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eamonorus-blog · 2 years

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Eowyn and Faramir.

After having heard one too many times about how the romance between Eowyn and Faramir came out of nowhere, or how it was a betrayal of Eowyn’s feminist actions, I decided to write down why their relationship works so well for me, both thematically in terms of the wider story lord of the rings is telling, and in terms of their two personalities coming together.

To start with, we must cover something which many people, most notably Tom Shippey, author of the book author of the century have talked about before regarding Tolkiens work, what Tolkien called the “Northern theory of courage”.

In the famous Anglo-Saxon poem, The Battle of Maldon the Earl of Essex, Byrhtnoth, overcome by pride, allows his Viking enemies to cross and fight him on even footing. The Vikings end up killing him in the battle, but as he lies dead one of his men stands by his body to defend it to the last and exhorts others to do the same, saying:

“Will shall be the sterner, Heart the bolder, Spirit the greater as our strength lessens.”

By this point in the battle, defeat is certain, and there is no material benefit to fighting on, running away or surrendering might offer at least some chance of surviving, but the virtue extolled here is one of conduct not outcome. It doesn’t matter whether you die, and are defeated, so long as you conduct yourself well, that is what matters.

Indeed, in Norse mythology, the Valkyrie take away the greatest mortal warriors from the battles on Midgard so that they might fight at Odin’s side during Ragnorak, a battle which Odin and the Aesir are destined to lose, defeated by the Giants and other forces of evil. And to a mind purely thinking in terms of outcome, it would seem pointless to fight a battle which one was destined to lose from the start, and yet ancient Scandinavians wouldn’t have thought so.

For defeat does not mean refutation, and no battle bravely and honourably fought is fought in vain. This was clearly something Tolkien clearly thought was a valuable thing, and he thought about it deeply. I will talk about the way the Rohirrim embody this spirit at length, but Tolkien was not above “giving the devil his due” and giving even antagonistic forces this quality to show they were capable of goodness too.

Hard fighting and long labour they had still; for the Southrons were bold men and grim, and fierce in despair, and the Easterlings were strong and war-hardened and asked for no quarter. And so in this place and that, by burned homestead or barn, upon hillock or mound, under wall or on field, still they gathered and rallied and fought until the day wore away.

Then the Sun went at last behind Mindolluin and filled all the sky with a great burning, so that the hills and the mountains were dyed as with blood; fire glowed in the River, and the grass of the Pelennor lay red in the nightfall. And in that hour the great Battle of the field of Gondor was over; and not one living foe was left within the circuit of the Rammas. All were slain save those who fled to die, or to drown in the red foam of the River. Few ever came eastward to Morgul or Mordor; and to the land of the Haradrim came only a tale from far off: a rumour of the wrath and terror of Gondor.

This is not dissimilar to the way Tolkien wrote such classic fruitless last stands as Hurin and Fingolfin’s in the Silmarillion. As death nears, victory or defeat cease to be important, and doing your duty and dying well and with dignity so that you can be remembered with honour becomes what matters. Characters in Lord of the Rings are constantly talking about dying in a way that will be worthy of song. When Theoden faces defeat and death trapped inside the Hornburg he says;

‘I fret in this prison,’ said Theoden. ‘If I could have set a spear in rest, riding before my men upon the field, maybe I could have felt again the joy of battle, and so ended. But I serve little purpose here.’

‘Here at least you are guarded in the strongest fastness of the Mark,’ said Aragorn. ‘More hope we have to defend you in the Hornburg than in Edoras, or even at Dunharrow in the mountains.’

Aragorn is looking at what the best tactical decision is, but Theoden is thinking of what would have him rest easiest after he is dead. He speaks in this way many times, and so does Eomer at various points. Dying heroically is vitally important to the Rohirrim, even though they do not explicitly have a concept such as having to die gloriously to go to Valhalla, they still act as if they do, which is summed up by Theodens dying words.

‘Farewell, Master Holbytla!’ he said. ‘My body is broken. I go to my fathers. And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed. I felled the black serpent. A grim morn, and a glad day, and a golden sunset!’

Theoden doesn’t know whether the good guys will win out or not, but he has died a valiant death having done mighty deeds, and he is happy with that. Let’s contrast this with Faramir and Denethor’s attitude towards war. Everyone knows about Faramirs famous line about war, where he talks about the fact he does not love war for its own sake, but people often forget the full context for that line.

‘For myself,’ said Faramir, ‘I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Numenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise.’

Take note of the stark contrast (which Faramir himself explicitly draws) between the rude northern glory seeking of the Rohirrim, and the ancient, civilised virtues and wisdom of Numenor which Gondor represents.

Another thing people forget though, is that Faramir and Denethor are explicitly said to be very similar, both of them are, like Aragorn, rare examples of the ancient power and wisdom of Numenor strangely shining forth late in Gondors civilisational cycle. (Unlike Boromir, who Eomer says reminds him of his own people, and who is a glory hound) and they are both in fact very alike, cunning and well read men who do what they think is right regardless of what others say, something which frustrates Denethor.

Denethor doesn’t take to the field to fight his own battles, but it is not out of any cowardice or weakness, he wears armour constantly even when he doesn’t have to, in order to keep himself fit, he uses the Palantir and is able to wrest it to his own use in defiance of Sauron. These are smart decisions, but not glory seeking ones, Denethor is well respected by his people, but not well liked, and he sees no need to engage in the kind of personal heroics that might change that, the more quiet, cunning, and considered actions and sacrifices which no one else knows of are more his speed.

He sends Faramir out to hold the western bank of the river, and Faramir does so for as long as he can, attempting to retreat in good order after he can hold on no longer, not trying to die in a fruitless last stand, but get as many men back to the city safely as possible.

Eventually though, his retreat ends up turning into a full rout. But Denethor had planned for this eventuality and unleashes his hidden cavalry reserve, setting upon those who are pursuing Faramir, and turning them to flight instead. After that is done though, the cavalry is called back to the city before they can become victims of the same kind of trap of overextension.

No fruitless glorious charge for Denethor, all the weapons of war, and of sorcery, and his own flesh and blood are all just tools to be used to their utmost ability in defence of the city and civilisation he loves more than anything else. And Faramir is almost the exact same as his father, but not quite, as we will see.

Now that I have established the cultural differences between the Rohirrim and Gondorians, I will point out how they drive Eowyns motivations, which are often simplified as being merely a feminist rebellion against the patriarchy.

This is what Aragorn says to her, and how she replies.

‘A time may come soon,’ said he, ‘when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.’

And she answered: ‘All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield a blade, and I do no fear either pain or death.’

Lets take careful note of what Eowyn ISN’T saying here. She isn’t saying that her society is wrong because it is refusing to give her a position of prominence of responsibility, the way a typical feminist critique would be, because her main complaint is in fact that she hates being saddled with RULING the kingdom while her uncle and brother go off to fight. If all she cared about was being a girlboss with authority, then she wouldn’t have to do anything, as that was literally what everyone else wanted her to be doing.

She also isn’t making a systemic criticism of Rohirric culture. For one, she argues that because she is high class she should have more freedom, unlike a lower-class person, who obviously such restrictions would apply to. (not very intersectional Eowyn!) and for another, and more importantly, her whole point of view is shaped by wanting to live up to Rohirric ideals about what a good life, and specifically a good death look like.

According to Denethor, and Faramir, and Aragorn even, the point of war is to defend the society that you love, and that is its purpose, it doesn’t have one beyond that. Obviously there are exceptions, and we see Gondorians like Boromir and Earnur act foolhardy, and we see the Rohirrim fight with a definite purpose of defending their lands and people, but I am talking about how they prioritize things.

And Eowyns situation, one where she felt trapped and humiliated by the declining state of Rohan, Grima’s lecherous looks, Theodens frailty, the strength of Mordor and Isengard, and her own inability to do anything to stop it, has led to her yearning for the glorious death her society taught her to value above anything else as a way of redemption and escape.

When Aragorn tries to mollify her by pointing out how important it is to fight for the safety of the people, she has no time for it. Indeed, she abandons her duty to rule over Edoras in Theodens stead when she uses a disguise to ride away with the army.

This is what the film got wrong about Eowyn. Book!Eowyn would have had no need to whisper to Merry, ‘courage, courage for our friends!’ This is wrong on two levels, for one, she isn’t going to war primarily for the sake of helping others, she isn’t mad that Theoden won’t let her help in the war effort, according to him, she would be doing the most help for that by ruling on his behalf at home, she is made he won’t let her ride to her death. She is driven by a selfish desire which drives her to disobey orders and abandon her responsibilities.

And on the next level, she has no need to try and keep her courage up, she does not fear pain or death, only a cage, and that great deeds go beyond her recall or desire. That is why when the horses and men of Theodens Guard flee in panic, she does not. She has fully exemplified the Northern theory of courage. Theoden is probably dead, even if he isn’t his body is crushed in such a way that he won’t be able to participate in the battle any further, from a purely logical Denethorian perspective facing down the witch king to save him isn’t a smart move. But she does it anyway.

To fully explore this, lets contrast Eowyn with Denethor. With ruthlessly efficient calculation, Denethor makes every possible step he can take throughout the long decades to ensure Gondor is faced with the best chance of survival. And yet finally he is hit by the hammer blows of several devastating losses at once. He loses both his sons, ensuring the line of stewards is over, he sees vast armies gathering in the east beyond counting, and finally he sees the black ships coming up the Anduin to ensure the city will fall.

Tolkien specifically uses two words for hope in his excellent short story/essay ATHRABETH the first is Amdir, which means a kind of optimistic guess that things will materially improve in the direction you might like them to. Whereas the other form of hope, Estel, is more complicated, and means something like faith, a human belief that things are intended to turn out in some ultimate cosmic sense, that derives from our natures as created beings under God, and not from logically parsing out the truth of what will happen based on experience.

Denethor holds on to Amdir as long as he can, fighting on to save Gondor no matter the odds right up until the odds seem totally beyond any possible redress, and then he despairs. And whereas Eowyn channels her despair into a masculine attempt at suicide by battle, Denethor channels his despair into the kind of death a valiant woman might take when faced with capture by an enemy army and chooses suicide.

In this way, Denethor proves himself lesser than Eowyn. Because his lack of Northern Courage means that when faced with certain defeat he sees no point in fighting on, or even in running away, but instead chooses self-annihilation, burning in the house that he has no more need for, the fate that Eowyn was trying to avoid when she refused to stay behind and rule while others fought, which is arguably the smart move, and why Denethor was doing it.

Eowyn may have chosen better than Denethor in that sense, but when we see her in the houses of healing after killing the Witch King, she is still miserable. Why? Because like Denethor she still sees defeat as inevitable, and she see is now trapped in the very situation she despised, being left behind while the rest ride off to a glorious certain death. And that is why she is so upset. Faramir’s attempts to cheer her up and get her to focus on self-care are naturally ineffective.

At the moment of Saurons downfall, Eowyn and Faramir are standing upon the wall when they feel it as a dark presence, and see the shadow of Sauron looming up in the distance.

‘Then you think that the Darkness is coming?’ said Eowyn. ‘Darkness Unescapable?” And suddenly she drew close to him. ‘No,’ said Faramir, looking into her face. ‘It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Eowyn, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!’ And he stooped and kissed her brow.

Denethor had hope founded on evidence that he could understand, until he lost that evidence that it was possible for darkness to be conquered, and then he despaired and killed himself, Eowyn never had hope, and therefore tried to kill herself in battle. Faramir however, is able to have hope from a faith that fate does not have an ultimately cruel end, and that God is destined to triumph over evil in an ultimate sense.

In other words, philosophically, Faramir “converts” Eowyn from her doom seeking Heathen ways to a hopeful Christian way. Living a life as nobility, with a loving spouse and children, in days of peace, these are things which it isn’t shameful to enjoy, and are what many people want above anything else, but lacking hope Eowyn saw them as something without any value, despising them. It is only by learning to accept hope into her heart, and rejecting the worst excesses of foolhardy courage, that she is finally able to be healed and be happy. Faramir does not chide her for killing the Witch King, only the desire to continue to fight until she dies without a good cause, in an attempt to escape shame.

But there is another barrier to Eowyn and Faramir falling in love, one which many people miss. In the rush of feminists to find issue with Eowyn settling down with a MAN, people totally miss how Faramir falling in love with Eowyn, on a surface level, appears equally out of character. Let’s return to Faramirs comment about not loving war for its own sake, with especial focus on the later part ‘ I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Numenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise.’

Faramir loves the past past glory of Numenor, and of Gondor after it. He sees the bloodline, culture, language and virtues of Numenorean civilisation as incredibly important, frankly he sees the Numenoreans as being greater than other humans. Not always morally, but definitely in potential and heritage.

Lets see what he has to say about the Rohirrim as a people, something very relevant for us to know if we are to figure out what his first impressions of Eowyn might be.

‘And we love them: tall men and fair women, valiant both alike, golden-haired, bright eyed, and strong; they remind us of the youth of Men, as they were in the Elder Days.’ Ok, seems like Faramir thinks pretty positively of the Rohirrim, indeed it might be that we can discern that he has a type! But not so fast, lets read a little further on. ‘Yet now, if the Rohirrim are grown in some ways more like to us, enhanced in arts and gentleness, we too have become more like to them, and can scarce claim any longer the title of High. We are become Middle Men, of the Twilight, but with memory of other things. For as the Rohirrim, do, we now love war and valour as things good in themselves, both a sport and an end; and though we still hold that a warrior should have more skills and knowledge than only the craft of weapons and slaying, we esteem a warrior, nonetheless, above men of other crafts. Such is the need of our days.’

We already know that Faramir does not approve of glory seeking, and that he regrets the decline of the ancient splendour and virtue of Numenor. And the Rohirrim having cultural contact with Gondor is causing both of these things to accelerate, he clearly doesn’t hate the Rohirrim, but he also sees their influence as bringing an end to something he clearly cares about incredibly deeply. So when he falls in love with Eowyn should we take this as him simply shrugging his shoulders and throwing aside his duty to preserve Numenorean blood and prevent further dilution of what made Numenor great just because he finds Eowyn hot?

Absolutely not! Faramir is a guy who doesn’t like fighting who nonetheless fights with courage in terrible circumstances for decades because he has to defend his people, he is someone who refuses to allow the ring to tempt him because he believes so strongly in holding to the best traditions of the faithful in their resistance to evil.

He is someone who takes duty and doing the right thing incredibly seriously. I think anyone who thinks that he would throw away his strongly held convictions just because he found a girl attractive has misread his character. In fact, the point is so clearly a potential issue in the way of the relationship that Eowyn brings it up.

‘Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor? she said. ‘And would you have your proud folk say of you: ‘There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Numenor to choose?’

‘I would,’ said Faramir.

Why is Faramir seeming to act out of character here? It is because Faramir, along with Gandalf (Who Faramir is mentored by if you recall) is one of the characters who most acts as a mouthpiece for Tolkiens own views, as Tolkien said that of all lotr characters Faramir was the one who most resembles him, and he espouses much of Tolkiens worldview. By marrying Eowyn, Faramir is embodying a central principle of Tolkiens works, treasuring what was great about the past without becoming enslaved to it. Celebrimbor and the Smiths of Eregion longed for the glorious past of what had been, both in Beleriand and in Valinor, both of which they had lost, and yet in their attempts to preserve the past, they created the Rings of Power, and ended up giving Sauron his deadliest weapons.

They should have accepted their lessened and dwindling status in Middle Earth, or else returned to Valinor, but they wanted to have both the beauty and bliss of the blessed realm, and the freedom and superiority over others that being in Middle Earth gave them. They were entrapped by their past greatness and fought vainly against the decay of time which would inevitably lessen them.

Faramir, despite being what would in modern parlance be termed a Numenorean supremacist, is keenly aware of this flaw.

‘Death was ever present, because the Numenoreans still, as they had in their old kingdom, and so lost it, hungered after endless life unchanging. Kings made tombs more splendid than houses of the living, and counted old names in the rolls of their descent dearer than the names of sons. Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry; in secret chambers withered men compounded strong elixirs, or in high cold towers asked questions of the stars.’

These unnamed Numenorean nobles, like Faramir, and like Tolkien in fact, had a reverence and respect for the past. But they let this consume them, and wished for things to go an as they had forever, (which is exactly the power that the elven rings bestow, an unchanging eternity of preserved venerable splendour) and forgot that having plenty of new children, whether they be as great as their ancestors or not, was more important than ruminating endlessly over how good things used to be.

Arwen is Middle Earth royalty, in her is blood from the royalty of the three Elven clans, and the three houses of the Edain. She is one of the greatest living representations of the past beauty and enchantment of the Elves. If Elrond had the mindset of Celebrimbor and the Kings of Gondor, he would have tried to ensure she married another Elf, and continue to carry on the old Elven lineage and civilisation in Middle Earth, but he doesn’t, he allows her to marry Aragorn, a man. Just as Isildur carried away a sapling from the tree in Numenor, Arwen represents a precious piece of the glorious past, carrying over to what comes after, giving the next civilisation a memory of what came before, and ennobling the none the less inevitably lesser next stage of the world. For to hold on too tight to the past because you fear it changing isn’t healthy, change is inevitable, you should honour the past while not being afraid to let things change. This is what the Elves do throughout the early years of the fourth age, they leave Middle Earth graciously, before their presence there becomes unsightly, as they have changed and diminished so much, desperately holding onto a crumbling past.

This is exactly what the Kings of Numenor did before the fall, when they grew old, they would relinquish the throne, instead of waiting until they died of old age, embarrassing themselves by ruling in their last years as feeble old men, and when they did die, they had the ability to do so gracefully, of their own free will, before they lost their minds, which is what Aragorn does.

In this willingness to accept this decline and change, Faramir is different from Denethor, and indeed, this is their main difference in character, since they are so alike in almost every other way. Faramir can let the Ring go, even if would “save” Minas Tirith, because he believes that to unnaturally save Minas Tirith using such a means would only make its inevitable end all the more awful and stained with desperate dishonour.

Because he believes that it is inevitable that Gondor will fall with the passage of time, and something else good will come after it, so using evil means to prolong Numenorean civilisation beyond its proper limits is wrong, just as it is wrong to seek foul and unnatural means to prolong the life of an individual man (Another power that the Rings of Power have) Everything in the material world has a lifespan that will some day come to an end, there is virtue in accepting that end gracefully and allowing what comes next to take its place.

Earlier I said that Denethor feel into despair at the military situation, at seeing the corsair ships, and perhaps even seeing Frodo in Cirith Ungol captured by Sauron, but it was actually a deeper sense of despair that Denethor felt.

‘So! With the left hand thou wouldst use me for a little while as a shield against Mordor, and with the right bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me. ‘But I say to thee, Gandalf Mithrandir, I will no be thy tool! I am Steward of the House of Anarion. I will not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart. Even were his claim proved to me, still he comes but of the line of Isildur. I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity.’ ‘What then would you have,’ said Gandalf, ‘if your will could have its way?

‘I would have things as they were in all the days of my life,’ answered Denethor, ‘and in the days of my longfathers before me: to be the Lord of this City in peace, and leave my chair to a son after me, who would be his own master and no wizard’s pupil. But if doom denies this to me, then I will have naught: neither life diminished, nor love halved, nor honour abated.’

Sure, Denethor despairs because he no longer sees a practical way to defeat Sauron, but he also despairs, because he sees that even if with a victory for the free peoples, Aragorn would become King, and Gondor would undergo a drastic change. The Numenoreans have been ruling as an elite minority in Gondor for a long time, and their race has been fading for some time. Look at what Denethor says when he believes Faramir is dead (emphasis mine) ‘I sent my son forth unthanked, unblessed, out into needless peril, and here he lies with poison in his veins. Nay, nay, WHATEVER MAY NOW HAPPEN IN WAR, my line too is ending, even the House of the Stewards has failed. Mean folk shall rule the last remnant of the Kings of Men, lurking in the hills until all are hounded out.’ Men came to the door crying for the Lord of the City. ‘Nay, I will not come down,’ he said. I must stay beside my son. He might still speak before the end. But that is near. Follow whom you will, even the Grey Fool, though his hope has failed. Here I stay.’

It is these twin despairs, first at Saurons inability to be defeated, and secondly at the inevitable transformation or destruction of Gondor as it was, that drives Denethor to commit suicide. When faced with the fact that the past greatness will be replaced with an uncertain future he cannot stand it and kills himself in defiance of both Sauron and Gandalf, and their two fold attacks on the traditional Gondorian state. Faramir is different however. He is willing to act with the grace of Elrond, who gave Arwen to Aragorn, with the grace of a Numenorean King giving up the throne, or of Galadriel leaving Middle Earth, and finally renouncing her old selfish desires for authority over others. He steps down as Steward, accepting honour abated, and marries Eowyn, accepting the life of Numenor diminished. When he sees Eowyn, he doesn’t let a clinging allegiance to the past blind him to what good can come in the present. An old Gondorian King might have counted the pure numenorean ancestry of his descendants more precious than that of his sons, and his sons sons, if they were not, but not Faramir. He grieves over the fact that contact with the Rohirrim is changing Gondor, but he also accepts it, and finds the good in it as well. He doesn’t let his love for what is good about Gondorian society blind him to what is good about the Rohirrim, and by extension Eowyn herself.

The Romance of Eowyn and Faramir, is about two people, one who does not wish to live in happiness and peace because she fears that defeat is inevitable, and another who is fearful of change and the fading that comes with time, who are able to overcome these fears and doubts to find happiness and completeness in each other for the remainder of their mortal lives, and in this they both surpass Denethor, who they both strongly resemble in innumerable ways, who in pride and despair slew himself, and robbed himself of seeing his grandchildren and the glory of Gondor restored, despite being changed beyond what he wished it to be.

Their story is one of hope and love, and the acceptance of the sorrow in life, and despite it holding on to the things that do matter, and finding happiness in marriage, children, and peace; some of the most precious and wonderful things in the world.

#eowyn x faramir #eowyn #faramir #denethor #lotr #tolkien

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outofangband · 2 years

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Flora and Fauna Specific to Tolkien’s World

Flora, fauna, environment and geography of Arda I’m going to do specifically named and individual animals and trees, plants and animals canonically named and elven words for various plants and animals in future posts

These descriptions are pretty brief but I’d be glad to go into more detail about anything!

Black Emperor butterflies: Possibly related to purple emperors today, these were black butterflies found in Mirkwood

-Crebain: Large crow like birds native to the lands South of the Misty Mountains. Crebain is a plural Sindarin word of Craban meaning ‘crow’ though the species appears to be somewhat different. These were said to be spies of Saruman.

Great Eagles: Huge eagles far larger than any currently alive. Some were possibly Maiar who served Manwë. Thorondor was among the greatest with a wingspan of dozens of meters, (over a hundred feet)

-Kine of Araw: Huge, wild cattle of Rhûn, the Eastern lands of Middle Earth. Possibly resembling aurochs.

-Kirinki were small, scarlet birds from Aman not known to Middle Earth. Their song was so high pitched that humans had trouble hearing it

-Mearas: The noble, old horses of Middle earth, larger, stronger, swifter than regular horses

-Mûmakil: Huge, Elephantine creatures of the Harad, ridden into battle. They are larger than the modern elephant. Also called olephants

-Wargs: large, vicious wolves of the Northern lands of Middle earth

Plants:

-Aeglos was thought to be an ancestor of gorse or whin, growing on Amon Rûdh. It had small white flowers with a sweet smell and became extinct after the first age.

-Culumalda were trees that grew in Northern Ithilien, possibly inspired by laburnum. They had golden flowers and grew in clusters.

-Elanor flowers are inspired by species in the family Anagallis. They are golden yellow and starlike, associated with Laurelin.

-Evermind, Simbelmynë, Uilos are based on species in the anemone family or windflowers. These are also starlike but are white, associated with Telperion.

-Ilexes were probably based on Holm Oaks, an evergreen oak that grew in warmer climates. They were associated with Ithilien.

-Kingsfoil or athelas was a sweet smelling herbaceous plant with healing properties. It was used by Lúthien thus implying it grew in Beleriand but was later brought to Middle Earth from Númeanor.

-Lairelossë or summer snow was a fragrant tree grown originally in Aman and Tol Eressëa but brought later to Númeanor. Its name meant Summer snow though there was no other description. The Fragrant trees are a group of various species given from the elves to humans of Númeanor.

-Lebethron was a tree that grew in Gondor with dark or black wood and was favored by its crafters.

-Mallorn, plural Mellyrn was a species of golden leafed tree probably based on ancient beech trees. It grew most famously in Lórien and descended from older, golden trees of previous ages.

-Mallos was a wild flower in the valleys around Gondor, described as looking like a small golden bell.

-Nessamelda was another fragrant tree of Númeanor, originating in Tol Eressëa. No description is given but the name meant Beloved of Nessa, in reference to the Valar. This species never came to Middle Earth

-Niphredel are similar to snowdrops, their name means small pallor. They grew in Neldoreth in Doriath and later in the realm of Galadriel during the Third age.

-Taniquelassë was another fragrant tree. Its name meant white high leaf.

-Oiolairë or Ever Summer was a sweet scented evergreen tree. Elves would tie boughs of it to ships to represent friendship with the Maia of Ulmo. These were another fragrant tree grown originally in Tol Eressëa but brought later to Númeanor.

-Seregon also grew upon Amon Rûdh and indeed was the only plant that grew at the very top of the hill. The flowers were blood red, giving the place its ominous appearance of being bathed in blood which of course would become literal

-Vardarianna was yet another Fragrant Tree. It had no description but its name meant Crown gift in reference to the Vala Varda.

-Yavannamírë was also a Fragrant Tree meaning jewel of Yavanna. It had round, bright red, sweet fruits.

#The Silmarillion #lotr #musing and meta #Middle Earth #Beleriand #Aman

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elerrinacrownedwithstars · 4 months

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Of the Silmarils, part 1: Are the Silmarils somehow alive?

I've been reading The Silmarillion lately, and some of Tolkien's letters and other such things, and I really need to write down some of the ideas and thoughts it has caused me to have. I don't know how many parts this series will contain, but most of them will probably have to do with the Silmarils, or the people whose lives and fates they came to impact.

This first post concerns the beginning of the Silmarils, and especially whether they are in some way alive.

It feels like there is a shift in the story once the Silmarils come along. Up until now, Noldor have been busy (and apparently happy in their business) learning from the Valar, and building, and crafting works unlike anything that is ever achieved in Middle-earth. Does it also play a part that they are able to do these things in the bliss of Aman, where they don't need to spend time or their creativity in fending off the dangers of Middle-earth? Then again, at this time there is also peace in Beleriand, and companies of Sindar walk there unarmed. It is curious that Fëanor accomplishes the Silmarils around the same time that Morgoth is allowed to walk free again.

"And Varda hallowed the Silmarils, so that thereafter no mortal flesh, nor hands unclean, nor anything of evil will might touch them, but it was scorched and withered;" - Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor

The Silmarils are rightly called Fëanor's greatest work. Was it the jewelcraft that made the Silmarils so extraordinary, or did the wonder come from the Light of the Trees which was ensnared within? The text of the Silm appears to imply the latter. It seems that the Trees themselves were sacred to begin with, to the point where even things made in their image are held in special honour right down to the White Tree of Gondor. Was Fëanor maybe taking on more than he realised when he first conceived the idea of making the Silmarils, the only three things in the likeness of the Trees that would also capture their Light?

There is also the question of to what degree the Silmarils are alive, even sentient. Their light seems a different thing from, say, the stars that Varda made - though we don't know what substance the regular stars are made of, or if their sheer distance from Arda plays a part. But this light originated with and from the Two Trees, themselves living things, brought forth by Yavanna and watered by Nienna's tears - so perhaps the light itself was alive from the beginning? I remember wondering, during some earlier reading of The Silmarillion, about why was not Varda involved with the making of the Trees when their Light was so important. But this feels like there is something else at work. There's even this curious passage that compares the Silmarils to the Children of Ilúvatar:

"Yet that crystal was to the Silmarils but as is the body to the Children of Ilúvatar: the house of its inner fire, that is within and yet in all parts of it, and is its life." - Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor

Is this comparison just a convenient way to describe the relationship between the crystal and the light, or is there something deeper about these lines?

"Therefore even in the darkness of the deepest treasury the Silmarils of their own radiance shone like the stars of Varda; and yet, as were they indeed living things, rejoiced in light and received it and gave it back in hues more marvellous than before." - Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor

So, the Silmarils at the very least "behave" in the presence of other light than that of themselves. It makes one wonder if Fëanor was aware of this, and it makes the following line somehow sinister:

"... he seldom remembered now that the light within them was not his own." - Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor

This line makes him sound so much like Morgoth himself, who always sought to take possession of everything, even things that were not of his making. I am probably reaching here, but is it possible that the Light of the Trees was the physical manifestation of Flame Imperishable, or something akin to it, the light that lives? It might explain why Morgoth coveted the Silmarils so much.

To talk more about Silmarils "behaving", there are interesting moments in the tale of Beren and Lúthien. When Lúthien sings before Morgoth, the Silmarils blaze with a great light and somehow almost seem to be aiding the intent of her song:

"... but the Silmarils in the crown of Morgoth's head blazed forth and suddenly with a radiance of white flame; and the burden of that crown and of the jewels bowed down his head, as though the world were set upon it, laden with a weight of care, of fear, and of desire, that even the will of Morgoth could not support."

Which is pretty incredible. It's like they are sensing a chance to get the hell out of Angband, and are seizing it! Moments later, Beren who is mortal, is permitted to touch the Silmaril, though it has been hallowed against it:

"As he closed it in his hand, the radiance welled through his living flesh, and his hand became as a shining lamp; but the jewel suffered his touch and hurt him not." - Of Beren and Lúthien

So, though the Silmarils have been hallowed by Varda, and there are boundaries to who can touch them, the jewels themselves can ignore those boundaries. Does this imply that it's not the hallowing that is significant, but that the Silmarils themselves choose who may touch them and are therefore sentient?

No wonder it feels like the uncomplicated joy of earlier days seems to change with the coming of the Silmarils. Even if you did not know the title of the story, you can feel that something has entered the text that will change everything that come afterwards. I wonder if this change was felt by the Valar and the Elves living in Valinor - and if the hallowing was a precaution against what would come after.

Was the hallowing done against Fëanor's will? There is no textual evidence to support this idea in the published Silm. Rather, the text is against it:

"Few ever changed [Fëanor's] courses by counsel, none by force." - Of Fëanor and the Unchaining of Melkor

Looking at how he later reacts just to the perceived threat of being forced to do anything against his will, it seems very unlikely he could be commanded even in better times. If anything, it seems that the hallowing, and Mandos' foretelling of how the fate of Arda was within the Silmarils, is welcomed and adds to the pride Fëanor feels over his creation. My belief is that at this point, Fëanor sees only flattery in the attention his creations get, and I think this is more in line with his characterisation. But the creation of the Silmarils has already stirred something ominous:

"For Fëanor began to love the Silmarils with a greedy love, and grudged the sight of them to all save to his father and his seven sons... - Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor

I can't help but think of how Tolkien so often warns against loving material things too much.

Moreover, after the Darkening of Valinor, the Valar ask Fëanor if he would give up the Silmarils, so that their light could be used to restore the Trees. Emphasis on ask. Remember, at this point the whole world is dark, save for the light of the stars, and the primary source of light (which was more than just light, culturally and spiritually) has just been destroyed in a very traumatising way. The very light of Valinor that nurtured all its inhabitants is in the scales against Fëanor's ownership of the jewels. But the Valar do not command him, and leave it for him to choose whether he will give up the Silmarils or not. And when Fëanor refuses, the Valar let the Trees die before they will force him. This, if nothing else, makes it clear that the hallowing was consensual.

Fëanor's mistrust of the Valar only comes after Morgoth has sown lies and strife among Noldor. Had Fëanor created the Silmarils at some later point, then I have no doubt that he would have refused anything the Valar suggested vehemently - unless he saw it as a precaution against Morgoth. And why would he be against the hallowing, unless he already had evil in him and thus expected to do something that would make his hands unclean? But timing here is everything, and one should not read the beginning of the story with the knowledge of hindsight. The Valar make plenty of mistakes, so why not criticise them for the things they actually did, rather than make up stuff that they canonically did not?

There is also this interesting line:

"The Silmarils had passed away, and all one it may seem whether Fëanor had said yea or nay to Yavanna; yet had he said yea at the first, before the tidings came from Formenos, it may be that his after deeds would have been other than they were." - Of the Flight of the Noldor

To me it sounds like, this choice is not just about the Silmarils and the Trees, and were he able to give up the Silmarils at this point, a grace would be granted to him not unlike what Bilbo receives when he gives up the Ring. But Fëanor's "greedy love" wins in the end and it dictates his path from thereon, eventually leading him to Alqualondë.

#The Silmarillion #Silm meta #Silmarillion #Tolkien

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unethicallypleistocene · 1 year

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Chapter 3: A Sword Proves Its Worth

“AE!” Kyrri screeched, scooting back only to hit his head on a nearby tree trunk.

“Nan i ‘aear ar in elin!” He cried in his mangled accent, further ravaged by his half-asleep state.

The elf wielding the arrow lowered it slightly, surprised at Kyrri’s exclamation. “Pedig edhellen?”

“OBVIOUSLY,” he snapped in Westron, his terror quickly morphing into fury. “Care to explain why you were about to kill me in my sleep?!”

“I was simply exercising great caution,” replied the elf, unperturbed.

“Next time, exercise caution away from my face,” retorted Kyrri, brushing off his clothes. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I am Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of the Woodland Realm, son of Thranduil,” he said, somewhat self-importantly, and Kyrri wrinkled his nose.

“Perhaps I should not have been so rude to royalty, though I must say you quite deserved it,” he remarked, rolling up his blanket and stuffing it into his pack. “Uh, mae govannen, in any case.”

“Well met,” he replied haughtily, looking slightly less suspicious. “What is a near-halfling such as yourself doing in the hills of Emyn Muil?”

“I am Kyrri of Imladris,” he said through clenched teeth, deciding to ignore the height jab in the spirit of diplomacy, “Or rather, I was most recently. Once again, I seem to be realm-less.”

“A vagrant?” asked Legolas, quite literally looking down on him.

“A scholar,” he bit back. “But what in Arda is a Mirkwood elf doing here?”

Legolas thought hard to himself for a few moments. “I cannot be sure that you are not a spy,” he said, and just as he was about to use all of his brain power to decide on his next course of action, a dwarf came speeding down the nearby slope and practically tumbled into him.

“Gimli!” he exclaimed, exasperated at the dwarf’s mere existence.

A spark of recognition grew on Kyrri’s face as the dwarf taunted Legolas with various zingers about delicate elves.

“You’re the dwarf from the Council of Elrond!” he said abruptly, recalling Gimli’s unsuccessful attempt to destroy a magic ring with sheer physical force.

“Technically,” he huffed, “but I am only the greatest dwarf warrior alive.”

Legolas snorted before remembering why they were all here. “You were present at the Council of Elrond?” he asked, brows knitting in an attempt to recall the event.

“Eh…you could say that,” said Kyrri sheepishly, not feeling quite comfortable enough to reveal his status as a chronic eavesdropper.

“Did Lord Elrond send you as strategic backup?” asked Gimli excitedly, as if he were expecting Kyrri to sweep aside his cloak and reveal a cache of weapons and a warrior’s physique.

“He did not,” he replied almost ruefully. “I owe a debt to a friend. I am on my way to warn Gondor of the impending attack.”

“Then you should join our company!” proposed Legolas, and both Kyrri and Gimli half-expected him to clap his hands in excitement.

“No, he should not!” interjected Gimli indignantly.

“Indeed, I must be on my way,” said Kyrri, nodding emphatically.

“There are orcs in these woods,” said Legolas, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We must bring you to the Fellowship at once.”

Ignoring both Gimli’s and Kyrri’s protests, Legolas dragged them back to the riverbank with surprising ease and presented the shaggy dog of a traveler to the group as if he had found a new species.

“Gondor?” said Boromir, only now tuning in to Kyrri’s summary of his lacking adventures.

“Wh– yes,” said Kyrri, slightly irritated at the interruption. “My old friend Orthordir remains there. He is a general now,” he elaborated with a hint of pride.

“Ah, General Orthordir! If I recall correctly, I once attempted to engage him in conversation before he ran off, shouting ‘pain is your friend’ or something of that ilk,” reflected Boromir.

“Yes, that does sound like him,” said Kyrri grimly.

“So, you are not here to help us take the ring to Mordor?” asked a curly-haired halfling who had introduced himself as Pippin, a shadow weighing on his otherwise youthful features.

Kyrri paused, surveying the downtrodden group before him. “Truthfully, I do not know how I would be of service,” he said, suddenly feeling extremely guilty. “I am no soldier, nor a wizard. Speaking of, was Mithrandir not with you?”

“He fell,” said another halfling, presumably the ring-bearer Frodo, “in the Mines of Moria.”

“I’m– I’m sorry,” said Kyrri, more stunned than anything else.

“The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all,” recited the halfling miserably, as if he expected Kyrri to know what the heck he was talking about.

“Yet hope remains while the company is true,” finished a figure lurking in the shadows of the trees, causing Kyrri to jump.

“Aragorn, you must stop doing that,” grumbled Gimli.

“Aragorn? As in Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur, Chieftain of the Dúnedain?” said Kyrri, his voice growing steadily higher in disbelief.

“Titles will do us no good here,” he said, sitting down to sharpen his sword.

Kyrri chuckled lightly. “Back in Rivendell, we were forbidden to speak of them. Of course, the same could not be said for the subject of yourself.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “Had I been gone that long?”

“Oh, most certainly. It was always ‘When will Estel return?’ or ‘Have you any news of Estel?’ Of course, as the city’s second habitual traveler,” Kyrri gave a small mocking salute at that, “The burden of answering usually fell to me. I was often forced to remind Lady Arwen that I had not encountered you on the road, nor in fact had I ever met you in my life.”

Aragorn snorted, the air seemingly lightened at the mention of the elf. “Then it is a pity our paths should finally cross in this dark hour.”

“A pity indeed,” replied Kyrri, rummaging in his bag for the lump of charcoal he had haphazardly tied to a stick in a poor imitation of a writing utensil. “Right behind the Falls of Rauros,” he muttered, scratching his location into one of his many maps. “Proof for Lady Arwen, upon my return.”

Aragorn grinned.

“Right,” said Boromir abruptly, brushing imaginary dirt off his jerkin, “I shall go find some firewood.”

He walked off, and it was then that the company noticed Frodo had disappeared.

“I’ll go and find him,” volunteered Kyrri, picking up the massive and weighty shield Boromir had left behind.

“...It is not yours save by unhappy chance. It might have been mine.”

Kyrri heard Boromir’s snarl from behind a thicket and began hurrying toward the commotion.

“It should be mine. Give it to me!” Boromir lunged at Frodo, who had fallen on his back and was frantically scrambling away.

“Boromir, stop!” cried Kyrri, running over to shield Frodo from whatever madness had taken hold of the man.

“You will take the ring to Sauron and sell us all!” he roared, his hand hovering dangerously close to his sheathed blade. “Curse you and all the halflings to death and darkness!”

Kyrri whipped around and found that Frodo had somehow disappeared, leaving him alone with a now-psychotic Gondorian. Having thought of nothing else, he rammed his elbow into Boromir’s gut and sent him falling into the leaves. To Kyrri’s horror, he began to cry.

“Frodo! What have I done. Frodo, I’m sorry!” he cried out shakily, tears streaming down his face.

“For Eru’s sake, get a hold of yourself!” said Kyrri, holding out his hand and proceeding to haul the sobbing mess up and off the ground. “That ring really did a number on you, didn’t it?”

“I- I betrayed him,” blubbered Boromir, putting all of his weight on Kyrri’s shoulder as he apparently lost the ability to stand in his emotional turmoil.

“I mean, you did, but at least you did not stab him!” replied Kyrri cheerfully, looking around for the vanished hobbit.

“I am a disgrace to my people, to Gondor,” he sniffed, gazing shamefully at the horn attached to his belt.

Kyrri thought for a moment. “But if Gondor was willing to accept a useless stranger such as I, it would be inconceivable that they deny such welcome to a beloved warrior and defender of the realm.”

“Very funny,” coughed Boromir, trying to get the distress out of his system.

“It would be, if Orthordir had exaggerated the few mentions of the exploits of Boromir the Bold in his letters. Fortunately, he is usually too preoccupied with making himself look good that he often fails to have any room left for everyone else.”

Boromir chuckled weakly. “How did you ever befriend the General?”

The two started walking in search of Frodo. “I lived in Minas Tirith when I was child,” said Kyrri, “Which is why my Sindarin accent is so strange, so I’ve been told.”

Boromir was about to reply when they heard Aragorn yell from the summit of Amon Hen.

“Uruk-Hai!” growled Boromir, unsheathing his sword.

“I’ll find Frodo!” said Kyrri, running in the opposite direction of the oncoming swarm. Remembering the scabbard dangling near his legs, he unsheathed Dagrassaeb to find it glowing a brilliant blue.

“Amarth faeg!” he cursed, whipping around to see an incoming orc who had spotted him.

“Oh no,” he said audibly, trying to remember the meager swordsmanship training Arwen had attempted to give him before giving up entirely.

The Uruk roared ferociously and slashed at Kyrri, who leaped backward and almost fell over. Kyrri swung his blade into the orc’s, producing a clanging noise that was certainly heard by his fellow aggressors. However, Kyrri was more focused on staying alive. He desperately scrambled to parry each attack, with the Uruk growing more bloodthirsty with every failed swing. He held up Boromir’s increasingly heavy shield, only for it to be knocked out of his hands almost immediately. Kyrri was pushed further downhill in this mad fight for his life, and the sharpened hook at the end of the orc’s scimitar cut into the side of Kyrri’s face, producing a warm and sticky sensation that Kyrri could only imagine was a waterfall of blood. High on adrenaline, he slammed his foot into the Uruk’s kneecap with all the strength he could muster before slashing across his exposed arm. To his horror and delight, he found that the elvish blade cut through flesh like it was a pat of butter on a warm summer’s day.

“Sorry!” said Kyrri instinctively when his assailant let out a howl of pain. While the orc was momentarily incapacitated, Kyrri wisely decided to bolt while mentally cringing. Unfortunately, his short legs could only take him so far before the orc stood and started sprinting at full speed toward him. Just as Kyrri was about to begin shrieking in a very un-manly manner, an axe flew through the air and lodged itself in the Uruk’s skull, sending it crashing to the forest floor.

“Gimli! Thank you!” Kyrri panted, unconsciously deciding that a battle was the best time to mind his manners.

“There are more coming,” Gimli said, ignoring Kyrri’s winded state. “What happened to the wee hobbits?”

“I was trying to find–” Kyrri started before Gimli charged off to slaughter more Uruk-Hai. He made his way down the incline, dodging the ancient stone remnants and massive roots that lined the ground and made it impossible to run anywhere without coming close to tripping.

He soon came across a clearing where Merry and Pippin engaged in some kind of tackling maneuver on an orc who had somehow not stabbed them yet, and found Boromir skillfully dispatching the wave of soldiers hurtling toward him while blowing the Horn of Gondor with great resolve. Kyrri was thanking the Valar that he had not been spotted from his shoddy hiding place behind a tree when he saw an Uruk archer menacingly approach Boromir from behind. While Kyrri had known the man for a grand total of three hours and was not enthusiastic about risking his own life to save him, he was exceedingly unenthused about returning to Gondor with news of the steward’s son–his favorite son, no less–having died an untimely death. Denethor would probably find a way to rescind his school diploma. Thus, with a shout that sounded almost warlike, Kyrri swung Dagrassaeb without skill or cunning at the formidable Uruk without a second thought. His blade pierced the archer’s hide, and thick rivulets of black blood ran down its length toward the hilt. The archer, thoroughly distracted, whipped around to attempt to shoot him at close range, and so Kyrri wrenched the sword from the wall of flesh before him and tried to knock the arrow from its seat on the Uruk’s bow. He failed, of course, but the orc nevertheless dropped the massive weapon in favor of drawing a half-rusted blade, presumably to have more fun with Kyrri before striking him down. Kyrri stumbled back once more, and suddenly felt an overwhelming burst of pain in his midsection where the orc had kicked him hard enough to send him flying. He tasted a salty, metallic tang on his tongue as he heaved a shuddered breath and lifted his head to see the orc approaching. Spotting Dagrassaeb among the strewn leaves, Kyrri pulled himself up with a hiss and stumbled toward it. The orc slashed at him, and Kyrri narrowly dodged the attacks in what must have been a Valar-given miracle. Finally reaching his sword, he stood and spat a globule of dark blood mingled with saliva at the Uruk. He seemed to take this as a challenge, for he snarled something in Black Speech and charged at Kyrri.

“Mobility is key,” rang Arwen’s voice in Kyrri’s head, “Be swift, for your enemy will not be gracious enough to afford you time to think.”

Kyrri dove as the archer swung at his head, slashing at the orc’s legs and leaving deep cuts that began to weep. He was not slowed in the slightest, but Kyrri nevertheless batted the orc’s blade out of the way and cleaved the Uruk’s head from his shoulders. With his lacking strength, however, Dagrassaeb remained lodged in the orc’s throat and Kyrri spent several moments hacking away at the fallen orc’s neck with his pocket knife until his sword was fully extricated. The excitement of battle quickly melting away, Kyrri found himself struggling to breathe as he stood staring at the elvish blade, glittering black with globules of blood dripping unceremoniously to the forest floor. A voice startled him out of his reverie, to his great relief.

“Kyrri,” greeted Boromir, looking exhausted but very much alive. Kyrri nodded in acknowledgment, Boromir’s earlier outburst still ringing in his ears.

Pippin ran up the slope, jutting his thumb at the felled archer. “He would’ve shot somebody if it wasn’t for you!”

Boromir looked at Kyrri meaningfully. “I am in your debt,” he said, bowing his head, “I owe you my life, however low and undeserving it is.”

Kyrri wrung his hands nervously. “Oh, my lord, there’s no need–”

“You’re bleeding!” exclaimed Merry, running up to gesture at Kyrri’s face.

Sucking air through his teeth, Kyrri squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “It’s nothing, just a scratch,” he replied in a stilted voice.

The others appraised his injury, looking unconvinced.

“It is of no matter,” he said tersely, beginning to walk downhill with a slight limp. “We must find Frodo if–”

“Kyrri! You are alive!” crowed Legolas, hurrying toward the group with Aragorn and Gimli in tow. “We have seen Frodo and Sam on the riverbank, headed to Mordor alone,” said Aragorn darkly.

“Master Samwise still thought to bring all his cooking utensils,” said the elf fondly, shaking his head.

“I have driven him to his death!” abruptly exclaimed Boromir, throwing his hands into the air.

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Aragorn, visibly uncomfortable at the sudden display.

“I tried to take it,” mumbled Boromir miserably, staring at his hands, “and I very well could have, were it not for Kyrri.”

“Stop saying things like that!” Kyrri exclaimed, crossing his arms. He was thoroughly disquieted by suddenly becoming the center of attention.

“I cannot atone for what I have done,” intoned Boromir, kneeling at Aragorn’s feet, “but I am at your service, my king.”

Aragorn heaved a long sigh, leaning down to meet Boromir at eye level.

“Merry and Pippin live, and the company continues on its quest. No great betrayal have you wrought, son of Gondor.”

Boromir sharply inhaled, which Aragorn decided to take as a sign of agreement before standing up and helping Boromir to his feet.

“Sam and Frodo journey onwards, as shall we,” said Aragorn, hands positioned on his hips like a youth soccer coach giving a teamwork speech, “The only question, now, is where.”

“I am going to Minas Tirith, as I said,” declared Boromir, looking back at Kyrri. “If I might aid you in your quest to Gondor, I could perhaps seek to repay my debt.”

“There’s no debt,” said Kyrri frustratedly, “Except what I owe to General Orthordir. I will go with you to Gondor.”

“How are we even discussing this?” interjected a distressed Merry. “Are we to abandon Frodo and Sam completely?”

“They are on their own path now, Merry,” consoled Aragorn. “We must only do that which we can.”

Sindarin: Nan i ‘aear ar in elin! - By the sea and the stars! Pedig edhellen? - You speak Elvish? (informal) Amarth faeg! - Evil fate!

#errantry #pleistocene writes fanfic

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trashy-goblin · 3 years

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type: one-shot

title: The Four Joys of a Bee 04. The Joy of Four - Fun

fandom: the Lord of the Rings

summary: As Rohan celebrates victory, Teremir, Merry and Pippin join their singing and dancing. Aragorn finds himself singing, for the sake of the night.

characters: teremir (oc); aragorn; pippin; merry; eowyn; eomer;

pairings: aragorn/teremir; eowyn/merry (implied?);

masterlist

a/n: i'm not even going to apologize for being so long, nor for not being a good as the first part, because just the amount of serotonin it gives me to picture aragorn sing "queen bee" is makes up for it. this was supposed to be the last one but i came up with a epilogue and some bonus.

wordcount: 4051 (2234 + 1817 bonus)

The remaining members of the fellowship were now reunited and enjoyed the good food and drink King Theoden offered them.

Aragorn left Gandalf’s side and walked through the crowd. Though he knew their mission was far from over, he felt glad to finally be given a night he could push death and conflict to the back of his mind. Between chasing and killing orcs, tracking hobbits, and battle under thunderstorm, few were the times he and his companions were able to eat and rest properly, let alone laugh together.

And so, as if a stone had fallen off his chest, Aragorn has shared with Teremir a rejoiced grin as she laughed freely when Merry and Pippin themselves welcomed them to Isengard. And laugher he heard again from her that night.

He had seen Teremir earlier that night, in a dress borrowed from Eowyn and her hair free – a sight the ranger only got to see in Rivendell. He had seen the happy grin she shared with the Lady of Rohan herself as they sang and danced together to a song common to Rohan and Gondor – a friendship which Aragorn predicted it would last to the end of times. And he was content with the sight, for it had been some time since he had looked into her eyes and saw such joy; but this time he heard her before he saw her.

The Hall was full of loud voices that hailed, sang, screamed, and laughed, but Aragorn’s heart only listened to Teremir’s laugh, which lead him to her.

The dunedain spotted her next to Eowyn, chuckling as she clapped to the two hobbit’s drinking song. They sang of their hometown’s pub, the Green Dragon, again(a request from the soldiers of Rohan), but her giggles did not subside, nevertheless.

“But the only brew for the brave and true…” they happily hopped on top of the wooden table, “Comes from the Green Dragon!”

They clinked their cups and shoved their ale down their throats, Pippin almost falling back, much to Teremir’s amusement. Aragorn himself chuckled beside her as the hobbits bowed to the praise of the people of Rohan.

“Thank you!” said Merry, “Thank you, my lords!” then turning to Teremir and Eowyn, “My ladies…”

Eowyn giggled at his and Pippin’s bowing, and Teremir spoke with an amused smile.

“Formidable people the hobbits are!” a last giggle left her lips, “They’ll walk mountains, meadows, tunnels, and forests; Fight orcs, goblins, and trolls,” she looked at them in awe, “and they’ll still sing of happy things as if they never left home.”

Merry and Pippin drank to that.

“They are resilient people indeed” Aragorn agreed, and, for the sake of that night, he dared to add “They also have fierce people to learn from.”

Teremir turned to him, and Aragorn met her with the fondest of looks. She responded with an equally warm smile, but their conversation could be heard by the hobbits; and so, before Teremir could bow her head in a thank you, Pippin spoke.

“Indeed, we learned with you, my lady!” he exclaimed, “The best singer of them all!”

“Said you would make us great singers as well!” Merry complemented.

Eowyn chuckled once more, and Aragorn found himself smirking.

“You knew well how to sing before you met me, if your hobbit songs are anything to judge by!” Teremir giggled, “You’ve already proven to be the greatest singers of drinking songs!”

“We knew how to sing hobbit drinking songs, yes” said Pippin, “But now we know more than that! We can write and sing beyond of Shire affairs! And the first song we make shall be dedicated to you, Lady Teremir of Gondor.”

“I look forward to that, Master Pippin” Teremir told him.

With that, the two hobbits bowed once more but this time she gave them a curtesy as well.

“Lady Teremir of Gondor taught you how to sing beyond your lands,” Eowyn glanced at the woman beside his sister with a friendly smile, before turning once again to the hobbits “now let the Lady of Rohan teach you how to dance.”

The excited praise of the Rohirrim made Aragorn raise his eyebrows in surprise, but nevertheless amused.

“To dance!” both Merry and Pippin copied their enthusiasm.

They got down the wooden table as the people of Rohan discussed what song should they dance to, but both hobbits ignored said discussion. They drank the rest of their ale and put their mugs down before following Eowyn to the centre of the great hall, where the Rohirrim gathered. Aragorn walked behind them, curious to see the halflings dance with men and women.

Then, as they approached the hall's centre, a sudden realization fell upon the two cousins.

“With whom will we dance?” Merry turned to Eowyn with wide eyes.

“We will all dance together” she gestured to the group of people forming a circle, “But you can take me as your pair, and I will guide you through it.”

The lady gave him a smile, to which Merry responded with a wide grin and a nod, while Pippin raised his eyebrows slope outwards as he looked between them quite lost.

“What about me?” he left his mouth agape.

“Do not worry, Master Pippin” Teremir approached the hobbit with a smile, “I will learn this dance with you.”

Aragorn felt a wave of affection rise from his chest to his lips as he smirked, for Teremir’s kindness was reflected in Pippin’s own smile. The dunedain followed the woman and the halfling with his eyes as they joined the circle of four women, three men, and a hobbit, in the middle of the hall.

He saw her switch a cheerful nod with Eowyn as she told her what song they would dance to. After the Lady of Rohan explained the basic steps of the dance to the two hobbits and lady, Aragorn caught Teremir’s glance. He nodded with a smile, an appreciative way of wishing her to have fun.

She grinned at his manner before turning to Eowyn, for the musicians and dancers were counting to start. And so, both Ladies of Rohan and Gondor started to sing as the circle of people began to dance merrily to the right, hands in hands.

“Dame Durdan kept five servant maids To carry the milking pail, She also kept five labouring men To use the spade and flail.”

Although the circle never stopped moving, the dancing people let go of each other’s hands, for as their name was sang, they would dance to the centre of the circle and continue to dance to their respective place in one single flowy movement.

“‘Twas Eowyn and Beydis and Goldlith and Idis And Teremir to drag her tail. ‘Twas Merry and Eadric and Deor and Haleth And Pippin with his flail.”

As the Ladies sang each name, the line of dancing people created a visual effect that reminded Aragorn of when the Rohirrim circled him and his companions the first time they met – for it looked like two lines of knights in their pomp, circling an intruder.

Despite being the first time, they danced as the Rohirrim, Aragorn noticed both hobbits and lady were fast to learn and blended quite well with the people of Rohan. Though Eowyn was visibly a better dancer than her, Teremir’s movements flowed naturally, and her majesty was preserved. Merry was capable of leading the men in their own dance, much was his gift for Rohirric dances, while Pippin was happy to manage to follow their steps.

“Then Merry kissed Eowyn, and Eadric kissed Beydis, And Deor kissed Goldrith and Haleth kissed Idis, And Pippin with his flail, And Teremir she was a charming girl To carry the milking pail.”

As the pair of names was sang, the respective pair would dance their way to meet in the centre – the man kissing either the hand, cheek, or lips, depending on their relationship – to switch places in the circle.

Aragorn cracked a smile as Eowyn giggled through her singing when Merry kissed her hand after realizing he could not reach her cheek to kiss; and found himself chuckling when he saw Pippin hopping alone as he waited for Teremir to meet him in the centre of the dancing circle.

The hopping of the hobbit seemed nearly unconscious, for his feet jumped in an insecure rhythm but his cheers carried a loud confidence. However, once Teremir danced her way to him, Pippin’s confidence came to a momentary halt, for he wanted to make her twirl but wasn’t tall enough. Whether his mind was delayed due to the pints of ale that he drank or not, Teremir twirled on her own in a giggle, gladly solving the hobbit’s question. Aragorn found himself chuckling once again.

The circle then turned directions and continued to dance together. The dunedain sent her a smile once he caught her glance as she sang.

“Dame Durdan in the morn so soon She did begin to call To rouse her servants, maids and men She did begin to bawl.”

Aragorn’s eyes danced with Teremir’s grin, which the dunedain was happy to notice it never faltered, after so many weeks without even seeing it. He was glad to see her movements were sure, yet not stiff; her face was beaming, but not just because of the candle lights; her voice was loud, but joyful and strong once more.

“‘Twas Eowyn and Beydis and Goldlith and Idis And Teremir to drag her tail. ‘Twas Merry and Eadric and Deor and Haleth And Pippin with his flail.”

And so, Aragorn finally welcomed the buzzing feeling of his heart in his chest guiltlessly, for he felt like a bee that waited an entire winter for his favourite flower to bloom once again in spring, to taste the nectar of her genuine happiness.

The dunedain let the fondness he arbored in his chest grow through him, and soon it overwhelmed him. It made him feel at peace in such way, he didn’t notice his eyes close until the giggle in Teremir’s singing voice told him she had noticed.

“Then Merry kissed Eowyn, and Eadric kissed Beydis, And Deor kissed Goldrith and Haleth kissed Idis, And Pippin with his flail, And Teremir she was a charming girl To carry the milking pail.”

Aragorn laughed whole heartly as this time Merry tried to jump to kiss Eowyn’s cheek (and nearly made it) probably inspired by the pints of ale he drank; and laughed again, fondly, when he saw Teremir make Pippin twirl herself, since he couldn’t make her – she was having fun.

He found it amusing himself, how she balanced her naturally majestic presence and movements with fun. Her knowledge of songs was wide enough to sing a song from Rohan, as she learned a Rohirric dance with Lady Eowyn herself. At the same time, she knew to let Eowyn sing her as a charming girl to carry the milking pail, that dragged Dame Durdan’s tail, without throwing a tantrum.

But, more than that, Aragorn liked to see Teremir laugh with a hobbit as she made him twirl simply for fun, and he liked the sound of chuckling in her singing voice.

“’Twas on the morn of Valentine When birds begin to prate Dame Durdan and her maids and men They all together meet.”

The hailing of the people of Rohan echoed the voice of both Ladies of Rohan and Gondor through the hall – not only their pleasant harmony, but also their happy laughter. It seemed to Aragorn that fun was there to reign Rohan’s great hall, at least for that night.

“‘Twas Eowyn and Beydis and Goldlith and Idis And Teremir to drag her tail. ‘Twas Merry and Eadric and Deor and Haleth And Pippin with his flail.

Then Merry kissed Eowyn, and Eadric kissed Beydis, And Deor kissed Goldrith and Haleth kissed Idis, And Pippin with his flail,”

Like the Rohirrim, the dunedain half expected Merry to jump once again to Eowyn’s cheek, though his eyebrows rose in surprise when his lips actually collided with the corner of the lady’s smile.

Pippin almost missed his queue between his cheering for his cousin and best friend, although he found himself twirling on his own, in the centre of the dancing circle, much to the hall’s amusement – for this time there was another verse.

“Kissed Teremir, who dragged the tail”

The hobbit hopped awkwardly, as he gazed at Teremir with a mixture of hopeless confusion drunk admiration, as she came to him dancing.

A wave of affection copied Teremir’s dancing steps in Aragorn’s chest as she kindly extended a hand to Pippin, with intention to make him twirl again; yet much to their surprise, the halfling took the lady’s hand and kissed her.

“And she was a charming girl To carry the milking pail.”

Teremir laughed whole heartly in surprise as she twirled on her own, and was still laughing, much to Aragorn’s ear’s joy, when she returned to her place in the circle to close the dance.

The Rohirrim laughed as well. They cheered, rose their mugs, screamed, clapped, and Aragorn found himself clapping with them.

The fourth good joy that Aragorn had it was to hear Teremir laugh. It showed her intelligence in her maturity, and strength in her fun. It was a reminder that there were still good things to hope for, despite darkness of their days.

Bonus:

The people of Rohan continued to clap their hands and praise as both hobbits bowed, and woman gave curtsey. Both Merry and Pippin took turns in their bows to send thanks in every direction. Teremir glanced at Aragorn, who met her with an amused smile, as he bowed his head in an appreciating manner, to which she responded with a smirk and a deep breath.

Aragorn noticed all of the dancers were panting, the only difference between them being how heavy. Yet they were all beaming and giggled at the three foreigners, who breathed the heaviest.

“It seems you’ve already tired our guests” Eomer told his sister from beside Aragorn, although the dunedain didn’t hear him approach, “I’m not sure if they can take another dance in this state” he chuckled at the two hobbits.

Merry and Pippin’s eyebrows slopped slightly outwards as they took deep breaths alternatingly.

“Perhaps later” Merry smiled, he was less tired than his cousin, and so, more able to answer “Although, Rohan must have other songs, ones not meant for dancing?”

Aragorn couldn’t help but smirk at how the hobbit meant to hide his tiredness with curiosity. A smiled grew on Eowyn’s lips, whose cheeks looked almost as if sunburned, but it was her brother who answered Merry.

“Indeed, we do,” Eomer nodded, “but most of them are too long and too serious for such occasion as the one of tonight. Rohan’s celebration cannot do without two things, and those are drinking and dancing.”

“We’ve been singing Rohan the entire night,” Eowyn glanced at her brother “I’m sure our guests have songs of their own lands worth to share” then, she turned to the lady beside her with a kind grin, “Teremir, you’ve shown to know many of our songs, and yet you’ve barely sang any of Gondor.”

“Yes, do sing!” Pippin’s enthusiasm could be seen in his eyes.

Aragorn saw Teremir smile as she bowed her head slightly, with hope he would hear her sing again that night.

“I appreciate your words, but as much as I love to sing my country, I believe this night belongs to Rohan” then, as Teremir rose her head again, looking at Aragorn’s eyes, she added “And so, if Gondor is to be sung tonight, it shall be the king to sing.”

Although the dunedain could feel the pairs of curious eyes on him, he only observed Teremir’s. He didn’t need to break their eye contact to see a small smirk forming on her lips, he felt himself start to copy it until his gaze was pulled by Pippin’s voice.

“You know songs of Gondor?”

He nodded to the hobbit and saw a sparkle grow in his eyes before his gaze softly moved to Teremir, who looked into him. Despite the weight of curiosity she laid upon him, Aragorn saw the amused flicker in the corner of her lips before she spoke.

“You have yet to prove how well a ranger can sing” her voice then gained softness.

Aragorn’s lips curved a little, for he didn’t mind being put under such unexpected circumstance if it meant to see her grin once again. So much had passed since the last time he had seen it, the dunedain felt capable of playing any games Teremir would throw at him as long as he shared laughter with her – for if the hint of mischief in her eyes told him anything, it was a game what she had just started.

“Will you sing, Lord Aragorn?” he heard Eowyn ask.

He lingered on the hope he saw growing in Teremir’s gaze for a moment more, and so, for the sake of that blessed night, Aragorn let the wave of affection run through his chest to his mouth to answer for him.

“I am yet no king, my lady, so I won’t sing Gondor’s songs tonight” he spoke to Eowyn, though his eyes were unable to part from Teremir as he added, “But I’ll sing one I know.”

“A song of rangers?” she asked.

“A ranger’s song” he corrected, speaking with fondness, “One I hope to broaden your horizons” and upon letting her know he remembered the exact words she had used so many moths ago, the dunedain’s eyebrows rose in expectation when he continued, “Yet, I must ask you to dance with me as I sing.”

“Does this song have a specific dance?”

“Not at all. It is Rohan that cannot do without dancing.”

The ranger managed to hide only half a smirk, proud that he had made Teremir laugh loudest from their companions.

“I didn’t know rangers could dance” a chuckle could still be heard in the lady’s voice.

“Neither rangers nor kings are known for their dancing. Yet the latter will dance, and much more, for his queen.”

Aragorn took a moment to regard Teremir’s eyes widen with glow before she blinked softly.

“I thought you said you were no king.”

“Indeed, not yet, my lady,” the dunedain spoke tenderly, “though the devotion for the queen started long before the coronation.”

It was as he extended his hand to her that Aragorn grew once again aware of the lords of Rohan observing them, and the glances between the two hobbits. Though he had confidence on his words and actions, the dunedain couldn’t help how stiff his chest became, neither how loud his heart beat.

It was her who had started the gaming, and he made sure his first move was strong and without fear, for he was sure he would none would lose that night.

The moment Teremir took his hand felt longer that it actually was, but he maintained his serious default expression both has he waited and as they took positions for the dance. Both dunedain and lady stood facing each other and let go of their hand.

Aragorn then began to sing as he guided Teremir through the beginning of their dance.

“All is for my mistress all is for my maid Sweetness that I took for sweetness that she gave to me”

The ranger smiled at the familiar bee-like buzzing of his heart, as he glanced at Teremir between dancing steps.

“My queen bee.”

The two stood once again in front of each other, and whether it was an instinct to hold their hand or, their subconscious general knowledge of dancing, both dunedain and lady rose their left hand, leaning their palms together as they continued to dance around each other. Aragorn’s eyes never left Teremir as he sang.

“Though my heart has long been given to you Summer’s turn is night Swifts and swallows swoop and yearn for you With all that’s in the sky”

He then made her twirl to his words and giggle to his move.

“But blow the wind and come the rain and come my love again.”

A grin grew on his lips, earned from making her laugh.

“All is for my mistress all is for my maid Sweetness that I took for sweetness that she gave to me My queen bee.”

Aragorn found it funny that their dance looked exactly as he had imagined it would. Teremir would simply be, in natural majesty, her knowledge of dancing evident but not exuberant; while he would sway around her beauty, to a rhythm he knew to be right – like a bee flew around a flower.

“Autumn’s flourish fruit that falls for you Apples sweet as death All that falls has lived and died for you Gently come to rest But,”

This time, even the dunedain chuckled with the lady in her twirl.

“blow the wind and come the rain and come my love again.”

Both Merry and Pippin had joined his singing for the repeating line and the chorus.

“All is for my mistress all is for my maid Sweetness that I took for sweetness that she gave to me My queen bee.”

The dunedain’s expression grew softer the more he danced with Teremir, and the affection in her smile grew the more she heard Aragorn sing. There was elegance and softness in the movements of both – as expected from the lady, but much surprising from the ranger – and they switched flaming glances of fondness, and longing touches of hands, between turns, steps, and twirls.

“Winter’s kiss has some enthralled So they keep their fires bright But my breast is lit with flames to shun The dying of the light Oh,”

Aragorn made Teremir twirl, and his lips curved as he noticed she had closed her eyes to appreciate the moment.

“but blow the wind and come the rain and take my heart again.”

The two hobbits had sung the ranger once more, and so did Eowyn.

“All is for my mistress all is for my maid Sweetness that I look for sweetness that she gave to me”

Teremir let her hand linger on Aragorn’s for a few seconds before letting it slip so they stood in front of each other, much to the dunedain’s amusement.

“My queen bee.”

He intended to sing Teremir just as he loved her – simply, naturally, and greatly - and so, he couldn’t help but use Nature’s as a guide to express his love; For, he found himself recognizing his fondness for Teremir in the very Nature that he had walked as a ranger through his life for so many years. And he knew, should she need him, he would walk as many lands, for as many years for her.

“I’ll speak love’s truth with oak and ash for you Sing through April’s tears I will weave the body flowers of spring for you I will walk for years.”

Merry and Pippin sang, and so did many of the people of Rohan, making both dunedain and lady grin in her twirl.

“Oh, blow the wind and come the rain and come my heart again”

Yet Pippin’s enthusiasm shouted a loud “Yes!”. The hobbit continued to sing, the Rohirrim followed his lead, and so did Aragorn, and Teremir twirled in his arms once again, sharing a laugh with him.

“come the wind and come the rain and come my heart again”

The dunedain locked eyes with lady’s as he sang his last chorus.

“All is for my mistress all is for my maid Sweetness that I took for sweetness that she gave to me”

Aragorn’s heart buzzed with fondness at Teremir’s flourishing smile.

“My queen bee.”

The two stood before each other, neither caring to remember in which part of the dance they had gotten so close; yet they both gazed each other tenderly. Aragorn caught her glancing at his lips, a jolt of warmth passing through both their chest, and he though about kissing Teremir’s lips.

But the swarm of cheers around the pair woke them from their reverie, and as he looked impressed at the people of Rohan, Aragorn smiled, thankful for the joy of hearing Teremir laugh beside him, still holding his hands.

#lord of the rings fanfic #lotr fanfic #aragorn x reader #aragorn x oc

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littlewoodenworld · 3 years

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This chapter DESTROYED me — I am sitting in my parked car crying my eyes out. Joy? Longing? Envy? Relief? I don’t even know. All of it together, maybe. My heart….

—————————————————————

Then Faramir came and sought her, and once more they stood on the walls together; and he said to her: 'Éowyn, why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen beyond Cair Andros, where you brother awaits you?'

And she said: 'Do you not know?'

But he answered: 'Two reasons there may be, but which is true, I do not know.'

And she said: 'I do not wish to play at riddles. Speak plainer!'

'Then if you will have it so, lady,' he said: 'you do not go, because only your brother called for you, and to look on the Lord Aragorn, Elendil's heir, in his triumph would now bring you no joy. Or because I do not go, and you desire still to be near me. And maybe for both these reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them. Éowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?'

'I wished to be loved by another,' she answered. 'But I desire no man's pity.'

'That I know,' he said. 'You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now is. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. Look at me, Éowyn!'

And Éowyn looked at Faramir long and steadily; and Faramir said: 'Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?'

Then the heart of Éowyn changed, or else at last she understood it. And suddenly her winter passed, and the sun shone on her.

'I stand in Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun,' she said; 'and behold! the Shadow has departed! I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren.' And again she looked at Faramir. 'No longer do I desire to be a queen,' she said.

Then Faramir laughed merrily. 'That is well,' he said; 'for I am not a king. Yet I will wed with the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And if she will, then let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes.'

'Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor?' she said. 'And would you have your proud folk say of you: "There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Númenor to choose?"'

'I would,' said Faramir. And he took her in his arms and kissed her under the sunlit sky, and he cared not that they stood high upon the walls in the sight of many. And many indeed saw them and the light that shone about them as they came down from the walls and went hand in hand to the Houses of Healing.

#return of the king #tolkien #lotr: rotk #rotk #jrr tolkien #faramir #eowyn #faramir/eowyn #first read

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abrazimir · 3 years

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HEADCANON; Earnur the gay War-Scholar

When Tolkien says ‘-delighting chiefly in arms-’ in Boromir’s description imagine it is not just a point of martial prowess. Remember Gondor as a philosopher and explorer nation that was turned martial under dire necessity with Earnur being one of the greatest warrior Kings of the world. Consider that military strategy, advancement and management within Gondor has been somewhat spotty, reliant upon what leaders are around at the time, and disparate in it’s dissemination. Because scholars were lauded for being scholars, not warriors alone, and rarely did writers have all the information necessary to make any kind of comprehensive work.

But Earnur changed that, imagine Earnur writing what is essentially Middle Earth’s ‘the art of war’. He took all his knowledge and combined it with the high tier of education he was given as a prince and all the access he had to knowledgeable people around him and ALL his experience to boot- Earnur’s work was FULLY comprehensive and birthed the a new institution and style of war-recording and established method and strategy for a millennia.

But!! That leaves everyone with a problem because this work was not only comprehensive, readable and thorough, it was the most homoerotic piece of literature for a millenia. Earnur spoke fondly, tenderly, lovingly of his companions, of heroic soldiers he had known, of great strategists that all should aspire too. He took the camaraderie of the military and wrote about it in exactly the same style as book!Frodo and Sam. And he was very clear that such honest and openhearted and thorough affection between men within an army was not only good, it was the IDEAL! Utterly scandalising the notably touch-averse Gondorian society.

Scholars after him did their best to mitigate all this. They copied the tome into shorter and more technical novels, but that made it dull to read and truer copies were in greater demand. They tried to write new books and indeed as ages turned there was a need to update methods of war, but they STILL had to cite Earnur’s work. They wrote many, many think pieces on Earnur’s intent to foster good, platonic friendship between men and made a great deal of all his female friends, insisting he would have married one eventually. But you cannot tamp down the ability of gays to see homoeroticism and these Scholars were far too late.

Not only is a gay textbook about fighting now nearly required reading for any and all Lords, the army within Gondor has a UNIQUELY high rate of gay soldiers, all of which tend to be the most well informed and have the most well thought out analysis/critisism of both Earnur’s texts and the texts that came after it. Because if you voraciously tear through a book that makes you feel warm and right and is a staple of your community, you KNOW you’re going to be able to recite that book verbatim AND have had the most indepth discussions about it. And then, whoops! You’ve got an interest.

This also means that a large proportion of the war-scholars who came after Earnur and who were inspired by him were ALSO queer! Meaning that war literature does have a higher probability of being like that. “Delighting chiefly in arms” ALSO became an innuendo.

HENCE. Earnur encouraged young gay men to enlist into their armies, creating both a touch stone of gay culture and yet also ensuring that gays died at a much higher proportion and bore the brunt of Gondor’s military actions AND were shuffled out of the way. So in fact even as they denied Earnur’s sexuality, I’d say there was also subtle encouragements by various different Steward regimes through the ages to continue this trend.

Which creates an INTENSE plot for post-war of the ring, hundreds of thousands of soldiers who’ve lost limbs, friends, livelihoods, mental health all return to civilian life in a Country that denies them veracity and calls them strange or ill-fated- not to mention all the cross-dressing lesbians or passionate trans men who also would’ve participated- imagine the ANGER and righteous hurt born by veterans, their demands that the new king bring in a new enlightened age and give them the respect they earned when the bodies of their people (Boromir’s reputation in particular being raised as an example of their martyrship and heroism, something much discussed within the community due to his noble status and complicity with his forefather’s legacies but still an undeniably important fixture) set the foundation for this victory and succession! Which is!! FUCKING COMPELLING MY DUDES!!!

#;;boromircanon #about:gondor #I thought this was also needed context #;;gondormeta

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lesbiansforboromir · 3 years

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Do you know why Castamir had so much support in Umbar, Pelargir, and the coastal lands of Gondor when aren't these areas the most mixed and not super into the pure Numenorean blood you'd see in other areas of Gondor? Is it just because he was the Captain of Ships because that seems really weird to me like I feel like they'd support Eldacar over him just because they don't seem like they're obsessed with blood purity in places like Lebennin.

This actually touches on one of my favourite hcs about Pelargir in terms of it’s growth and history and culture as a city. It makes absolute sense that Pelargir and Umbar supported Castamir because they were both Numenorean havens built before the Akallabeth. So in fact they would have had a large population of numenoreans, especially in the upper classes, and especially in Pelargir. (Umbar’s numenorean population was likely heavily depleted by the Ship-King warring eras, but that would have made the remaining population even more Castamir-positive)

So the image of the civil war that appears is of a city that was dragged into supporting Castamir by it’s stuck up nobility, highlighting the massive divide in society and culture between them and the vast majority of citizens. BUT, with the end of that conflict and Eldacar finally retaking his throne, many of those numenoreans are also now either dead or disgraced or indeed repented their involvement altogether. Which would create quite a substantial power vacuum in Pelargir that I think Eldacar would be eager to fill with both loyal people and ALSO people with a far more measured view of the whole high men vs middle men debacle.

Hence Pelargir’s actual leadership has the greatest percentage of middle men noble lineages in Gondor. The present Lord Sirgon traces his lineage back to a grand nephew of the Lord of Pelargir at the time of the civil war, a man who was a black sheep in his family due to his own middle man father and whom had not lived in Pelargir for many years. After the rest of his family were arrested or killed in the warring, he was suddenly the next in line and happily took up the seat much to the weary populace’s delight. This is when the council of admiralty was created, discarding the title of ‘Captain of Ships’ entirely for a more democratically lead navy with internally elected Admirals. There were incredibly capable seamen literally BEGGING to be allowed to improve the fleet’s running who now finally got the chance at it.

A popular narrative about Pelargir is that they ‘learned from their mistakes’ after the civil war. But this rankles on everyone living there, saying no they didn’t! All the common folk already thought Castamir was a bastard! We just got rid of the toff pricks who thought otherwise and now our city’s the fucking coolest.

Umbar, obviously, did not get that luxury, which is pretty much the whole source of the issue nowadays.

#gondor meta #tolkien #erran vs tolkien #gondor #castamir #chats #Anonymous #asks

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anghraine · 3 years

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

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

So here they are!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She tossed the baubles at Arwen.

“They should be sufficient to amuse you.”

The Ring gleamed bright on her hand.

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

She jerked away.

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

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

“Oh! I hope it wasn’t too bad?”

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

Not like that, she thought. Never like that.

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

“Boromir! Boromir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled up at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#anghraine babbles #fic talk #anghraine's fic #aragorn #boromir #legendarium blogging #genderbending #i'm sorry but like ... canon aragorn is interesting in both his virtues and flaws but also frustrating in some ways #f!aragorn is interesting in both her virtues and flaws and also ... super hot #even as tar-elessarnë!#idk i'm gay and weak #aranor #long post #aranor daughter of arathorn

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stagofwar · 5 years

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All things considered, the Fellowship would have been the most unnerving thing to Sauron if he’d ever found out.

-We have Aragorn, who’s heir to the throne of Gondor, in whom the blood of Numenor runs ‘nearly true’; that would be ok, because Sauron pretty thoroughly trashed that bloodline the last time he got involved with them, but Aragorn is not only from the line that didn’t fall to his tricks - he’s from the line that managed to hide out from and survive the hilariously hostile world of Midle Earth long enough to see Sauron’s return. In other words, he’s a cockroach with a holy sword and a legitimate claim to a kingdom with something like five thousand years’ worth of legacy of defying Sauron more ably than anyone else in the world.

-We have Gimli, who is a warrior able enough to be considered worth sending to the Council of Elrond despite being centuries younger than every other Dwarf there. He’s loyal to a fault, perfectly willing to open his mind to other cultures once he’s had a chance to think about it for a minute, and probably the most charismatic person there short of Merry and Pippin - and they can’t control it. And he knows the meaning of politeness, which so many Elves think Dwarves don’t have. He is here for those he loves, always, and if they number all of Middle Earth by the end, so be it. Moreover, his body count over the course of the books is somewhere in the hundreds - if there are more like him, and there are (his family held off the Orc army invading the Lonely Mountain around the time of the Battle of the Black Gates), and if they come looking for blood, things are going to get hairy.

- We have Legolas, who is tied with Boromir for being the biggest jock - except instead of fighting skirmishes against groups of orcs, he’s been fighting spiders the size of a car since he was probably fifty. Going by the movies he’s an acrobat with flair and a sharpshooter hard to match; going by the books he’s keen-eyed and ready to throw down. The only Fellowship member with a higher kill count than him is Gimli, unless they’re tied, and he’s also the first Elf in centuries willing to have a civil conversation with a dwarf. Add on the fact that his entire royal line came entirely out of left field the last time Sauron tried to muster an army and changed its course, and you’ve got an unpredictable ball of arrows and backflips with blonde hair. Life is what he loves, and let none fail to understand that fact.

- We have Boromir, who is almost the least able member of the Fellowship for accomplishments, as far as the Big People go, but even he (least gifted member of his family, in terms of strange abilities) was enough of a strategic thinker to manage the Gondorian army and retake Osgiliath while his father was in the process of declining. Considering what his brother and Dad can do with powers he doesn’t even have, and considering what it took to kill him, and considering why he *threw his life away in the first place* (love, it’s always love, and that it’s for a pair of helpless non-warriors doesn’t diminish it whatsoever, what more would his people do for their country and their world, what more is Sauron failing to account for), then what in Eru’s name can his brother do? (The answer is bringing down an Oliophant with arrows and stealth. He lost Osgiliath because of the Nazgul and a too-small force, nothing less)

- We have Gandalf, who has made enough of a nuisance of himself over the course of two thousand-odd years that he is hated by most of Middle Earth’s major players and done enough good in that period that none of them consider killing him a good idea without a significant amount of insanity. Operating on limited information, zero prep time, and once again love, he killed a Balrog; he stood up to a creature forged in the most horrific days of Melkor’s madness out of insanity and fire, one trained in a war that lasted long enough for kingdoms of men and elves and dwarves to rise and fall and neither buckled nor broke. He stood on among figures as feared as Gil-Galad, Glorifindel, and Beren, and then he came back stronger than ever before. Stronger than one who had spent centuries *seeking* strength, where Gandalf had only sough to help. Stronger indeed than any one of the Nazgul, given a moment to prepare.

-We have Merry, who is kind and concerned and very, very smart. He and Pippin don’t get enough credit in the movies, but in the books he was clever enough to figure out what Frodo was planning with his move from Bag End and decided (he’s brave too, and here love comes back) to come along. He is a son of the Thains, and will be a Thain himself in time; he is the newest branch of the roots of the Shire itself, which found that it is made of steel and stone and willpower twice - once against a cold bad enough to see a summer turned to winter, and once against the spite of a fallen angel. He is willing, without thought, to come to the aid of his friends; his honor is no less than Dwarves and Elves and Men. And should you tell him no? He will come all the same, as Theoden learned to his benefit.

-You have Pippin, who is oh so very young - indeed, the youngest member overall! Not even forty! And who came along knowing nothing about what he was walking into, besides that his friends needed aid. So very very far from home, he did not shine against the greatest darkness things beyond men can muster; he shone against *fear*, and *indifference*. First when Treebeard thought that he was beyond the wars of men, where he showed him that some things are worth fighting for, and then again when Denathor found himself so thoroughly insane with fear that he thought death better than that old, familiar Human need to stand up against that which comes to consume and say, ‘no’. Pippin said no, and he said it in defiance of a leader all the others cowered before.

-We have Frodo, who is the wild card. First the bearer of the ring the very first time it is given up willingly - which is the last thing that was ever supposed to be possible when it was held. Then, again, when every great, strong, powerful being gathered to see it destroyed cried that none of the others were worth or strong enough, Frodo said oh so quietly - “I will take the ring - though I do not know the way.” We call Sam brave, and oh he is, but Frodo took a leap of faith that proved Sauron’s undoing. How could a being who claimed such mastery of greed understand self-sacrifice? One again, Love comes forth.

- And we have Sam. Always, the Hobbits are considered less than the others. Less interesting, less brave, less strong; and among Hobbits, Sam defined that role. He was the lowly gardner, tagging along out of duty and, as always, love. Love first. Love most. But duty as well, because he made a promise - “Don’t let him out of your sight, Samwise Gamgee.” And he doesn’t intend to. Sam, who defined the forgettable, kind, somewhat simple nature of Hobbits and, therefore, the incredible, depthless strength they hide. Stone lies beneath soft, tilled earth, and the softer the earth the harder the work to get it there; so Sam was always stone beneath it all. He could not carry a burden for Frodo, but he could carry Frodo himself, and even when all hope for their survival was lost he reached out for Frodo’s bleeding, mutilated hand and told him - Don’t you let go. He did not let go.

So yeah. Sauron would have been afraid, had he ever truly looked.

#middle earth #lotr #aragorn #gimli #legolas #boromir #gandalf #merry #pippin #frodo #sam #sauron #you better watch out #punk

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thewarriorandtheking · 4 years

Text

Once Upon A Time

The final chapter of Book III of The Warrior and The King is now up on AO3 & FanFiction. With “Endgame” the trilogy is now complete. Not that I am going to stop writing about these two, their adventures will continue, but I want to move on to other projects.

This is how it begins...

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The grey wolf’s head came up off his paws, his ears pricked up. Almost at the same time the dogs in the yard began to howl, pacing at the ends of their tethers. The man set aside the steel he was working on and stepped out of his shop to follow his wolf’s gaze. He saw the team come into view through the trees, rounding the last corner on the trail into the yard. The driver, tall and straight, calling to the leaders from the back of the laden sled. She brought the sled to a halt and kicked the hooks in, then stepped off and threw her hood back. Her golden hair shone in the afternoon sun, the silver beads catching the light. The man came out to meet her, pulling on a coat against the winter chill. He swept her into his arms, kissing her and swinging her around, it had only been ten days since he saw her last, but for both of them it was ten days too long. She laughed and hugged him close, the beads on the ends of their braids clicking together as they embraced.

The two of them got to work unhooking the dogs and taking them back to their houses. The man unloaded the bales of furs on the sled as the tall woman went into the shed to prepare a meal for the dogs. The stew of fish and rice had been warming on the stove, she added cut meat and water and filled a bucket to feed the team. A big, black wolf had trotted out of the woods and was at the door with the man’s grey one, both waiting with expectant faces. She set down bowls and gave them each a helping, then headed out to the yard to feed the dogs. The man finished emptying the sled, stacking the bundles neatly on the racks, then headed back to his shop. At the door he saw a wagon coming up the road to the house, it was the monk from the abbey who was a regular visitor, leading the cart horse. The snow on the cleared road was only a couple of inches deep, but the horse was clearly limping.

“I am glad to find you at home today!” The monk said as he came up. “He threw a shoe on the way to the village.”

The man nodded. “That is easily remedied,” he said. “Bring him in.”

A few minutes later the big horse was wearing a new shoe, as the man dropped the horse’s hoof he looked up at the monk. “I suppose I am working for free again.”

“You are helping to spread the word of the goddess,” the monk replied, opening his arms with a smile. “We have renounced all worldly possessions.”

The man stood up, eyeing the wagon curiously. “I do not suppose you have any cases of that fine ale you make at that abbey?”

The monk smiled. “Indeed I do, my friend. Indeed I do.”

“Then stay for dinner and let us sample some together!”

The monk took a seat at the fine wooden table, opening three bottles of ale and handing one to his host. The man sat down across from him and took a long pull on the bottle.

“Ah, that is good! One of your best yet!” He handed the third bottle back to the woman who was busy in the corner of the cabin that served as the kitchen. She also took a long drink and nodded her agreement.

The monk had been here many times, he considered the couple to be his friends. He loved their beautifully built stone cabin, with its rich woods and fine finishes. Though they obviously lived a simple life, there was an aura about the cabin that implied their life had once been much different. And then there was the couple themselves. The man played the part of a country swordsmith but his work was far too fine. He was too tall for a Dwarf, and wore his beard short in the manner of Men, but the way he wore his hair said otherwise, and there was an obvious nobility about him. As for the woman…every time he saw her he could not believe how startlingly beautiful she was, like the descriptions he had read of ancient Elven lords come to life. The way she moved and held herself spoke of long years of military training, she had not grown up a woodland trapper. And there were the rings they wore, sparkling blue stones and mithril silver, not made by any smith from the land of Men.

The woman set the food on the table, fresh baked bread, vegetables from the cellar, thick venison steaks. The abbey was hosting some of their brothers from the south and the monk had much news of the happenings in the great cities, which he was happy to share. They were on their third bottle of ale when the monk finally brought up the subject he had come to discuss.

“I read a story about you the other day,” he said quietly, studying their reactions.

The man chuckled. “About me? It must have been a very short one.”

The monk shook his head. “One of the things we do to support the abbey is turn old parchments into printed works,” he said. “Our brothers have brought us many new parchments from Gondor. Is it true you once saved this whole land?”

The man shook his head. “I do not know what you have been reading, but I have never done any such thing.” He got up and began clearing the dishes. The monk looked at the woman, but her face was unreadable. Her eyes were watching him closely, but betrayed nothing.

“I am not here to expose you,” the monk said. “You are my friends, and this community would be diminished without you. I ask only out of scholarly interest. When the text speaks of the greatest Dwarf King, a golden-haired warrior woman who was his beloved Queen and the huge wolves who were their companions, I could not help but think I know two people who fit that description.”

The woman laughed. “Do we look like a great King and Queen? Living in a cabin in the far north, trapping and blacksmithing for a living?”

“Yes, you do,” the monk replied. “When one knows how to look. As I said, I am only interested in the story. Is it true?”

The man and the woman looked at each other. “I do not know the story you are referring to, so I cannot speak for its truth,” the man said “But it has nothing to do with me.”

“Nor with me,” the woman added, getting up to check the fire in the woodstove.

The monk laughed suddenly. “Of course, how silly of me! If you were Thorin Oakenshield you would be 500 years old now, what was I thinking?” His eyes glanced quickly from one to the other. “Well, I must be getting on. Thank you for dinner, it was excellent as always!”

The man and the woman stood on the porch, watching the monk drive away, after leaving a few cases of ale behind. The heavy wagon cut two deep lines in the snow of the road, the evening light turning the valley purple.

“Should we be worried?” The man asked.

The woman shook her head. “I think he was just curious. Remember in his former life he was a famous historian. I am sure he genuinely wants to know if the story is true.” She smiled. “I think he has suspected who we are for a long time, but we know he has many secrets of his own that he would not want revealed.”

The man watched the wagon disappear, then turned to his wife with a soft smile. “Well, it is quite a story.”

Read more at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17148116/chapters/55125181

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Read the complete adventures of The Warrior and The King on AO3 & FanFiction, links on my homepage.

@theelvenvalkyrie @soradragon

#fanfiction #thorin fanfiction #thorin and oc #tolkien fanfic #true love #fantasy adventure #thewarriorandtheking #fanfic

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