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tathrin · 10 months

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6... on a falling tear and 38... because they're running out of time （＾ω＾）

Oh how lovely and tragic, very nice choices! Thank you very much for the ask. I'll split them up into two separate posts because I'm incapable of ever writing anything succinct though, sigh! Prompt taken from this; anyone can feel free to send other numbers in at any time, I don’t care how long it’s been. (Just maybe add some context to your ask if it’s been like a month or more since I posted this, because otherwise I won’t know what to do with the random number in my inbox lmao).

#38....because they’re running out of time. [mood music anyone?]

“Never thought I’d die as a diversion,” Gimli muttered, watching as Sauron’s army poured out of the Black Gates and surrounded the two small hills on which Aragorn had arrayed their forces.

Gimli could not count the teeming numbers of the enemy that stood before him—they were too many, too foul—but Legolas had the keen eyes of the elves, and he had told Gimli that their force of six thousand was outnumbered at least ten-to-one. They were not all orcs, either, which would have been bad enough; for surely each troll should be counted six or seven times at least.

The hills would help, Gimli thought numbly, at least a little; the incline would grant the defenders an advantage over the enemy that would have to scramble to climb up at them, and the slag pools of fetid Mordor that surrounded the low hillocks would be another impediment—but it would not be enough.

They had known it would not be enough even before they set out for the Black Gates, and they had all of them come anyway. Gimli did not regret his choice to follow his friends into doom, no; but that did not make the moment of the end any less bitter. And that moment was almost here, now; they were running out of time.

The enemy paused at the feet of the hills, hissing and cursing and some of them even spitting, and Gimli spun his axe to stretch his shoulders in anticipation of the battle to come.

He stood near the front, with Aragorn and Legolas and most of the mightiest of their fighters, where the attack would surely be the thickest. He eyed one lumbering troll that was pushing its way through the milling ranks of orcs, an ugly line of drool hanging off one side of its jaw where broken teeth distorted its already ugly grin into something macabre and ghoulish.

“Gimli,” Legolas said, standing so close beside him, his voice light with echoes of distant birdsong, and Gimli could feel himself smiling in instinctive response even as his heart twisted in sorrow at the thought of what was soon to come for them both. “Gimli,” Legolas said, “may I—I would ask a very great favor of you, my friend, if you would indulge me, please.”

“Of course,” Gimli said immediately. He turned to look up at the elf beside him, standing like a slender ray of sunlight in that bleak land, and tried to hide his breaking heart behind his smile. He could not imagine what sort of favor Legolas might ask at this late juncture—or if he could, then it was a favor that need not be spoken aloud, for Gimli had already vowed to himself that he would not allow the enemy to take this elf alive for torment when the battle ended and their defeat enfolded them.

“Anything, Legolas, you know that.”

Legolas gave a strange, half-choked laugh, and pressed his free hand to his face as though smother some strong feeling; with his other, of course, he held the mighty bow of the Galadhrim that the Lady had given him, and Gimli’s heart gave another pang at the thought of three golden strands tucked away safely behind white walls far away, waiting for a dwarf who would never return to reclaim them—but then Legolas moved, and Gimli’s eyes were drawn instead to tight golden braids that swayed before him as the slender Wood-elf suddenly swayed like a falling sapling and bent down close to Gimli’s face.

He caught Gimli’s bearded cheek with his hand and turned the dwarf’s face up to meet him, and then—oh, and then Legolas was kissing him and Gimli’s mind seemed to dissolve in a blaze of starlight. His whole world narrowed down to those smooth lips pressed so tight and hungry to his own; those long fingers twined so gently through his beard to cup his chin in their narrow palm; the brush of heavy golden braids against Gimli’s shoulders as Legolas bent low over him...

Belatedly, Gimli realized that he had reached up to press his hand to the elf’s face as well; he only noticed when the pad of his thumb brushed against the tip of one long pointed ear and Legolas’s breath hitched in both their mouths.

The drew apart, Legolas swaying back upright with a last lingering flutter of his fingers against Gimli’s beard before he pulled away. Gimli’s jaw worked soundlessly around words that would not come,his wide eyes fixed so fervently on the beautiful, beardless face before him that he almost forgot the stink of the orcs and the jeers of their ugly voices in his ears.

“Forgive me the liberty, I pray,” Legolas rasped. His mithril-bright eyes shimmered with unshed tears, in that moment looking suddenly so like the pool of the Mirrormere that Gimli almost felt as though he had been transported somehow back to the hills outside Khazad-dûm, and this desperate death at the doors of Mordor made into naught but a terrible dream.

But the creeping tendrils of fear that marked the approach of the Nazgûl was no dream; nor were the thundering steps of the trolls as they began to scale the hills, nor the shouts of the orcs as they struggled to follow. In moments, the enemy would be upon them. There was so much Gimli wanted, needed, to say; but they were running out of time.

“There is—there is nothing to forgive, Legolas,” he managed to croak.

“I am relieved to hear it,” Legolas replied. “For I could not bear to die without ever kissing you, Gimli.”

Gimli reached up for those golden braids and bright eyes again. “Legolas—!”

Legolas flashed him a brief, bright, heartbroken smile, and then turned away to face the enemy as the orcs rushed towards them. Gimli raised his axe more out of habit than intention and stepped up beside the elf. “Legolas...” he tried again, but his head was reeling and he could not find the words he wished to craft; they all slipped through his mental fingers, like he was trying to scoop cave-cold water with naught but his bare hands.

Then the first troll reached them, bellowing as it knocked three soldiers of Gondor off their feet to tumble down the hill towards the waiting blades of the orcs below. Gimli growled and gripped his axe, and then suddenly Legolas was scaling the troll, blasted fool of an elf that he was!

“Legolas!” Gimli shouted again, and raced to follow him into the fight.

The troll was too slow to catch the nimble elf, but its attempts to do so blunted its attention to the axe in Gimli’s hand as he hacked at its knees. The creature roared belatedly in anger, even as thick blood wept down its legs. It reached down to try and swat Gimli away, and Legolas scampered across its shoulders and drove his long knife in deep into the troll’s eye. Even that was not enough to kill the beast, but when two Rohirrim came up with long spears the troll was too woozy with pain and blood-loss to bat the weapons away from its throat.

It went down with a thud and a cry of rage rose from the orcs in response. Legolas skipped away from the body and landed on the ground again at Gimli’s side. Shaking with fear, anger, and adrenaline, Gimli caught him by the wrist and gave the elf a shake. “Don’t do that again!” he shouted. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

Legolas laughed, fey and unfettered, his merriment as sharp and keen as his arrows. He slashed his knife through the throat of a climbing orc and twisted easily away from the resulting spray of black blood. “Gimli, we are all going to die here,” he said, wiping the blade clean on the skirt of his tunic before sheathing it and drawing his bow once more. “Put aside your fears, my dear; we have moved beyond that now. All that is left to us is to make our deaths worthy of those that came before us, and to sell our lives dearly enough that we might hope to buy enough time for others to save all those who may come after from this Shadow.”

His arrows flew true, burying themselves in throats and eyes and black-blooded hearts even as he looked back at the dwarf more often than he did at the oncoming orcs. In Legolas’s eyes, Gimli could see the glimmer of all the years together they would never have; could see the crumbling eternity of an immortal life cut short and the unscalable chasm that lay forever between the fates of elves and dwarves, sundering them from one another for all time even unto the breaking of the world.

This, he realized, was all the time they were ever going to have.

Tears stung his eyes, hot and bitter. It was not enough. It would never, ever be enough—and it did not matter, because there was no more to be had.

Gimli shook his head, swallowing down the urge to weep; he had to focus on the orcs. There were too many coming up the sides of the hill now, too fierce; it was all Gimli could do to swing his axe in time to block their blows and cut them down. It was all he could do to keep close to Legolas’s side, the elf now reduced to fighting with nothing but his long white knife. There were maybe half a handful of arrows in his quiver yet, but even elvish speed was insufficient to allow for proper archery at sight a tight distance in this tumult.

Oh, why had Gimli not seen to it that his elf was better armed before they rode off to this final battle? Legolas was deadly with that little knife, yes, but oh it seemed so short in his long fingers. Why had Gimli not sought the armories of Gondor, and borrowed some mightier blade for his friend? Why had he not sought the forges, and made him one to suit his lanky frame?

He was such a fool. What had he been wasting his time on instead, when he could have—should have—been seeing to Legolas’s safety?

When he could have been kissing him?

Gimli growled, and swung his axe harder, and watched one burly uruk go down gurgling and clutching at its guts. Gimli swung again, and its head toppled free and he could turn to the next enemy, the next threat. Beside him, Legolas whirled and slashed in a flurry of golden braids and a black-blooded blade. He lunged over Gimli’s head to slit the throat of an orc that was angling a spear towards Gimli’s ribs as Gimli kicked-out low and took the feet out from under another orc that had managed to get a grimy hand around one of those bright braids.

“Away from him!” Gimli bellowed, and the orc feel back squealing over the stump of its arm. Gimli stepped closer to the elf—his elf—and they ended up fighting back-to-back, or back-to-shoulders at least; their disparate heights should have made them terrible battle-partners, but it was so easy to fall into a rhythm with Legolas, a balancing of their skills and statures. Legolas spun high with his short knife and Gimli swung low with his broad axe, and the enemy gave way before them.

But more came, replacing those that fell. Always more came, and the fight went on. Gimli could feel his limbs tiring, his bones aching from the weight of his blade and the blows that had glanced off his mail. A dozen small cuts he could not remember taking bled sluggishly, adding a dull sheen of red to the viscous black liquid that splattered his armor and his skin.

More came, and the Nazgûl followed, and all around them men shrieked and cowered beneath that mindless fear. Gimli fought on, so numb with grief that he barely startled at the cry that the eagles had come. That felt unreal, like something out of some other story; one that had a better ending than theirs. Despair rolled thick across the Host of the West and even Gimli, stout-hearted dwarf that he was, faltered for a moment before it—

And then Legolas laughed.

There was nothing merry in that sound, and the only brightness was the sharp brightness of a pale blade flashing out of the shadows of tall black trees. It was a laugh full of teeth, and claws, and all the dark and dangerous things that lurk within a wood. It was the sort of laugh that would send wise folk fleeing for strong walls and sturdy doors; the sort of laugh that might send children shivering to hide under their beds and wait for dawn. It was the laugh of a wild thing, untamed and dangerous, and it rang out light and sharp-edged above the gutteral shouts and screams of the orcs and the roaring bellows of the trolls.

Legolas laughed, and Gimli smiled to hear it. He lifted his head high against the weight of Mordor’s bleak despair and raised his axe high once more. Legolas was right; there was no longer any cause for fear. They had faced the end already, and the end was here; there was no sense cowering before it. Better to stand tall, and die fighting proud and unbowed, defying the power of the Dark Lord to the last.

And then—and then, on the other side of fear, after all hope seemed so long lost it was little more than a memory, everything changed.

The Nazguûl fled; the army crumbled; the towers fell.

Sauron was destroyed. And they had lived.

They lived.

Gimli could hardly process it. He turned to Legolas, still at his side, the both of them weary and blood-stained and heartsick from the tangled mingling of hope and despair, and he opened his mouth to speak—but no words came out.

He saw all their tomorrows flow suddenly back into Legolas’s bright eyes and the elf swayed, as though the sudden lifting of the Shadow had left him unsteady on his light feet. Gimli caught his hand and held him steady.

“Legolas—” Gimli began.

“Tomorrow,” Legolas interrupted him with a smile. “Let us help the wounded now, Gimli; we will talk on other things tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Gimli said, rolling the taste of the word around in his mouth; rolling the feel of it around in his mind. “Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow. To think that there will be such a thing!” He laughed from bewildered joy and squeezed his elf’s hand once, tightly, before letting go and turning back to the grim battlefield. “Tomorrow. We will talk on all things then.”

Legolas bent and pressed a light kiss to Gimli’s cheek. “Tomorrow,” he said again, the word heavy with promise, and then they walked off together into the carnage of hopes renewed and deaths well-fought.

“Tomorrow,” Gimli murmured once more to himself, and there on the bloodstained soil of the Black Land, he smiled.

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rannadylin · 8 months

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Bat-signaling the Eagles with the Phial of Galadriel! 100% the best game ever.

#lotro #lord of the rings online #battle of the morannon #cerphedis of gondor

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elgaladwen · 2 months

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The best place to be.

#I mean for real the Battle of the Morannon has the most epic cutscenes in LOTRO and is really fun while feeling chaotic #So I actually am happy to be here again!#I just snort a little when it's like #You Have Entered the End of All Things #and forget to take a screenshot of that #lotro

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dunadaan · 7 months

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I’ve had Créa for almost 10 years and I’m thinking about how I almost never let her live until like. 2020 LOL. I spent six years killing her off bc I couldn’t conceive a happy ending for her and now I’m like nah she gets to live and be happy

#granted. one of the best things I ever wrote was an au where Créa saves Calenglad at the battle of the morannon #but she takes his place : )))))#but it’s really telling bc I was like WOW. I was so depressed I was putting Créa in the Plinio #*plinko!!!!!#i do love the ending where she’s happy with Aragorn but also one equally as important to me is stewardess Créa of Evendim #THATS my absolutely favorite one bc she gets to be in Evendim her home her love <3 #but the drama of the fourth age queen Créa and the storyline I crafted with friends that dealt with ptsd and survivors guilt #and even though things are Better it’s not really a life she wanted and how what she wants has to be put aside for the good of Gondor…..#it’s so juicy I MISS writing that…..poor créa. okay I guess I do still put her through the ringer LOL #wondering if I shouldn’t actually start posting my fics here…I love everyone else’s ranger fics

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find-the-path · 1 year

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Day 23 - Peace - Brenior

A book sits tucked away among Brenior’s possesions, wrapped in cloth and carefully bundled. It is old, with cracking spine and yellowed pages, but at times he will still draw it out, sit on his cot, and mouth the familiar words of tales great and ancient.

He does not need the book, for every word is graven into his memory, and he could recite it cover to cover if he so wanted. But as a boy, and then a young man, he had needed the book, and by now it is habit.

They began with Of Beren and Lúthien, for that was Adar’s favorite, and as reader he always got the first pick. They hadn’t the whole tale, laid out in fine print as the poets had written it, but the shortened version their book contained was enchanting still, and even more so in Adar’s deep voice. From a different piece of parchment, a little newer, he would read the full Lay at times, diciphering Nana’s cramped handwriting with the ease of long practice. They hadn’t an official copy, but Nana had memorized the lay as a girl and had written it out for Adar to read, and that was even better.

Next they skipped ahead, to Nana’s favorite, the many journies of Eärendil and the Host of the West. Sídhon, old enough then to be argumentative, questioned the fast-forwarding from the near-beginning right to the end of the First Age, but as they always got to the middle parts in the end, there wasn’t much point to the argument. (As Brenior had found, there wasn’t much point to many of his older brother’s arguments in those days.)

Brenior’s favorite was the great return of the Noldor to Beleriand, Dagor-nuin-Giliath and the rescue of the Falas. Great deeds were recounted, and glory bright and glittering. The words read triumphant, though he knew it wouldn’t last. Grief had aided the Noldor’s battles, and grief was still to come of them.

The Mariner's Wife he liked the least, when their parents began to introduce them to tales of Númenor, for he thought the characters too one-sided. He'd asked his father once, at the age of six, why nobody forced Aldarion and Erendis to get along and share their toys like his father did with him and his brother. The booming laughter that followed was one of his most treasured memories. Sídhon hated it less, which was strange, and listened with expressions pensive and confused by turns.

The Tale of the Children of Húrin was the most contentious between the brothers, by far, for though Sídhon disliked the heroes and decried their stupidity at every oppurtunity. Brenior loved the intricacy of it and the vast lands it traversed in its telling from the twisting trees of Doriath to the high halls of Nargothrond. It was interwoven with many other tales, and many heroes came in and out of it like passing seasons.

In later years, after the small house on the Pelennor was far behind and the cold walls of a tiny building on the workers’ tier had become home, it was Brenior who read the tales aloud. He had not his mother's way with words, nor his father's manner of always making a story seem the grandest of tales. He was, perhaps, a better teller than Sídhon, but as their mother put it that did not take much doing.

Sídhon sat on the rickety bed they all shared and mended the gear the barracks had loaned him, Naneth sat by the fireside and knit, for even in the late evenings she constantly worked, and Brenior sat beside her with the old book on his lap.

His voice rose with excitement every time they drew up to the climax, the battle. The poet's words slipped ever faster, chanting and singing by turns and at times too glib for him to quite get his mouth around.

“...the chanting swelled, Felagund fought, and all the magic and might he brought of Elvenesse into his words...”

Even later, when Brenior was a man grown, he would sit still by that same fireside and recite the great tales aloud to his mother, when the nights were long and she was in too much pain to sleep. She would remain in bed, hands too knarled to weave or sew clasped in her hands, and Brenior wondered at times if she really knew it was her son that spoke and not another. His voice had deepened around the age of twenty, and gave his mother little starts now and then.

He got to the tale of Túrin and halted, waiting on the groan with which Sídhon would ernestly urge that they skip this one. A beat would pass, and then he would forge on. He had learned to supress the memories when he wished to, and then he had only wanted to immerse himself in the tale as he always did He looked up with an exhilarated grin after each great villian was defeated, or a great hero, and saw his mother gazing into the fire, barely paying attention.

A small trunk the barracks gave him, to place by his bedside and keep all he owned within. The book, he wrapped in protective cloth he had begged off the libraries, and tucked in a corner. Little care had they given it as children he thought, and it had been banged, dropped, used to hit a sibling at times, and thrown on one occasion. It was battered, it was cracked, it was old, and it was unnecessary. He still tucked it away, even as he sold his mother’s old loom and needles. The old parchment with the Lay of Leithian had long been lost, but he knew the tales by heart himself then, and can put it to paper again later.

Finished, he turned his back on the empty stone house, and made his way to the soldiers’ tier.

Calaer joined the Rangers when the both of them were going on twenty-seven, though why Brenior didn’t understand in the least. They were both of them succeeding as soldiers, for a given value of ‘succeed’ at least. Certainly, war was enroaching, but war would come to them soon enough and Brenior saw no need to run out to meet it as the captains were doing.

Nonetheless, it was a bright spring morning when Brenior stood once more at the great gate, watching the company of Ithilien Rangers readying to ride out with their lieutenent. Calaer’s manner is bright and easy, though their farewell bitter. The Rangers have leave every few months, he told Brenior, he’d see him soon.

And he does, as promised, for a good few years.

Then, the Rangers are called even deeper into Ithilien: War is coming.

His shoulders shook with each booming thud, as the battering ram jolted into the great gates once more. As a child, he had seen the gates for the first time with a gasp, and his father had proudly claimed nothing could break them. Another great thud hit the gate, and a faint crack accompanied it.

...then Felegund there swaying sang in answer a song of staying...

He shoved back harder, he and a hundred others, but, like Finrod, they could not last long.

The Sun rose, inch by torturous inch, and blood spilled across the eastern sky as if Mordor itself had been grievously wounded. Flame light, the new dawn whispered, Flee darkness.

At the end of the world, he fought beside Calaer, for little now did the borders between companies matter. They fought, with bow and blade until the arrows ran out and Calaer picked up a fallen spear instead. The battle raged on, and they fought as if in a trance.

Perhaps a great tale might be made of their last stand, Brenior thought, should their be any to escape. Perhaps the last free minstrel might sing of the last stand of the Host of the West. The Battle of the Black Gates, they would call it, or maybe The Defeat of the West.

His shield had been broken, and he wielded his sword two-handed, hacking and blocking on instinct alone while his mind wandered in a strange dream. The blade smoked black, and its hilt felt like a haft in his hands.

“Aure entuluva!” The cry came distantly, and faint.

It was over.

The Host, or what was left of it, regrouped in nearby Cormallen, and there a great flurry of new work began. More pleasent was it by far then the slaying of orcs, and Brenior threw himself into it with what energy he had. Calaer had also made it through, for never in the fighting had they lost track of each other, and was aiding his company with the finding of game in the wilds of Ithilien.

Again he seemed to walk in dreams, though there is a crystal clarity to the air, to the laughter not far off, to the joyful songs already resounding through the fields, to the grit work of caring for the wounded, that rings far more true than any dream or memory.

Night fell gently in Ithilien, and there came a soft wind out of the West.

Months pass before before he actually returns to the city for any great length of time, and gets the chance to return to his room in the barracks. The building had only recently ended its short-lived career as a hospital, and so the beds are stripped and rearranged. The trunks of each soldier’s belongings though sit still beside them, and Brenior’s key still fits the lock. He lifts a cloth-covered bundle out, and unfolds it on the bed. No one else is here, and so he reads the words aloud.

“A king there was in days of old...”

He stays there long into the night.

#lotro #lotr #brenior #i don't think i going to get the rest done today #but i think i am going to finish them anyway #because this has been an enormous amount of fun #and also went better than i thought #anyway here have brenior angst #most of the references should be obvious #but the stanzas are cut from the battle between finrod and sauron in the silmarillion #which (i think?) is supposed to be from the lay of leithian #i don't have a copy of the lay to check #the last few lines in the battle of the morannon part references hurin's last stand #and the last line in the second-to-last part is a paraphrase from the silmarillion #specifically the ending of the niraeth arnoediad #the italisized line in the last part is the first line of the lay of leithian #oh WAIT the sunrise part (which is supposed to be during pelennor)#references the battle cry of the north #oc-tober 2022 #peace #salt and light

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lowcountry-gothic · 2 years

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Battle of Five Armies

There and Back Again

Tom Bombadil

The Fellowship of the Ring

The Two Towers

Battle of the Hornburg

Battle of the Pelennor Fields

Battle of the Morannon

Evenstar

Red Book of Westmarch

Art by Wavesheep. Part I | Part II | Part III.

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silmarillion-ways-to-die · 3 months

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If Gandalf instead of Aragorn had been in charge at the Battle of the Black Gate:

Orc: Excuse me, oh Dark Lord?

Sauron: What is it???

Orc: There's someone to see you at the Morannon.

Sauron: Is it the Armies of the Free Peoples of the West, bringing me my One Ring?

Orc: No, Lord. It's two dwarves. They say they've come for tea.

#the hobbit #tolkien #lord of the rings #silmarillion #lotr #lotr rop #lotr trop #jrr tolkien #fantasy #lotr humor #Tolkien humor

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 1 month

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While we’re all marking the battle at the Morannon and the destruction of the ring today, let us not forget that March 25 is ALSO the day that Borondir, the messenger of Cirion, first reached Eorl and his people back in T.A. 2510 to ask for the help of the Éothéod in driving invaders out of Gondor.

Of course, when Gondor called for aid, (proto) Rohan answered, and we eventually got the Oath of Eorl and the founding of Rohan and the start of 500 years of steadfast allies and friends. So this is a momentous day for all of Middle Earth, but especially for the Rohirrim and, as a huge Rohan partisan, I will be celebrating it as such.

#lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #rohan #forth eorlingas #oath of eorl #🐎🗡️♥️

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velvet4510 · 1 month

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The scene at the Grey Havens has so much unsaid. Sam does not detail everything that they all said to each other before the ship departed. While I don’t hate the total silence depicted in the films, it’s much more likely and realistic that the hobbits and Gandalf did have much to say to each other, which Sam chose to keep private and out of the record.

I headcanon that Pippin must’ve needed a moment to say goodbye to Gandalf, too. He really grew closest to Gandalf out of all the hobbits besides Frodo. A sizable chunk of the story focuses on the two of them in Gondor. While Pippin often annoys Gandalf throughout the story, it is clear that there is always affection there. Then it was their teamwork that saved Faramir. Gandalf especially must’ve really admired Pippin for his bravery and maturity during the siege and the Morannon battle.

I imagine while Frodo was hugging Merry goodbye, and Sam stood aside crying, Pippin asked if Gandalf really had to go, prompting Gandalf to confirm his time really was over. (Billy Boyd says a moment similar to this was filmed for but cut from the movie.)

Then Pippin lowered his head in tears. Gandalf touched Pippin’s chin, gently raised it to allow their eyes to meet, and tenderly said with a smile, “Farewell, fool of a Took.” And Pippin couldn’t help but smile at that.

#lotr #jrr tolkien #lotr books #lord of the rings #the grey havens #the return of the king #pippin took #gandalf #peregrin took #faramir #frodo baggins #samwise gamgee #meriadoc brandybuck #gondor #red book #lotr headcanons

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transjudas · 6 months

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The Soldier as Ophelia, The Weeping Brook as the Dead Marshes

"When down her weedy trophies and herself fell in the weeping brook." - Gertrude on Ophelia's death in Hamlet

"They lie in all the pools, pale faces, deep deep under the dark water. I saw them: grim faces and evil, and noble faces and sad. Many faces proud and fair, and weeds in their silver hair. But all foul, all rotting, all dead. A fell light is in them." - Frodo on the Dead Marshes in LOTR The Two Towers

"The Dead Marshes and the approaches to the Morannon owe something to Northern France after the Battle of the Somme." - J.R.R Tolkien from letter #226 of his collected letters.

#art #collage #collage art #hamlet #wwi #lotr #jrr tolkien #my art #shakespeare

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a-lonely-dunedain · 2 days

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“It was nice not sleeping alone” or “do you want to keep the light on?” for Ethedis and Corunir?

Ok finally getting around to this! Going with the first option here :3 I think this made a nice warmup after not writing in like, months probably. Gosh I feel so rusty…. Anyway! Here’s Ethedis, local exhausted party healer, finally getting A Break post Morannon (and Corunir doing what Corunir does best and being Worried about Eth)

Ethedis was sad to find that she had grown accustomed to sleeping alone.

The time since her departure from the Grey Company had been a blur to her, an anxious, desperate, and terribly lonely blur. Amidst it all she did not notice— or at least tried not to notice— the ache in her heart at Corunir and the rest of her friends' absence. But it was still there, always most noticeable in the quiet of the night when she had little else to distract her.

She made new friends in that time of course, Horn, Nona, Corudan… (who she prays are alright, wherever they are) but even they could not stop the gnawing pain in her heart, the fear that the world was ending and neither her best friend nor her beloved would be at her side for it.

Thankfully, despite her fears, she was reunited with Tossdir and Corunir before what seemed to be the end of all things. The battle of the Pelenor passed, and somehow, though it still seems hard to believe, the Morannon passed also. It was over, the war was won.

She was gravely injured near the end of the fighting, though she barely remembers it (perhaps that is for the best), and Corunir has hardly left her side since then. He almost seemed afraid to, scared that if he left her for even a moment she would be torn away from him again, as had happened so many times before. Ethedis hated to see him so worried, and she especially hated to be the cause of it, but also couldn’t help but be grateful for his constant doting. It would be a while yet before the healers released her, so the company was much needed.

It’s late into the night now, her room is lit only in shades of silvery blue and grey in the moonlight shining through her open window, she guesses she should be sleeping instead of lying awake reflecting. Her eyes fall to Corunir beside her, his head buried in his arms atop her blankets, breathing deep and slow. He'd fallen asleep like that a little while ago, the same as he had every night since coming to the Houses of Healing. She gently places her hand on his arm, just needing to feel that he’s there, he’s alive. The touch doesn't wake him, despite the fact that he’s normally a rather light sleeper. He must be exhausted.

Part of her wishes he would go sleep in a proper bed for his own sake, he probably hasn’t had a good night’s rest in months, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to leave. Truth be told, she needed him there, probably more than he realized.

She had grown used to being the one caring for others, always worrying about keeping her friends from falling into despair or even just keeping them alive, giving little thought to herself. She was getting used to sleeping alone, to being alone.

It’s different now though, the warmth of his arm under her hand confirmed it. She isn’t alone anymore, Corunir is here and understands her struggles better than anyone. He’s here and it would take nothing short of an intervention from the Valar to tear him away from her again. He and the other healers will see to it that she is well taken care of, and for the first time in almost a year she finds she has very little to be worried about; and the few things she does have to worry about do not seem so daunting as long as he’s here.

She breathes a deep, contented sigh, her eyelids are starting to feel heavy. It isn’t long before they slip closed and she joins Corunir in much needed slumber, secure in the knowledge that they will still be together when she awakes.

It was nice not sleeping alone.

#for the record Corunir also Really Needs A Break #but I honestly don’t think he’d be able to relax as long as Ethedis is hurt #don’t worry he’ll get plenty of cuddles later. Ethedis Will make sure of it!#Taz’s foray into writing #lotro #lotro fic #Corunir #lotro oc #Ethedis

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