before—he had seen the people he loved fall in battle, in despair. And the thought of Elira, of her bright spirit extinguished before her time, made his blood run cold. 

“The point,” he said, almost choking on the words, “is that your life is not yours alone anymore. You cannot go seeking danger as if—” 

“As if I were not a woman of Rohan?” she cut in, her voice sharp with something that sounded dangerously close to anger. “As if I had not been trained to fight, as if I had not spent my life among men who would sooner trust me with a blade than with a spindle?” She stepped closer, her eyes flashing. “Tell me, Aragorn—would you have spoken to Éowyn this way?” 

A muscle in his jaw tensed. “This is not the same.” 

“Isn’t it?” she challenged. “Or is it simply that you cannot stand the thought of someone you care for putting themselves in harm’s way?” 

For a long moment, Aragorn did not speak. His gaze dropped to the floor, and for a brief moment, Elira saw the man beneath the king—the man whose love for her ran deeper than even he could bear to admit. She could see it now: the way he struggled to reconcile his desire to protect her with the fear of losing her. The war between his duty as a king and his love for her was all too evident in the way he stood—frozen, broken even. 

Her words cut through him, and for a moment, he was speechless. There it was again—that ache in his chest, a mixture of love and fear so sharp it felt like a wound. He cared for her. He loved her—more than he had ever allowed himself to admit. And the thought of her in danger, of losing her, felt like a weight he could not bear. But the reality of it was that he had already lost so much—so many loved ones—he could not stand the idea of her being added to that list. 

“I did what needed to be done,” she shot back, her voice steady, though she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “You don’t get to tell me that I can’t look after myself. You’re not the only one capable of protecting those I care about.” 

Aragorn turned to her sharply, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not saying you can’t protect yourself,” he replied, his voice low and measured. “But this—” He motioned sharply toward her, as if she were a child that needed scolding. “This is madness, Elira! I cannot always be there to shield you from every danger. I cannot lose you.” 

Elira’s temper flared, her heart racing as frustration took root in her chest. She had heard this before—his insistence on protecting her, his refusal to see her for what she truly was. A warrior in her own right. A woman who could stand tall in the face of danger. 

She pushed forward, anger bubbling up with every word. “I don’t need you to shield me,” she said, her voice rising in challenge. “I don’t need you to coddle me like some delicate thing!” 

Aragorn’s eyes flashed with something Elira couldn’t place. His lips pressed together in frustration as if he were fighting against something within himself. His hand clenched at his side, as though fighting the urge to reach for her—to hold her. 

“That’s not what this is about, Elira,” Aragorn said, his voice quiet now, but still with an edge that made her breath catch. “It’s not about coddling you. It’s about care—about keeping you safe.” 

Elira’s voice cracked through the tension, sharp and full of fire. “I don’t need to be protected. I need someone who understands that I am not some fragile thing. I am not someone to be shielded behind walls, Aragorn! I can’t live like that!” 

The words hung in the air between them. They were closer now, closer than either of them had been in a long while. Elira’s pulse raced—not from the confrontation, but from the truth that she could feel growing in her chest. The truth that she had never needed protection in the way he thought she did. She needed respect—respect for her strength, for her independence. And more than that, she needed him to see her as his equal. 

Aragorn’s breathing slowed, but his gaze grew softer, almost searching. His hand, still clenched, slowly opened, and his fingers flexed as though he were reaching for something just beyond his grasp. The pain in his eyes was palpable, and Elira realized, with a sudden shock, that it wasn’t just the danger he feared—it was her. It was the risk of losing her. 

And suddenly, it felt like the air between them thickened, heavy with an unspoken weight. 

“I know,” Aragorn whispered, his voice catching for the briefest moment. “And that is what frightens me.” 

The words stung both of them, a truth too raw to ignore. For a long moment, there was only silence. Aragorn’s hands clenched at his sides, and Elira could feel the air between them thickening. The love, the fear, the doubt—all of it collided in the space that had once felt so comfortable. 

She felt a small, involuntary tremor run through her, not of fear, but of something much deeper. She searched his eyes—those eyes that had held so much from her for so long—and finally, she saw it. The depth of it. 

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The silence between them now was different—not born of tension or anger, but of something more fragile, something that both of them feared to touch. 

Finally, Elira broke the silence, her voice a whisper that barely reached the air. “I can’t be what you want me to be, Aragorn. But I can be what I am. And that’s enough, isn’t it?” 

Aragorn didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the floor, and for a moment, she thought he might say something, but the words didn’t come. 

And yet, something had shifted between them. The unspoken truth of their bond was now clear, even if they both remained too proud—or too uncertain—to acknowledge it aloud. 

Aragorn exhaled slowly, the air between them now quieter, heavier with understanding. “I only want you to be safe,” he said, his voice low. “But I know that you are more than capable. I just—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I just want to see you in my life for many years to come, Elira. Safe, yes. But alive. Here.” 

It was all he could say, but he hoped that she heard the truth in it. He didn’t just want her to be safe. He wanted her to live. He wanted her beside him, in this life, for as long as they had. And that thought—those words—stayed with him, hanging in the air between them, heavier than the silence that had come before. 

She could feel the weight of his words, the weight of the love he so carefully kept locked away. And she didn’t know what to say, so she simply nodded. 

Aragorn stood there, watching Elira as the last of his words hung in the air, her breath still caught in the rawness of their exchange. The distance between them, once filled with the heat of their argument, now felt charged, heavy with something else. A wordless tension, as if something had shifted, unspoken but undeniable. He could feel the weight of her gaze, the intensity of her presence, and in that moment, it was as though the world around them had blurred into nothingness. 

Her golden hair, disheveled from their heated exchange, glowed faintly in the soft light of the hearth. The fire crackled quietly behind them, but its warmth seemed distant compared to the warmth that now flared between them. Her breath, slow and measured, came in soft puffs, her chest rising and falling with the weight of their conversation. Aragorn’s heart raced, his pulse quickening with each second that passed in the silence. He was so close, yet still so far from her. 

He hadn’t meant to feel this way. He hadn’t meant for it to escalate so quickly, to push him to the edge of something he couldn’t name. But as he stood there, watching her, hearing her every breath, he realized that all the walls he had built between them—between himself and her—had crumbled in that moment of raw honesty. 

And now, there was nothing left to stop him. 

His feet moved of their own accord, the distance between them closing in mere seconds. Elira’s eyes widened, and Aragorn saw the flicker of surprise, the sudden awareness that he was coming closer, closer than she had expected him to. His heart hammered in his chest as if it were trying to break free, and with every step, the pull between them grew stronger, more magnetic. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t stepped back, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though the entire world had fallen silent—waiting, as if it too held its breath in anticipation of what would happen next. 

When he finally stood before her, his heart thudded painfully in his chest. He reached out, his hand trembling just slightly as he cupped her face in his palms. The heat of her skin seared through his fingertips, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His gaze locked with hers, his lips parted slightly, and all rational thought flew from his mind. The words that had once held meaning were now distant echoes, meaningless in the face of this moment. The air between them felt electric, charged with something primal and desperate. 

Elira’s eyes were wide, her breath catching as she looked at him. She was still for a moment, as though frozen by the intensity of his touch, but then her pupils dilated ever so slightly, the only outward sign of the emotions swirling inside her. She could feel the strength of his hands on her, the warmth of his touch grounding her to the present moment. But there was something more, something raw, something fierce in the way he held her face. 

His hands were trembling, not from fear, but from the fierce, unrelenting desire that coursed through him. He could feel the heat of her skin, the pulse beneath her jaw. His chest heaved with each breath, but it wasn’t the rhythm of calm, collected breathing—it was desperate, like he was starved for air, starved for her presence. He needed her. More than he had ever needed anything before. 

His thumb brushed lightly over her cheek, the soft touch a contrast to the storm raging within him. Her eyes fluttered closed at the touch, and in that brief moment, he saw everything. The way she shuddered slightly, the way her lips parted ever so slightly as if to speak—but she didn’t. She didn’t move, didn’t say a word. Instead, she simply stood there, caught in the same storm that raged inside him. 

He could feel it then—an undeniable pull, a need that transcended all reason. This wasn’t like with Arwen. With Arwen, there had been a gentleness, a quiet yearning that bloomed in the spaces between them. But with Elira, it was different. It was a need so fierce, so raw, that he felt it deep in his bones. He wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t wondering what this might mean or how it would change things. He was simply needing. His body ached for the warmth of hers, to feel her close to him, to know that she was here, alive and real. 

He leaned in, ever so slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, as though he were searching for some sign—some permission—that she felt the same, that she wanted this as much as he did. His breath was uneven, shallow, as if he could not contain the need for her. His lips parted, and the moment stretched on, a fragile thread between them, their gazes locked in a silent understanding of what was about to happen. 

And then, just as he leaned closer, just as his lips hovered above hers, a sudden sharp knock echoed from the door. 

“Your Majesty?” The voice of a guard, quiet yet insistent, pierced the charged silence. It was a lifeline, a pull from the edge of madness, but it came at the most inopportune moment. Aragorn’s hand immediately dropped from her face, his body snapping back as though burned by the interruption. 

Elira stepped back as well, her heart racing, her breath still uneven. She could still feel the heat of his touch on her skin, the echo of his presence lingering around her like a storm waiting to break. But they were both too late. The moment was shattered, broken in an instant. 

Aragorn turned toward the door, his back to her, his jaw clenched tightly, trying to regain some semblance of composure. The guard stood in the doorway, unaware of the moment that had passed between them, his eyes respectful yet unyielding. 

Elira couldn’t tear her gaze away from Aragorn’s back. Her heart was a mess of conflicting emotions. Her thoughts were a tangled mess of what had almost happened, what could have been. She could still feel the burn of his hands on her skin, the desperate longing in his eyes. She couldn’t breathe. 

Aragorn’s voice was strained, controlled, but the emotion behind it was clear. “What is it?” His words sounded distant to her ears, a far cry from the urgency of the moment they had shared. 

[torchwood-99]

Eomer: Do you know what I just did? I just walked out that door, saw a couple of Riders and I was about to start bad-mouthing you behind your back. But I stopped myself because my uncle taught me that a man who talks behind somebody's back is a coward.

Faramir: I really appreciate that.

Eomer: Good, 'cause I'm gonna tell you directly to your face. No, I don't like you. I think you're a fake soldier. The sound of your piss hitting the ground, it sounds feminine. If you were in the wild, I would attack you, even if you weren't in my food chain. I would go out of my way to attack you. If I were a lion and you were a tuna, I would swim out in the middle of the ocean and freakin' eat you and then I'd bang your tuna sister.

Faramir: OK, first off: a lion, swimming in the ocean? Lions don't like water. If you'd placed it near a river or some sort of fresh water source, that'd make sense. But you find yourself in the ocean, 20 foot wave, I'm assuming it's off the coast of South Harad, coming up against a full grown 800 pound tuna with his 20 or 30 friends, you lose that battle. You lose that battle 9 times out of 10. And guess what, you've wandered into our school of tuna and we now have a taste of lion. We've talked to ourselves. We've communicated and said, 'You know what, lion tastes good. Let's go get some more lion'. We've developed a system to establish a beach-head and aggressively hunt you and your family and we will corner your - your pride, your children, your offspring...

Eomer: How are you going to do that?

Faramir: We will construct a series of breathing apparatus with kelp. We will be able to trap certain amounts of oxygen. It's not gonna be days at a time. An hour? Hour forty-five? No problem. That will give us enough time to figure out where you live, go back to the sea, get more oxygen, and then stalk you. You just lost at your own game. You're out-gunned and out-manned. Did that go the way you thought it was gonna go? Nope.

[shantismurf]

I would love to hear about #6 South Pacific! =D

Ooh this one popped up and ran away with me a couple months ago when I was lucky enough to be a part of a small ensemble jazz adaptation of South Pacific that a wealthy patron of my choir commissioned for his birthday party 👀 You could never produce a work like that for a paid production due to copyright, so being able to sing it just for funsies was an incredible opportunity!!

I've got the whole plot sketched out...hmm lemme find a good excerpt...Oh how about the cast profiles!

Story setting: Umbar World War II in TA 2925 Umbar, City of the Corsairs: The Haven of Umbar was a city to the far southwest of Gondor in Middle-earth. By the Third Age it was known for its sea-faring Corsairs. It had been used by the 'King's Men', who had turned to the worship of Melkor in the last days of Númenor. These 'King's Men' became known as Black Númenóreans: "very powerful amongst the Haradrim, a neighbouring people with whom they were allied. The rulers of Umbar retained much influence over Harad well into the Third Age. When not part of Gondor, its system of government was likely tyrannical." In TA 933 Gondor's King Eärnil I captured Umbar in a surprise attack, although this was "at great cost.” Current conflict is some attempt to retake the city or region after some kind of Pearl Harbor like attack. Gondor has sent out calls for aid to all their allies, and hired many mercenary companies to expand their ranks. Bilbo is Nellie - traveling with a small band of Hobbits who answered the call of Gondor, mostly Tooks and a handful of Brandybucks who honor of the company of Hobbit archers that fought for Gondor at the Battle of Fornost in the war against Angmar almost a thousand years ago. They're not used in battle but assigned to support only, which is frustrating for them.  Thorin is Emilie - fled to Umbar to raise Fili and Kili alone after Dis and Vili died in the Flood of Tharbad during the Fell Winter. Thorin and the boys fled south and were distrusted as foreign dwarven refugees, rumors about him being a murderer are just baseless racist slander, even after 15 years. He’s established a stable, successful life despite the challenges, but he avoids the armies in the region, especially the Dwarven mercenaries. Dwalin is Lt Cable - posing/serving as an officer for the forces of Gondor, a mercenary leading a company of Dwarves, but has really come searching for the heirs of Durin. The Ris are natives of the South, could be from any of the clans who were only described as “Eastern clans”: Ironfists, Stiffbeards, Blacklocks, Stonefoots Dori is partly Bloody Mary - runs a tea shop, Nori (the other part of Bloody Mary) helps but he sells more than just tea which Dori turns a blind eye to, until Nori, seeing Dwalin notice Ori (Liat), tries to get a better life for Ori by getting the officer to fall for him.

Bofur is Billis - also in the Company with his cousin and brother. They treat the Hobbits better than the soldiers of Gondor do, and he is friends with Bilbo. (Sings “Nothing Like a Dame” but something about the bad food in the army and the Hobbits having better food lol)

[mirra-kan]

Hi Mirra!

Have you written any headcanon, metas, discussions, or fics about your concept of the "Faithful Haradrim"? If so, could you please tell me where to find them? If you haven't yet, would you mind sharing some info of your headcanons (anything at all) about their history and culture?

I'm a big fan of your Harad artwork and concepts (including the Blue Wizards), and it's all clearly founded on a rich, complex world you've created for them in your head. I would definitely love to learn more! :) I do also plan on including more about the Haradrim culture and history in my upcoming fanfics, so I would love to hear an expert's ideas on them.

Thank you for sharing your work with us!

@sotwk Was very happy to discover your message in my ask box!

Thank you for your interest and willingness to include more Haradrim content into your writing, but I'm afraid you might find my views rather... boring 😆

I also must apologise in advance if any of my phrases may not seem polite enough or turn out to be grammatically incorrect - English is not my first language.

Disclaimer! What is written below represents my personal view! It is in no way intended to hurt or discredit anyone’s head canons, views and ideas!

My Chinese calligraphy teacher once told me: "Do you want to assume or to learn? Decide on the approach before you make theories about anything."

And I follow the strategy of "to learn" before I "assume". So, first and foremost, I'm still in search of bits of information about the peoples who inhabited Harad and Rhun (South and East) of Middle-earth.

My goal is not so much to create head cannons as to draw the audience's attention to the canon and the Professor's own vision. Accordingly, in working through his letters, essays, and volumes of the History of Middle-earth, I am trying to draw parallels that someone as educated as Professor Tolkien might have drawn.

I also categorically disagree with the images created in the movies, where the conventional evil is more caricatured than frightening, and the motives and history of the conflict are not shown at all (Faramir’s saying about Haradrim’s fate is at least included, which is great, even if it wasn’t his in books). When my best friend dragged me into the Silmarillion story couple of years ago, I was amazed at how distorted the perception of these regions was in adaptations.

So, thinking about the existence and struggles of Faithful Haradrim, I rely on the history of the region and possible historical patterns. Such a vast region simply cannot have a common culture. It is the idea that can unite them. But, as in our reality, cultural features, symbolism and colours may differ. For example, we know that those who came with Sauron's army, performed under red flags with snakes. Does that mean that the entire vast region walked exclusively in the same colours? It seems unlikely to me.

As for the Blue Wizards, blue in general is a colour very 'inherent' to many cultures in the Global South. I suppose that's why the Professor dressed Alatar and Pallando in those colours. And accordingly, in my opinion, Faithful Haradrim could use these colours in their robes and on their banners, but not necessarily. It is not the colour that reflects the inner essence of a person.

Of course, when thinking about this or that image, I think about where exactly these people live, what the level of metallurgy development is present in different Ages, whether there is a sea or mountains nearby - all this affects how their armour\architecture\symbolism could have developed. In general, I draw parallels with real anthropology and the history of the development of civilisations. Books about the regional patterns, military and weapon history etc are of big help here too.

Sometimes, of course, I make things up. For example, when I first read the lines about the Blue Wizards not returning to Valinor, I didn't take it in a negative light. After all, they could have stayed in Middle-earth willingly, having become attached and imbued with the problems of the region, of the people. After all, Alatar and Curumo were the only ones who were not afraid to volunteer to fight Sauron.

I also like the later version, in which the Blue Wizards arrive in the Second Age. It makes more "sense" given the nightmare that the Númenorians had wrought in the region. But even among them, I'm sure there were some people who sympathised and helped the local population. I don't believe in black and white in principle. But I do believe in post-truth.

So, in essence, I'm a boring canonist who treats the author's writings and views with great respect. And the myth of the Haradrim and Easterlings being bad guys by all accounts is almost as well-established as the supposed lack of religion, holy Dunedain and cute glowing elves. Which is, in my opinion, in no way consistent with Tolkien's own philosophy and stance.

Perhaps what I came up with from scratch was a sign, a Faithful Haradrim symbol, that those could use to identify each other. People need symbols, faith and ideas. Especially in such trying times. That's the way we are.

Oh, I'm afraid if I go on, it'll be a whole essay. So I think I'll stop here. Thanks again for your question and your interest! I'm sorry if I disappointed you, haha.  Good luck with your writing - I'm so happy there're people out there, who're genuinely interested in the region! ❤

P.S. If everything goes well, I plan to release a zine about Harad at the end of the year. With quotes and the obligatory notes of personal theories not to confuse the reader.

[baby-dragons-art]

Consequences

Short story.

{What happens when you openly defy the dark lord in his own home}

Sauron x OC

《 From the tale of Sauron and the Haradrim Rejha》

She knew it was only a matter of time before her luck had run out. Before the leash yanked back a new. She had gotten close, so close as to reach the platform to the lower levels.... to fresh air. The very thought of fresh air giving her confidence and strength to push onward, to find a way. She had been so close.

Read more below

It was only when she found the platform that she was caught. It must have been strange seeing her there, un accompanied and wide-eyed. Of course, she was caught. A skulking Uruk, rousing from its stupor, snorted aloud and emerged from the alcove overlooking the platform. She had been careless.

Any fight she had left in her was all but spent on her defense against the stinking thing. Not her whit or blade spared her. Though she was not starved, she was little match against the creature and earned a sporting cut on her jaw as a reward. A favorable price to pay compared to what was to come.

She had been caught. This time, there would be no excuses. No forgiveness. If only she had been more careful.

With in little time, Rejha was standing in a familiar, circular parlor, a single man like guard not far behind. Jagged rock of cut, black caged around the room, framing lamp lit walls of deeper black. Only some flash of color graced her eyes. Red. A flicker of gold. She stared downward harshly. Her face reflected in the polished black, offering little comfort in the soft red hues of the oil lamps hanging above.

She could hear her heart racing in her ears, her knuckles white as they gripped her sleeves, persperarion glittered across her forehead despite the bitting cold.

At last, the sound of the adjacent doors opening stabbed her ears, flinching, she bit the inside of her cheek.

Soft foot fall and the gentle hiss of heavy fabrics slithered toward her at a steady pace, not a word spoken. She need not look up to know the individual. In the cold, the heat that enveloped from his presence was enough. He was a forges fire even from a distance. As the footsteps came before her, Rejha pursed her lips and lowered her head all the more.

Black folds of void like fabric pooled before her muddied boots like a tar pit. Though the sight made her knees tremble, she dare not close her eyes. She dare not raise her head.

Finally, the dreaded words were uttered. Her stomach dropping like a stone.

"You disobeyed." Came the voice. Like fingers over silk and blades to flesh. Rejha cringed at the sound. The silence following his words a relief.

She breathed out cautiously and uttered as firmly as she could.

"I did not leave the tower." She spoke bravely. "I did not go beyond your sight. I remained in Barad-dur as-."

She was cut off by a hiss of air above her. A sound that silenced her immediately.

"You think me so plain that your words would hide your true intent?" Under her jaw, Rejha felt a leathered hand take her chin and raise her gaze. The heat from his touch, nearly scalding. Now, looking upward, Rajha faced the full breadth and horror of her host. Black was all she could see, save for two piercing eyes that shone down brightly beneath a low hanging veil. The eyes of Sauron. Even veiled the sight wearied her to the bone.

"After my generosity, I had hoped you would show some respect as gratitude."

His thumb stroked over the cut she had received from the Uruk, the folds of the veil tilting ever so.

"I swear..." Rejha breathed carefully, her lungs feeling shallow. "I was not trying to leave... I just wanted to see the sky. Breath real air again. I am owed that."

The dark lords stature adjusted to full height and released her face. His hand disappeared under the veil, a soft suckling heard, and soon, the blood was gone from his thumb.

"You have shifted along the edge of my patience, Harad. You are owed what I see fit to give you."

The heat of his gaze was suffocating as she held eye contact with him. It was not out of feilty or foolishness that she did so. But the fear that if she looked away, he would strike her down, like a wild animal cornered.

"Yet as it stands, you have done little to earn such favor."

Rejha clenched her jaw, trying to compose herself despite his words. She must tread carefully. His voice was as honey, but his viperous words were meant to rile. To push her on to do something foolish.

Her hand ghosted the blade at her side. Her arm aching to seize the hilt and cut through her way to freedom. But such were foolish fantasies. How long would she stand against him in a fight? A second? A few seconds, if he were gracious. She would not last long. Nevertheless, her desire to draw her blade ever present.

"You can't keep me prisoner here when I have done no crime." She spoke evenly, slowly, as best she could. "My people expect me to return, I am needed home. What more could I serve to you if I am kept here, purposeless?"

Sauron's head perked. Whether he was taken aback, insulted, or intrigued by her was unknown. Though the heat of his gaze did not relent in the slightest. It intensified.

"Who is to say what your purpose is to me?" He lulled, now leisurely walking about her as though admiring something she did not see. "Is that for you to determine?" His hand gestured toward her in strict fashion. Displaying, slender, leather clad fingers, only his ring finger was missing from his hand. Rehja's stomach turned, averting her eyes she would rather stare into his gaze than look at his hand.

The hand that was cut....

"If it is my will, if my word commanded you, who are you to question it? Is it not my wisdom and power that leads your people to victory? Am I not your sire?"

Gritting her teeth, Rejha flinched as his hand retracted into the void of his garments. She felt as though she were tettering on the edge of a cliff, desperate to stand upright.

"A thousand times you are, my lord. I can not comprehend your grand designs, but nor can I serve you cut from my purpose. I am dust with out my garrison. Let me return to my people. Let me serve you as I am born to, with your armies. I can be of greater use as a scout, archer or emissary. Please, lord. See that I am perishing, be merciful."

At this, a huff of amusement rattled her ears as a sickening chuckle wandered from his chest. From the moment she had first opened her mouth infront of him there had been little hesitation or fear. True the woman had been terrified in his presence but spoke her mind regardless. He could see the expressions in the eyes of her garrison. Horrified at her imputence. But how refreshing it was.

"Your tongue does you credit in only that it amuses me." He hummed. "Your betters would grovel at my word, yet you quarell with me." His slender, towering form circled about her till he stood behind her, leaning down over her shoulder. "Were I in a less savory mood-." He cooed, his fingers stroking the intricate bangles of her head piece resting on her temple. "I would have you on your knees, humble you till you begged for my pardon."

Rehja's face took on heat and redness. She turned her head from his touch, scowling to repress the intent of his words.

A gesite that did not go unknoticed. Sauron removed his touch and spoke further.

"As you amuse me, I shall be merciful, aleviate you of your woes by putting them to rest. Your garrison is not coming back for you, Rejha. They have been commanded out of Mordor to continue their orders. Therefore, any attempt to leave Barad-dur would be as pointless as it would be deadly to you. Your people have gone."

A shallow gasp escaped Rejha's lips as the silken words of Sauron hissed into her ear. The very idea of such a betrayal cutting into her very chest. It could not be true. They would never leave her behind, they were family. Her brothers and sisters in battle.

And yet there she was. Still in with in the dark lord's tower, standing alone with in the very center of his evil. Alone.

Her garrison had gone.... she had been left behind. The devastation of reality gripped her as though her heart had been squeezed till it burst.

"Given this." Sauron continued. "It is pleasing to me that you are to remain in Barad-dur as long as I require it. To serve me as I deem you should."

Tears welled in Rejha's eyes, her vision blurred from fatigue and grief. She could not help it. After waiting so long, desperate to see her garrison again, to finally go home, the news of their departure was more than she could bare.

A pained breath escaped her lips as she turned back and stared into the blackened void behind her. His two eyes watching intently.

"You ordered this...?!" She gaped, tears falling from her grey eyes. Sauron's head tilted downward, eyes fixed on hers. He did not hide his hand in this.

Rehja turned her gaze from his, lowering her eyes to harshly wipe her tears away. Her greif was crushing, nit only has she lost her freedom but any hopes of seeing Harad again. What could she do against what has been done? How was she to overcome the walls that had been closed in on her?

No answers were given. Only frantic panic and greif as she held her face.

With her face oscured, darkness enveloped her. She felt his hands on her shoulders.... the left one missing the ring finger. A heavyness like waves of thick fabric settled about her.

His breath was at her ear. His grip held her steady yet seemed dire in some way as she tried to console herself.

"Harad is your past." Came his voice, a lull that was sickeningly sweet to her ears. She almost fell into him from their honied tone. "You belong here now. With me."

Gasping, her heart racing, the cage she was trapped in shrinking, Rejha cried out. She could see only darkness. Feel only the heat closing around her. The dessert, her people, her home vanishing before her eyes into the jaws of fire.

Rehja pushed her arms outward, casting Sauron back in desperation. It was only far enough for her to reach her for blade and draw it. "No!" She yelled, tears streaming down her face as she raised her arm to strike him. If she was left behind, never to see her homeland again, then death was her only solace. Her only honor left.

Cursing in her own language, she made a swipe to create some distance between them. She managed one cut to his garment that was utterly harmless and swiftly found her wrist caught in his grasp.

Firmly, her arm was pulled to the side as she fought against him. A brave but fruitless endeavor. For no sooner had she cursed his name than he uttered one word that seased her movements entirely.

The word was harsh. In a language she did not know. Evil. Poison. It turned her stomach and left her without breath. She felt the vibrations of the word tremble about her, ringing in her ears and flushing her mind of all thought.

Rehja felt all strength with in her vanish, her mind became a haze and her will failed her at last.

The blade in her hand fell from her grasp and clattered to the floor loudly. A hand was secured about her lower back keeping her upright as she hung limp.

Staring upward into the veil, she was able to see the shadowed chin of the dark lord beneath. The skin was cold, pale, scarred and unpleasant to behold. Some devistation had befallen him, so much so that his body had been mangled, a horror to behold.

Despite her state and beholding a glimlse of the evil before her, her heart rate slowed. Her breath evened. Her eyes watched him calmly but intently as tears slid down her face. All care had left her.

His gloved hand returned to the cut on her cheek, apprasing it attentively. She felt her body being lifted and pressed against his as her face was brought to the hem of the veil. The the sensation of warmth suckled the cut of all blood.

When that well had run dry, his lips pulled back, a soft sigh following. The gaze under the veil lowered to her exposed neck, finding it unguarded.

Even as his lips were pressed upon her throat, Rejha did not cry out. She found peace, even contentment, despite the horror of reality.

Was she perhapse, even so bold, to find the warmth pleasant? The sensation of lips on her skin welcoming? Was it beyond her to enjoy what was happening? Was this not her purpose to serve the Lord of Mordor?

In a moment, piercing pain like a dagger punctured her throat and sent a jolt through her body that caused her to yelp aloud. Rejha held her mouth agape as an explosion of burning heat blossomed at her neck, spilling down her throat.

Fangs buried into her, lips drinking deeply as though her host were dying of thirst.

Sauron was wholly occupied in her blood as his nostrils flared. A low toned growl purred in his throat and his grip, held tight about her waist. His indulgence into this precious desert spring was a long desired thirst he would not now deny.

She could hear each gulp as blood was stolen from her body. Every suckle loud in her ear. Yet not a care could be had. Her vision blurred. Her breath weakened as each drop of crimson was hoarded, she faded more away into dimness.

"Don't kill me...." Her thoughts begged, while in her minds eye, she wandered from dimness to visions of Harad. Vast dessert of swooping, golden dunes that stretched across a pale blue horizon. She could see it even with her eyes open. Could almost feel it. Smell the air.

"Death is not for you." A voice spoke in her mind. And there in the dunes stood a man in stark white, she was nearly blinded by the sight. Even from a distance, she could see him, a fair elf like being that struck her with his beauty.

But the eyes... they were that of Sauron.... he smiled cockily at her as sandied winds kicked up his garments and disturbed the red, strawberry gold hair.

"I would not be so foolish to deprive myself of my only oasis."

In the cold reality, Rejha's eyes closed fully, a labored breath escaping her lips. She hung limp in darkness, defenseless against the moster at her throat and left alone in a strange land far from her people. Yet despite this, she remained at peace and dreamed of fresh air, dessert sands, and a of a fair stranger with blazing eyes.

[rohirric-hunter]

Honestly the way LotRO introduces and escalates the players' Nazgul encounters is such a work of art. Like, aside from passing encounters, the first time anyone meets one is during Unraveling the Thread, when you run into them working on this extracurricular thing during a rare moment of downtime from tracking down the Ring which they are more than happy to abandon immediately. Then a little later you get assignment: be in the same room as the Witch-king, and it's heavily implied he knew you were there the whole time but couldn't be bothered to do anything about it until you got annoying because you're just not a threat to him.

Things start to get a bit serious in the Trollshaws, when you're asked to investigate a Nazgul that's still unaccounted for, but it's probably fine, you're just seeing where it's been. And then you find out where it's been and where it's going and you're asked to track it down and put a stop to its mischief and it's A Lot but it's okay, it's badly hurt and you're not alone. And after you finally track him down and send him back to the Nazgul rez circle you really don't run into any for a good long time after, except one optional encounter with a memory of the Witch-king which nearly kills you. Until Dol Guldur.

The writing is really good as it lets you think that Gorothul is the one in charge here up until the very moment that he himself lets you know that he isn't, as a point of fact there are not one, not two, but three Nazgul here and they're the one's calling the shots. The scene is really a masterpiece, as it closes with another friend gone, the stakes appropriately raised, and the path forward unclear, as you wonder if perhaps you have bitten off more than you can chew -- but something must snap in the PC at that point because not two in-game days later, instead of responding to this situation like a normal person, they've climbed to the highest tower of Dol Guldur to send one of those Nazgul shrieking back to the Nazgul rez circle. Again. This is the same one, by the way.

Small wonder the Grey Company wanted you on the team, but alas, there was no call for that particular skillset on that journey. Just as well, perhaps, because the next time you encounter one the PC's first instinct is immediately and without question to hunt it down. This backfires, but the PC learns nothing from it, because it's not too long before you find yourself in the Blackroot Vale, once again hunting down a Nazgul. Small wonder it immediately flies into a rage upon being introduced to you when you catch up with it, at this point.

Then it's time for Osgiliath and Pelennor, and during the course of these events you have up close and personal encounters with count 'em one two three four five different Nazgul, two of whom (the Black Blade of Lebennin and the Forsaken Reaver) have decided they now have deep personal beef with you (which they will explain in great detail), two of whom (the Woe of Khand and the High Sorcerer of Harad) are like, look, we just work here, man, and one of whom (the Gloom of Nurn) tells you to your face that it's nothing personal, but he's gonna kill you because it'll make Gothmog mad. And none of these encounters are even in the running for the most thing that happens to you that day

[swanmaids]

original character-focussed fic recs

One of the best feelings for me as a fic writer in this fandom is when somebody tells me that they liked one of my original characters. Character creation can be hard work and nerve-wracking, so it’s really rewarding whenever people tell me that it’s paid off. This fandom has a wealth of fantastic, memorable original characters, so I wanted to make a recommendation list of some of my favourite fics that feature them. The fics in this list are a range of lengths, ratings, warnings, and themes, and I’m hoping everyone will be able to find something to their taste here.

Of course this list is not exhaustive, and I’m always open to more recommendations!

All the splendour they could bear by asterisq; t, 1k, cntw.

The Ar-Pharazôn (& Sauron) regime commissions art for the temple. The artist tries to survive the assignment.

Bitter Heart, Bitter Heart by thegreatpumpkin; f!Galathil/OFC, t, 20k, nawa.

She had loved her brother better once. She had loved them all better once; but too many times she had swallowed bitterness, and now her heart was all sown with ashes and salt. Noble Celeborn, wise Celeborn, shining in his place beside the king! Galathil was reminded at every turn of the ways in which she did not measure up.

The Bread Maker’s Lament by havisham; Morwen & OFC, t, 1k, nawa.

A young woman, living in First Age Hithlum, grapples with grief and loss, and bakes bread.

The Carpenter’s Son by @kareenvorbarra; OFC/OMC, m, 9k, rape/noncon.

An untold story of conquered Dor-lómin, in which an Easterling carpenter has a child by his Hadorian slave.

The Constant Gardner by tehta; OFC & Egalmoth, t, 4k, nawa.

Running Yavanna’s errands in First Age Middle-earth is a tough job, but someone has to do it.

To die in the light by @skyeventide; Maedhros & OFC, m, 6k, violence.

A thrall escapes Angband. This is the journey of what comes after.

Dwell in death’s shadow by @undercat-overdog; Curufin/Wife, g, 3.5k, nawa.

A child eavesdrops on an argument he was never meant to hear.

an ecstatic accident by void and fire by Chestnut_Pod; g, 0.5k, nawa.

Follow the blue roads of Arda.

The Elf Who Circumnavigated Arda in a Ship of Their Own Making by @arofili​; OC & OFC, g, 1k, nawa

Three letters home from a Telerin adventurer.

Far Too Many of You Dying by @starspray; OFC & Teleri, t, 1k, cntw.

After the Noldor depart, Alqualondë is left reeling.

Four Winters by @aipilosse; Celegorm & OFC, t, 6k, nawa.

Four winters in the life of Gwíneth, daughter of Urthel. A rescue, a hunt, a fall, and the abyss.

His Hour Had Come by @polutrope; Saeros & OFC, g, 1k, nawa.

Saeros' daughter reflects on the life and actions of her father.

Lost at Sea by starspray, Uinen & OFC, 0.4k, g, nawa.

An Avarin elf accidentally gets lost at sea and gets stuck halfway onto the Straight Road. Uinen helps out.

These Newborn Shores by @kazaera; t, 14k, nawa.

It's the early Second Age and the Host of the Valar have just departed. The disparate refugees now sitting on the new shores of Lindon, tasked with building the fleet of Númenor even as they are still reeling from Beleriand's destruction, must find a way to move forward despite their losses.

Figuring out where to get their clothes from would be a good place to start.

Not by the Hand of Man by Sath, Tar-Miriel/OFC, e, 7k, nawa.

After his chief priestess is assassinated, Sauron summons his most powerful servant, a woman of Far Harad, to Númenor.

on a long road (miles to go) by Solanaceae, g, 5k, cntw.

Andreth in the House of Adanel.

One Who Holds by @slightnettles Elrond & OFC, g, 4k, nawa.

As the War of Wrath and the breaking of Beleriand approach, a woman of the Easterlings meets a young Elrond.

SeaLight by Anerea; g, 0.3k, nawa.

A Telerin Elf's first experience of the waters of Belegaer, at the end of the Great Journey.

A Seduction by The_Wavesinger; Tar-Miriel/OFC, e, 2k, cntw.

Tar-Míriel attempts to take revenge on her husband by seducing his sister.

Si la mar fuera de leche by Chestnut_Pod, Elros/OFC, Elros & OCs, t, 23k, nawa.

Ten years after the Valar pulled Númenor dripping from the sea, Elros receives a visitor.

Starlit Waves by raiyana; Cirdan/OFC, m, 2k, nawa.

“Congratulations, my love, you have made a plank. Yet again.”   Dry tones teased his ears softly, the silent footsteps of his beloved Ngilith giving him no warning of her approach.

Talathien by maerzkindt; Haleth & OFCs g, 7k, nawa.

Linnoril, a woman from the group later known as House of Hador, returns to her mother's folk of the Haladin and joins the guard. An exploration of reconnecting, forming new bonds and playing fast and loose with First Age Edain lore.

The Thousand Stories by herenortherenearnorfar; OFC/OFC, t, 19k, mcd.

They're important, the myths people tell about themselves, about their histories. You can learn a lot from a tale or seven.

A Traitor’s Issue by herenortherenearnorfar; OFC & OFC,t, 16k, violence.

Ulfang's daughters(in-law) seek aid in the aftermath. Reckoning with their own grief and choices (or lack thereof) they navigate Angband, the nightmare they grew up with, now the only place they can turn for help.

The “Unmarried” Queen - Deficiencies in Numenorean Scholarship by Sath; Tar-Telperien/OFC, g, 1k, nawa.

Rosie Cotton and Samwise Gamgee's granddaughter, a scholar of short stature and lofty goals, finds an earth-shattering document being used to steady a table leg in Minas Tirith.

Willow-Meads by Narya_Flame; g, 5k, nawa.

a willow-spirit, some places she went, and the people she met.

the wind that shakes the mountain by platinum_firebird; OFC/OFC, t, 2k, nawa.

The tale of Mazlav, daughter of Temolv, chieftain of the Uzba clan; and of how she met her lover and companion-in-arms, Aalta of Ishahú.

With the Stars in the Darkness and the Love in the Light by Zdenka; Haleth/OFC, Haleth/Goldberry, Nellas/Goldberry, t, 3k, nawa.

At Nienor's request, the women of Brethil share stories and songs about Haleth, the river's daughter, and those they loved.