#morinehtar and Rómestámo

[silmarillion-ways-to-die]

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

[mirra-kan]

«I think that they went as emissaries to distant regions, east and south... Missionaries to enemy occupied lands as it were.»  «Their task was to circumvent Sauron: to bring help to the few tribes of Men that had rebelled from Melkor-worship, to stir up rebellion... and after his first fall to search out his hiding and to cause dissension and disarray among the dark East... They must have had very great influence on the history of the Second Age and Third Age in weakening and disarraying the forces of the East... who both in the Second Age and Third Age otherwise have... outnumbered the West.»

—J.R.R. Tolkien In c. S.A. 1600, Manwë sent two Wizards to the southern and eastern lands of Middle-earth. The Valar suspected there was a rebellion of good Haradrim but no leadership — ultimately they were very successful there in Harad. They arrived before Sauron's first war against the Elves and even on this war the Wizards had some influence. They became known as Morinehtar and Rómestámo. Because of their influence among the Haradrim, Sauron took a long time to attack Eregion, for his dominance and recruiting of forces was not entirely successful. —Tolkien Gateway ___________________ I’m truly grateful to the Tumblr community for all the support and kind words towards my previous art “A noble young man of Harad”. You inspired me to go further in my creativity and try to portray the most (imho) underappreciated characters of the Middle Earth. 👁⃤ I suppose him to be Alatar | Morinehtar . ⴵ I also tried to design a possible symbolics Eru worshippers among Haradwaith people might’ve used to encourage themselves and to distinguish an ally from a foe:

⩠ Manwë : symbolic Eagle with Eru's name written above. ⩠ Triangles as symbols of the world hierarchy, equilibrium and the “source of all that is”. ⩠ Sand clocks as a symbol of eternity and transience of time combined. ⪧ A friendly reminder: it’s just my own perception and fantasy based on the things I discovered in various reliable sources. Hope you'll like it 💘 hugs, MIRRA.

#silmarillion #artmirka #the silmarillion #tolkien #tolkien art #tolkien fanart #haradrim #blue wizards #alatar #pallando #fantasy art #oriental fantasy #mirrakan_art #manwe #lord of the rings #lotr #the lord of the rings #lotr fanart #tolkienocweek

[anerea-lantiria]

Istarlindalë: Fic by @lferion; Art by @anerea-lantiria For @tolkienrsb 2023

Fic Rating: G; Art Rating: G Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Silmarillion & other histories | Lord of the Rings Characters: Gandalf | Mithrandir, Saruman | Curunír, Radagast | Aiwendil, Alatar | Rómestámo, Pallando | Morinehtar, (Blue Wizards | Ithryn Luin, Ainur, Maia | Maiar) Additional Tags: Wizards, Written in the style of the Ainulindalë and the Silmarillion, Valinor, Middle Earth, Worldbuilding, Canon-Typical Violence, Music, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Art Word Count: 12,000

Summary: The song of the wise, the knowing ones, from the First Music to the Fourth Age. A poetic exploration of the five Maiar who became the Wizards of Middle-earth, their deeds known and unknown, roles sung and unsung in events through the Ages.

#gandalf #saruman #radagast #alatar #pallando #blue wizards #maiar #ainur #trsb2023 #trsb23 #tolkien fanfiction #silm fic #silm art #tolkien art #lferion #anerea

[thesilmarilchick]

The War of the Dead - Chapter 2: The Light Reclaimed

Arda, Rhûn; 2979, third age of Middle Earth

Pallando had walked the eastern lands of Middle Earth for many an age now – he’d seen generations of the people of this land born, grow, and pass away before his eyes.  He’d seen their civilizations fall and rise, he’d seen the horrors of Morgoth and later Sauron, and the corrupted kings of old. Most of all though he’d seen that throughout all the lies, the deceit, and the terrors that were brought down upon his people (for they were his, much more so than any of the other Maiar or Istari) marched on.  With each new hurdle, the world threw at them, they would simply pick themselves up, and continue. Men truly were, in his perhaps not so humble opinion, the most marvellous of creatures.

However, that was not to say they were without their frustrating elements, every race had at least one. The man in front of him, currently barring his way, was a sparkling example of one such element.

‘Hear me now son of Rhûn, unbar my path or you will come to rue it; for I am Pallando called Rómestámo and I bring no evil here, lest you not remove yourself from my way.’ 

Pallando could feel every hair in his beard bristle as this man, nay this boy, flashed his teeth at the wizard in a patronizing grimace.

‘I mean no offence, old man,’ the boy replied in his own people’s tongue, though judging by his reply he had clearly understood Pallando’s meaning. ‘But my lord Morinehtar has commanded me and my kinsmen to guard the entrances to his keep, letting none but those who are known to us pass its boundaries… and you are the strangest of strangers.’ 

The youth folded his arms over his chest and cocked his chin up at Pallando, a smug grin grown wide on his lips. The wizard’s rage was enough that he very nearly smote the youngster where he stood, that was until the name the boy had spouted as his sovereign lord, clicked within the folds of the Maiar’s memory.

‘Go to him then and he will tell you…he will tell you my lad who Pallando called East Saviour is. For there is none who is his equal more then I boy, of that he will tell you I have no doubt.’ The mocking smile of the child did not falter as he bared his long spear in Pallando’s direction.

‘I have humoured you enough for a year, Old Man, now be off with you before I’m forced to use this spear on your belly.’ The boy may even have tried to do it, if the large, weather-beaten hand had not landed on his shoulder.

‘Be at peace with you, cousin, Pallando is welcome and trustworthy, or as trustworthy as one may come to in these days,’ said the older guard. Pallando thought that a very strange way to phrase such a thing, and by the looks of it, the young guardsman seemed to agree. But he gave way nether the less, though he did throw one last untrusting look at the blue wizard as the old man disappeared down the long and twisting tunnel behind him.

***

Ah Alatar, loveliest and most cunning of all Mandos’ Maiar - how Pallando had missed him in the years they’d been separated by their duties. Pallando could not quite recall when he’d seen his fellow wizard last, but he remembered well his image. Who could forget the bent hawk-like figure he had followed into the East, the proud brows drawn together in a look of consternation and his green-blue eyes sparkling with mirth despite themselves. This was not the image that greeted the travel worn Istari when he, and his rather bulky guide, reached the end of the tunnel. The wizard – who now called himself Morinehtar – was bent double, crouched to the ground staring at something just out of Pallando’s sight. His bald head shining in the dim light of the lamps hung low on the wall.

‘Alatar?’ The name had escaped Pallando’s lips before he’d gathered enough of his wits to halt its progress.  The old man’s head snapped up and swivelled in the direction of the sound, only then did the blue Istari see the extent of his old friend’s face. Gone were the sparkling blue-green orbs of yester-year, replaced now with empty pitiless sockets that still seemed to stare at Pallando with a look of very poorly concealed irritation. Perhaps he had not changed so very much then…within, at least.

‘So, he has come at last, he who now calls himself Rómestámo.’

 Pallando moved, or rather was pushed, closer until he was standing a mere breath away from the kneeling, eyeless Istari.

 ‘A mighty name for someone who had to be dragged kicking and screaming to this land, tell me what news have you brought me that it was worth my time to meet with you?’ Said this strange person, that could not possibly be his Alatar.  And yet Pallando could feel the familiar feeling of mad annoyance deep within his belly, a sure sign that he truly was in the presence of Alatar.

‘If your mind has slipped sufficiently enough for you to forget, then I shall remind you that it was you who summoned me.’

 The half mad cackle was unlike any laugh he had ever heard, but there was still a glimmer to it, something of the joyful laugh of Alatar left in its unearthly tones.

‘Well that I did, and for good reason kin of mine, come hither and gaze upon what I and those who follow me have reclaimed. I knew that you would not believe it thus possible, unless you were to see it with your own eyes.’

Alatar lifted the sphere he had been cradling in his old and withered hands; it was covered with a rag of poor cloth which his aged friend lifted with no small amount of flourish. But this Pallando hardly noticed, for the moment the rag was gone he was blinded by a white light unlike any mortal kind had ever beheld. Not since the destruction of the two trees of Valinor had such a brilliance been alive in any land he could name.

‘By all the Valar in Valinor and Eru Ilúvatar himself, it cannot be…it…it is impossible!’ 

He could not see for certain his friend’s answering grin, but Pallando knew the tone in Alatar’s voice well enough to guess at it.

 ‘But you have seen it Rómestámo, you have now seen with your own eyes what you would not have believed with your ears. Here in my lands it lay undisturbed for untold generations, and it was here in my lands that it was reclaimed. Aye, you can say its name my old friend, do not be afraid to, for it is not a cursed name.’ When nothing but Pallando’s silence answered him, Alatar puffed himself up and raised the glowing orb above his head, proclaiming with a voice as clear as the sea is vast. 

‘Beholden are all who stand here, for in my hands I holdeth joy, I holdeth beauty and light beyond all measure. I holdeth in my hands that which was flung into the fiery depths of the abyss. None but I could have reclaimed such a work of beauty from such a pit. So, rejoice all who hear my fair voice, for cradled in my hands is the very last of the mighty Silmarils!’

#fanfiction #the hobbit #lord of the rings

[silmaspens]

Tolkien OC Week- Day Six, Forgotten Characters

The Blue Wizards

When Sauron’s presence in the eastern lands of Middle Earth grew too dangerous to ignore, Oromë placed his finest hunter, Alatar, to the task of silencing the Enemy. Alatar agreed to foil Sauron’s influence in Arda, on the condition that Pallando, a great tracker and beloved friend, come with. The Vala agreed and the two Maia were sent to Middle Earth. Alatar was then called Morinehtar, the Darkness- Slayer and Pallando became known as Rómestámo, the East-Helper.

They went on many adventures together and tirelessly campaigned against Sauron and his many infectious lies. The Blue Wizards, as they came to be called, were beloved by all they met, and were embraced as great philosophers and teachers. Many came from great distances to ask for their wisdom and advice in all matters.

Despite their warm reception in the numerous kingdoms of men, they continued to work tirelessly in order to snuff out the insidious philosophies and ideas that Sauron had inflicted through his cunning tongue.

The Blue Wizards never rested and constantly campaigned against the Enemy. If not for their great labor, the east would have fallen to the Enemy, and the rest of middle earth would have soon followed.

#they’ve been best buddies since they came into existence #they’re platonic soulmates :) #I was totally thinking- with the new show coming out- these two are probably gonna fill the role of Gandalf- since they were in the 2nd age #I wonder what their characterization will be like .-. #ugh #I’m at just one more day left! #I haven’t participated in one of these fandom events in forever #the blue Wizards #alatar and pallando #morinehtar and Rómestámo #I lifted @maedictus’ idea for making one of them a woman 👀 #thank you #silmart #my art #tolkien oc week

[johnsadair]

Istari Entertainment Technologies: indistinguishable from magic.

#istari #atari #mashup #gandalf #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #jrr tolkien #silmarillion #curumo #olorin #olórin #aewendil #morinehtar #romestamo #rómestámo #curunir #mithrandir #saruman #radagast #alatar #pallando #unfinished tales #arthur c clarke #clarke's third law

[galadhremmin]

Also posted this in the swg discord, but in case someone here feels compelled...   I have an idea I don't think I would be good at writing but would enjoy reading, so have a prompt;

So the wizards are sent to Middle Earth in the forms of old men, yes? I like the idea that they did not just take on the fana of an old man, but actually experience the aging process in Valinor to teach them a very specific, embodied type of empathy for the frailty of the creatures they were sent to help. I think it would be difficult but interesting to write; aging and weakening for beings to whom even having a healthy young body is essentially an alien experience, the claustrophobia of feeling truly caught in matter-- and the cultural inability to really understand what aging means.

Elves seem so attached to physical beauty (see Gwindor’s treatment after his changed appearance, among other things); the Valar seem rather prone to over-attachment to the beautiful as well. It would be a wholly alien process not just to them but in Valinor entirely, a process happening in a place not built for the creatures that experience it. 

There is also this quote from letter Letter 156 that does, I think, support the idea that their fana were not quite like the usual taking on a shape for a maia: 

By 'incarnate' I mean they were embodied in physical bodies capable of pain, and weariness, and of afflicting the spirit with physical fear, and of being 'killed', though supported by the angelic spirit they might endure long, and only show slowly the wearing of care and labour.

#the silmarillion #the blue wizards #gandalf #saruman #just tagging wildly in the hopes someone will write the thoughtful emotional exploration of ageing and the claustrophobia of embodiment #alatar #pallando #Morinehtar #Rómestámo #Ithryn Luin

[arofili]

@secondageweek day seven | freeform | emissaries of the valar

The Blue Wizards came much earlier than the others of their order, when matters became very dangerous in the Second Age. They were Alatar and Pallando, followers of Oromë, and in later years they were known also as Rómestámo and Morinehtar: East-helper and Darkness-slayer. Their task was to circumvent Sauron: to bring help to the few tribes of Men that had rebelled from Melkor-worship, to stir up rebellion against his Lieutenant; to search out the hiding place of the Enemy and to cause dissension and disarray among his servants in the East.

With them were sent two elven emissaries: Glorfindel of the Golden Flower of Gondolin and Elen-kesta of the Kinn-lai of the Utter South, both mighty heroes among their people who were slain in battles against the Enemy. They were returned to life by Mandos at the command of Manwë and Varda and sailed to Middle-earth with the Blue Wizards. Glorfindel rejoined his kin and swore fealty to Elrond of Imladris, while Elen-kesta accompanied Alatar and Pallando to the east before she turned south to the jungles of her Avarin kin.

#secondageweek #tolkienedit #oneringnet #silm #silmarillion #blue wizards #ithryn luin #istari #alatar #pallando #glorfindel #oc elen kesta #kinn lai #avari #my edit #my writing #edit writing #headcanons #tefain nin #events #quote adapted from PoMe #i added in elen-kesta to round things out :) 2 elves 2 maiar!

[admiral-floof]

“There are five of us. The greatest of our order is Saruman, the White. Then there are the two Blue Wizards... you know, I’ve quite forgotten their names.” 

#I love me some Istari #And I will always be thankful that Christopher Lee got to play Saruman when he was a decent and GOOD person. #// #Istari #Five Wizards #Lord of the Rings #Saruman #Gandalf #Radagast #Alatar #Pallando #Morinehtar #Rómestámo #Middle Earth #The Hobbit #Shadow of Mordor #Christopher Lee #Ian McKellen #Sylvester McCoy #blue wizards #lotr #Maia #Maiar

[ainurmoodboards]

Pallando

The Far One, Darkness-Slayer, East-Helper

Pallando was a Maia of Oromë, a member of the Istari, and one of the Blue Wizards along with his friend Alatar. In Tolkien’s early drafts, he associated Pallando with Mandos and Nienna, but eventually changed this to make Pallando a Maia of Oromë, the Vala who had traveled and hunted with his retinue throughout Arda prior to the Awakening of the Elves. Because of this, Oromë had the most knowledge of the lands of Arda, including those to the east of the lands where The Lord of the Rings takes place. 

When the Valar decided to send a group of Maiar disguised as old men (the Istari) to Middle-earth to help its peoples resist Sauron, the first one chosen was Curumo, a Maia Aulë of who later became known as Saruman. The second chosen was Alatar, and a reluctant but obedient Olorin (who became known in Middle-earth as Gandalf and Mithrandir) was chosen by Manwë and Varda as the third. Alatar brought his friend Pallando to Middle-earth with him, while Curumo grudgingly took Aiwendil (Radagast) with him to please Yavanna. Alatar and Pallando are sent into the lands east of Mordor that don’t appear on maps of Middle-earth to contest the will of Sauron. In early versions of Tolkien’s writings the Blue Wizards fail in their tasks, similar to Saruman, but in later writings they are successful in forcing Sauron to divide some of his attention and resources to the East, thus helping the peoples of the West win the War of the Ring. In these positive writings Tolkien gives Morinehtar (Darkness-Slayer) and Rómestámo (East-Helper) as names given to them by the peoples they interacted with, but doesn’t specify which name goes with which wizard.

Tolkien doesn’t give us much detail about Pallando and Alatar’s personalities, powers, or appearance, beyond their association with the color blue. If we at  Oromë ‘s only other named Maia, Tilion, we can guess that Pallando and Alatar were likely skilled hunters whose skills translated to battle as well. Like their Vala, they may have been associated with forests and forest creatures. Oromë also had an association with horses and was greatly revered by the people of Rohan, so they may have been skilled horsemen as well. Their dominant color of blue might indicate an additional association with water as well.

Tolkien’s earlier association of Pallando with Mandos and Nienna might give us other clues to his character. Mandos and his people were associated with prophecy, usually regarding negative events, so Pallando may have had some ability to see or predict the future. He may also have had some skill as a healer, as Nienna was associated with cleansing evil and filth due to her tears and the role they played in the plotline of the Two Trees of Valinor in The Silmarillion. Both Mandos and his sister Nienna are associated with death, so Pallando may have had an understanding of and respect for death, which would have been important since Sauron frequently capitalized on humans’ fear of death and the unknown. He may also have had some ability to communicate with the spirits of the dead. These skills in healing, prophecy, and necromancy would not only make sense because of an association with the aforementioned Valar, but also because they are skills associated with many wizard characters in the fantasy genre. 

#Pallando #Pallando Moodboard #Pallando Aesthetic #Ainur #Maiar #Istari #Ithryn Luin #Blue Wizards #Morinehtar #Romestamo #Alatar #Orome Maiar #Oromë Maiar #Tolkien #Tolkien Moodboard #Alatar and Pallando

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

If you got to write a Meta for the Blue Wizards/Istari what would it be like? More like Saruman, or more like Radagast? And a side question: did Radagast fail?

If I got to write a meta? You mean, not actually write a proper meta but just give you the bullet points or something? I don’t think I can actually do that. :)

Tolkien originally said:

I really do not know anything clearly about the other two [wizards] – since they do not concern the history of the N[orth].W[est]. I think they went as emissaries to distant regions, East and South, far out of Númenórean range: missionaries to ‘enemy-occupied’ lands, as it were. What success they had I do not know; but I fear that they failed, as Saruman did, though doubtless in different ways; and I suspect they were founders or beginners of secret cults and ‘magic’ traditions that outlasted the fall of Sauron.

–The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 211, 1958

So yeah, Tolkien first thought the Blue Wizards were more like Saruman than Radagast. However, near the end of his life, around 1972, he changed his mind:

The ‘other two’ came much earlier, at the same time probably as Glorfindel, when matters became very dangerous in the Second Age. [c. S.A 1600] Glorfindel was sent to aid Elrond and was (though not yet said) pre-eminent in the war in Eriador. But the other two Istari were sent for a different purpose. Morinehtar and Rómestámo. Darkness-slayer and East-helper. Their task was to circumvent Sauron: to bring help to the few tribes of Men that had rebelled from Melkor-worship, to stir up rebellion … and after his first fall to search out his hiding (in which they failed) and to cause [?dissension and disarray] among the dark East … They must have had very great influence on the history of the Second Age and Third Age in weakening and disarraying the forces of East … who would both in the Second Age and Third Age otherwise have … outnumbered the West.

–The History of Middle Earth, vol. 12, “Last Writings: The Five Wizards”

So, neither like Saruman nor Radagast, but instead the Blue Wizards were essential to the war against Sauron. They encouraged the Men who refused to worship Morgoth (as was standard in the East), to get them to rebel against the others. They tried to hunt down Sauron after he lost his body in the downfall of Numenor and his spirit fled east (though they failed in that task). But still, the Blue Wizards continued to help the good men of the East, and made enough difference that they greatly weakened the Eastern armies… which is why the Easterlings don’t show up in great numbers during the War of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men or during the War of the Ring, leading to Sauron’s defeat both times.

This is news to me, btw, before researching for this ask I was only aware of the “mystery cults” thing from the Letters (which was also in Unfinished Tales), which always made me sad to think of two more Maia who failed in their mission. I’m much more happy to hear of the great work of “Darkness-slayer” and “East-helper”. :)

As for Radagast… while he pretty much went native, while he cared far more about animals than people, I certainly wouldn’t say he failed. He was friends with Beorn, which led to Beorn trusting Gandalf, which led to Beorn helping the Dwarves and then later being of great help in the Battle of the Five Armies, killing Bolg and rescuing the deathly wounded Thorin. Radagast helped search for the lost Ring with his birds and beasts, which though it didn’t actually find anything, at least showed where the Ring wasn’t. He warned Gandalf that the Nazgul were abroad, Black Riders, and searching for the Shire. And though Radagast unwittingly led Gandalf into Saruman’s trap… he also had his friends the Great Eagles gather news of all the evil creatures on the march, and when their leader Gwaihir brought this news to Gandalf at Isengard, Gandalf was able to escape. So I think, in the end, Yavanna was right to beg Saruman to bring Radagast to Middle Earth, proving her wise as always. (See also the Ents.)

I hope that helps!

#cle-guy #lotr #lotr meta #jrr tolkien #the blue wizards #alatar #pallando #istari #the easterlings #radagast #saruman #gandalf #the eagles #wizards #the history of middle earth #beorn #yavanna #is the best

[joyfullynervouscreator]

Where the Stars are Strange

The first chapter of my @tolkiensecretsanta2017 fic!

In the vast desert, amid dunes of sand looming darkly against the brilliance of the stars above, a woman with hair of fire awoke suddenly, her yellow eyes taking in the pinpricks of light with a thoughtful frown. For a moment it seemed as though no part of creation moved. The sandy dunes that stretched in any direction as far as mortal eyes could see held little danger for her; nor was it the crackle of the small fire as it devoured the dried and pressed manure that was the fuel of choice in these parts that had disturbed her dreams. Turning her head, she frowned at the smaller figure on the opposite side of the fire, but the black-haired dwarf was fast asleep, the fire throwing deep shadows across the crags of his face. Nothing seemed amiss, the sand-dwelling lizards making no noise as they skittered across the loose grains, but the long-limbed horses that needed no hobbles seemed startled, moving restlessly. A light desert breeze caught the edge of her hood as she stood, revealing glittering yellow eyes in a weathered and sun-bronzed face. Blinking, turning her face west with a thoughtful frown, one hand reached out to soothe the nearest animal as she tried to make sense of her sudden unease.

The night-wind tugged playfully at her robes, catching in her hair as she leaned back, breathing in the scent of the Sea of Dunes. A hint of her favourite night-blooming roses caressed her senses, though none of them grew closer than Umbar’s palace gardens, mixing with the warm dryness of the sand that stretched around them and something that smelled like secrets. The wind murmured around her, picking up a fold of blue cloth, speaking to her in ways none but a maia of Manwë’s would have heard, and in it there were whispers of a rising darkness, a name steeped in fear. The Son of Sauron, it called, a title that should have perished with its last bearer, vanquished far to the north and trampled beneath the hooves of many horses.

“I suppose it is time to return, mellon, if you feel it necessary,” she murmured, stroking the velvet nose as she smiled gently, as she often did, never admitting – even to herself – whether she was only pretending that she could speak to the one who had been gone for so long. “Perhaps you are right, and our task is not yet done.” She was alone now, but for a few select companions; often chosen from among the Blacklocks, whose staunch support had never wavered. Abbas, who was sleeping on the other side of the fire, little more than tufts of dark hair appearing above his blanket, was only the latest in a long line of companions. Rómestámo didn’t like calling them servants, preferring the term companion – even if it brought forth the sorrowful memories of the one she had lost – but it was the name their order had chosen. The Servants of The Ancient One, they called themselves – brave warriors to a Dwarf – chosen to aid her in her task, fulfilling their King’s command. It didn’t matter that that King had been dead for more than an Age, not to Dwarrow, who were the most stubbornly honourable people in Middle-Earth in her opinion – certainly the most stubborn – but she was grateful for their efforts, keeping her from falling into despair after Morinehtar was killed and giving up on her task altogether.

The horse pushed gently against her shoulder, blowing a lock of hair across her face. The beautiful horse had been a gift from a warlord in Khand once-upon a time, though she no longer remembered how she had merited such a majestic animal.

“Did you say something, Mistress?” the squat dwarf who had been sleeping on the opposite side of the fire asked, blinking blearily at her – he was one of those who didn’t like using her name, preferring to call her Ancient One or simply Mistress, but Rómestámo paid her names no mind; she had so many to choose from, after all. Once, her name had been Pallando, but it had been more than an age since the last one who had known that had perished, and these days the sailors of the coastal lands she travelled called her Rómestámo, East-Helper, in the ancient tongue from across the Sea.

“Yes, Abbas,” she replied calmly, a smile splitting her face. “I have decided to journey north, now. Go back to sleep, my friend. We shall depart for Umbar before first light and take ship to Gobel Mírlond.” For herself, Rómestámo had no intention of sleeping, sitting cross-legged on her bedroll and letting the wind play with her hair as she listened to a voice only she could hear.

 Abbas had only been accepted as the Ancient One’s servant a few years back, but he had noticed that her seemingly random decisions usually led her feet where her wisdom was most needed, and simply accepted their new course as a matter of fact. Other than her sometimes inexplicable whims, the job was quite simple; he handled the practical matters and ensured that no one was foolish enough to attack what they mistook for an old lady of some wealth. It was better that he stopped them, than needing her to stop them, he had been told, the look on his predecessor’s face enough to stop him asking for clarification. You angered the Ancient One at your own peril.

“Very well, Mistress.” Abbas nodded, though he knew she did not see him for all that her eyes were open, glittering yellow like a mountain cat’s, the flickering flames catching in the sapphire stud in her nose. Lying back down on his bedroll, he was asleep in minutes; a good trait for one of the Servants, he had learned, who were often woken by the whims of the Mistress. He did not know how she did it, continuing onwards with little rest, but he had been warned by the Elders against asking impertinent questions, and wondering why the Ancient One rarely seemed to sleep like a mortal most likely fell into that category.

   Aragorn found Arwen in the library, poring over the scrolls that Imrahil’s ancestors had collected for more than a thousand years; he found her interest amusing, considering she remembered most of the events detailed in the tomes, but Arwen seemed to enjoy the pastime. Sighing, he sat down beside her, catching a long lock of black hair in his fingers and began to share the news one of the spies employed by Denethor years before had reported this evening.

“We’ve only just defeated Sauron, and now you’re telling me that some of the tribes in East Harondor and further away are arming themselves for war again?” Arwen – Queen Arwen, now – looked up from the scrolls she had been studying, frowning at him. “Do mortals-” she paused, as she always did whenever she remembered that she was counted among that number, her dark brows furrowing. “Do Men never learn?”

Aragorn chuckled, unrolling the map he was carrying and pushing aside the old – younger than his Queen, but still more than a thousand years of age – scrolls detailing the early reign of one of his long-ago ancestors that Arwen had found in the Library vaults. She claimed they were informative; but Aragorn silently admitted that, though he loved listening to her mellifluous voice when she told him what she had learned from the dusty parchment, he had little desire to look at them himself.

“They think we were weakened by the War,” he said, sighing, “and they’d be right.” Arwen made a soft sound, looking at the heavily annotated map of Gondor and Rohan. The Rohirric lands had been hit the hardest, Saruman’s roving bands of orcs pillaging and burning whole villages to the ground, leaving the farms untended and, in some places, poisoned by salting that would take years to recover.

“Strike them with a heavy hand,” she replied, tracing the spot that had once been a fishing village in Lebennin, “make them think we are stronger than we really are.” Aragorn sighed.

“That is what my advisors say,” he admitted, frowning, “and Éomer would come to my aid if I asked it, even though he needs every available man at home to rebuild…” He did not wish to burden his friend – Éomer was a good man, though his grief had hardened him some; his recent marriage to Princess Lothíriel, however, might yet soften the experienced warrior, bring him some well-earned peace – especially if she bore him an heir soon.

“And if you do nothing about this threat, how many of the rebuilt homes will burn before they are stopped, love?” Placing her hand on his arm, stroking the blue fabric that bore little resemblance to the practical garb he had worn when he travelled as a Dúnedain ranger, but looked right on the body of a King, Arwen looked at him with all the wisdom of her long life shining in her eyes.

“Are you so eager to see more war?” he wondered, feeling guilty as soon as he posed the question. He knew better; knew her better.

“If I could have peace, I would, Aragorn… but I do not want our children to grow up with the threat of invasion hanging over their heads.” Arwen turned her gaze back to the maps, but she did not protest the light touch he feathered along the ridge of her ear, stroking his index finger across the point. “Faramir and I can rule Gondor in your absence, King Elessar… but only Aragorn Telcontar can lead her armies to victory in this, I feel.” Tracing the flow of the Anduin from the north, all the way through Rohan and south past Osgiliath, she said nothing further, letting him consider his response in silence; a silence that reminded him of Rivendell and his many lessons with Elrond. It might be an Elven thing, creating the kind of silence that let him gather his thoughts with ease rarely found in the Council Chambers of Minas Tirith. Outside the window, a sea-gull screeched, but the sound of the waves was dulled by distance, even though the slight tang of salt in the air lingered.

“You are certainly capable of ruling,” he admitted, knowing the truth of it; Arwen was a much better diplomat and steward than he, even if he had been born to the role of a King. The Men of the Dúnedain Rangers had made him their leader at a young age, it was true, but there was a vast difference between keeping up morale in a group of fighting Men and safeguarding the North, and managing a whole kingdom, including taxes and noblemen who felt entitled to certain lifestyles and influences. He thanked the Valar daily for the presence of Imrahil, the well-respected Prince of Dol Amroth, whose advice had quickly become invaluable to both himself and his Queen.

“And yet you do not wish to leave me alone here,” she smiled, tilting her head to allow him better access to her ear, “I know, hervenn, but your duty to the Realm… I have always known it would take you far from my side at times.”

“The reports indicate that there are significant forces massing in the far-eastern parts of Harondor, with some support from Harad, led by someone calling himself the ‘Son of Sauron’,” Aragorn said, his nose wrinkling.

“The new Master of Gobel Mírlond seems content with our rule,” Arwen nodded thoughtfully as she spoke – she had been instrumental in arranging the recent alliance with Sea-Lord Zhubin and knew the corsair better than Aragorn. “You could press for some levies from Gobel Mírlond; it is in his best interest to quell unrest within the borders of South Gondor. If I were planning to invade western Harondor from the east, Mírlond is where I would strike; take over the seat of power and force the local chiefs to unite against Gondor.”

“I have sent a messenger to Éomer, nonetheless,” Aragorn replied, tracing the newly opened route beneath the Dimholt. “With a warning and a plea to muster some forces…”

“Éomer will come to your aid.” Arwen turned her head, reaching up too smooth out the deepened wrinkles between his brow and stood from her chair. “For now, however,” she smiled, and he recognised the expression of mischief on her face, “we should leave Imrahil’s library and retire to our room. You can worry about what the council will say in the morning.” With that, she kissed him in a way that left little doubt in Aragorn’s mind that his wife had not meant for them to retire to sleep.

  Far east, and a fair bit south of Dol Amroth, the Son of Sauron was embroiled in his own council-meeting, sitting in a lavish silk tent. A brazier of incense perfumed the air, making his closest advisor uncomfortable, though Siavash cared little for the comfort of those around him. The smell of the incense kept up the illusion of his wealth, allowing him to pretend that he was still at home in Amrûn, rather than… wherever they were; he really couldn’t care less about the name of this backwater of Khand civilisation. Amir Zerang wore such voluminous robes, the heavy veiling part of the traditional garb for a eunuch; dark colours and fabrics combining to create a non-entity whose only job was to serve their Master. Eunuchs had first come into being in the desert lands with the Black Númenorians, who believed that such servants were superior to all others, and the cult of Sauron still practised the traditional cutting, though the role of the eunuch had changed from personal servant to keepers of their Master’s secrets and advisors. Amir Zerang had come into his service through his father, blessed be his memory, Jahangir the Black Serpent who had been named Son of Sauron some thirty years earlier and led their forces against the North Kingdom.

 Standing beside Siavash, hidden beneath yards of black and dark green silk, her features concealed by more veils than most harem-girls possessed, Anahit sighed silently. She had become well-versed in keeping her silence whenever Siavash deemed it necessary that he was seen as the brains behind the effort to avenge their dead family. Of course, he thought she was the esteemed advisor Amir Zerang; named to the council by Jahangir, the Black Serpent Chieftain and the last Son of Sauron, before he had gone to war in the north for the glory of his Dark Lord.

“Father left me in charge!” Siavash grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that he probably considered imposing. On his father, it had been; Jahangir had exuded that rare combination of menace and charisma that made men follow him willingly unto whatever end he decreed. On Siavash, the gesture was really only childish and petulant, Anahit thought silently, knowing the veils that covered her face would stop him from realising the mockery of her smile.

“Of course, he did, Amir Siavash,” she replied, her voice soft as a whisper, yet everyone in the tent fell silent to hear her words. “And we all follow your lead.” They all followed her lead, anyway, but Siavash was a convenient figurehead. Jahangir might not have seen her as more than the daughter of his favourite slave, but Anahit possessed the innate ability to make men listen – when they thought she was a he, of course, cut or otherwise; a eunuch had far more potential power in the East than a woman. “We feel your desire for vengeance burn in our blood. The North-King will pay for those who were slaughtered and you will lead our tribes to a glorious future in our new land.” It was better for her plans if none of these warriors guessed that they were being commanded by a woman, which was why she put up with the guise of being Amir Zerang and the task of placating Siavash’s temper tantrums.

“Amir Zerang speaks truly, Amir Siavash.” Chieftain Bahman certainly did not live up to his name, Anahit thought waspishly, but then again, she was hardly pure, so she couldn’t complain that the short man was less astute than his name suggested.

“More warriors join our forces every day,” Anahit whispered – keeping her voice low and husky combined with the muffling quality of her esgal raiment allowed her to remain indistinct to the ears of her audience, to continue fooling them as to her gender – wondering what Jahangir might say if he were alive to watch her play his son like a fiddle. Of course, she thought, looking at her half-brother, Jahangir had instructed her to keep an eye on Siavash when he went off to fight at the Pelennor, but he should have known that she would never be satisfied with being Siavash’s advisor. No, the only daughter of the man who had been named ‘World-conqueror’ would follow in her father’s footsteps – even if she had to use her younger brother to do so. “Soon our numbers will be enough to ensure victory over the North-King and the cowards who bent their knee to his rule.”

Or, rather, soon she would be able to ensure that Siavash got himself killed in combat.  With Siavash dead, she would be free and in the north, able to flee to the Lord of Osgiliath and claim sanctuary – she had squirrelled away more than enough gold to set herself up as a merchant or noble lady – trusting in the pale hair she had inherited from her Rohirric mother to corroborate her story of being an escaped prisoner. She wanted freedom, true freedom – and she was shrewd enough to get it.

Siavash flicked his hand in the direction of the mute slave girl in the corner of the tent, who poured wine into his goblet and tried not to flinch at the way he tugged on the golden ring piercing her nipple. Once, the slave had been a daughter of a man like the ones at this council, until her father had failed Jahangir’s orders in a matter of conquering territory, but now she was little more than a play-thing. Anahit accepted her own goblet silently, watching impassively behind her veil as the slave made the round of the table.

His golden arm-rings – Siavash believed that wearing more gold than anyone in a room automatically made him the most respected – rang out softly when they knocked together as he lifted his goblet in a toast as she had taught him he should. The flickering light of the burning brazier caught in the ruby eyes of his Serpent-ring, making the coiled snake come alive, the tiny scales etched into the gold shimmering in the low light. Anahit bared her teeth behind her veil; the rings had been made for Jahangir’s children – she should have been given one, but her sex meant she had been passed over for the honour, no matter how much he called her ‘daughter’. Instead, Jahangir had given her anklets – a symbol of enslavement, in Anahit’s mind, even though she had never worn the shackles she had seen wrapped around her mother’s ankles – and arm-rings, dressed her in fine silks and enough gold to attract powerful suitors, even for the daughter of a slave from the north. She had been sold to one of the sons of the Chief of the Broken Tusk tribe, married off for the sake of a few more regiments of soldiers.

Anahit had killed her husband on the journey back to his tribe, and slit the throats of his men, disguising herself as a eunuch and returned to Siavash’s camp bearing false papers forged in her father’s hand that named her the chief advisor while Jahangir was off to war, following the orders of the Dark Lord.

“To the King in the White City,” Siavash said, sharing a mocking smile with Chieftain Bahman and his oldest son, “enjoy the time you have left before the Serpent’s Tooth finds you.” Anahit didn’t drink, but no one expected her to – revealing a eunuch’s face in public was a source of great shame – instead nodding respectfully at Siavash.

  “The King of Gondor has returned!” A man cried, as soon as the Gate Guard spotted the White Tree flying above their small riding party; the banner shining in the moonlight. “King Elessar has returned!” the guard continued, easily heard across the distance. At the words, the silver trumpets were blown; a sharp and clear sound. For a moment, Aragorn heard a much different voice speaking, heard the voice of the man who had died so far from the city he loved.

Silently, Aragorn touched the finely tooled leather armguards he had taken as a sign of his respect for his comrade, renewing the promise he had made to Gondor’s dying son. I will not let our people fall. Not to Sauron, and not to this new threat, either.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the City Gate, even though Aragorn and Arwen had chosen to ride through the capital that shone brightly in the moonlight instead of bumbling along in a carriage. The sound of the hooves against stone was loud in the silence of a sleeping city, with few but the guards at each gate and a few ladies of the night about their business at such a late hour. The guards were respectful, bowing or nodding at the passing of the King and Queen, though the few patrons of the various inns were more raucous. Arwen smiled graciously at the people they passed, used to their staring. Before the War of the Ring, her kind had been reduced to mere legend in the minds of Men, and Aragorn himself taking up the mantle of King nearly paled in comparison to the idea of an Elven Queen.

 When they finally reached the Citadel, all Aragorn truly wanted was his bed, but – despite the lateness of the hour – they were waylaid by the seneschal, Feron, whose fidgeting hands and mousy face hid a surprisingly organised mind that Aragorn relied on for the day-to-day running of his household. He had sent word ahead from Dol Amroth, but there always seemed to be things the King could only decide in person; holding a full council was apparently among them.

“Summon the Council for tomorrow evening, after sixth bell.” Aragorn decided; it would give him time to read the missives that were bound to be waiting in his study and take care of any pressing business as well. “The meeting is bound to run late, have extra refreshments prepared.” Arwen remained silent beside him, one hand lightly resting on his forearm; as always far more graceful than he could manage.

“Yes, my King,” Feron nodded, making a note on his writing board. “Will Prince Faramir of Ithilien be joining the Council?”

“No, Prince Faramir should be arriving a few days hence; have his usual rooms prepared.” It never ceased to amuse Aragorn how vehemently the young seneschal insisted on using proper titles, but it was the height of Gondorian impoliteness to forget. The man nodded politely, and finally they were able to retire, waving away handmaidens and manservants alike in favour of undressing each other for bed.

  Arriving in Minas Tirith, the messenger hastened towards the Keep, brandishing his royal seal of passage at each gate as he rode through the cobbled streets. The haste of King Éomer’s messengers was not an unusual sight to the people of Minas Tirith, who moved out of the way with ease, though the late hour of his arrival raised a few eyebrows. A couple patrons of the Drunken Donkey remarked favourably on the quality of the mount which led to a spirited re-telling of the Battle of the Pelennor and the Charge of the Rohirrim by more than one bar patron who may or may not have actually seen it. Nonetheless, it was a good story, the kind that made you shiver in remembered terror but also brought the sweet relief of knowing that peace now reigned supreme in your world, that the Enemy had been defeated more than a year earlier, never to return.

 The knock startled them both out of sleep, followed by the quietly apologetic voice of one of the night guards coming through the door.

“There’s a messenger from Rohan, my King; he claims it is urgent news.”

Aragorn groaned, scrubbing his weary eyes with his hands before he slid out of the bed to pull on a robe, shivering slightly at the feel of the cold stone floor against his bare feet until he found a pair of court slippers that he’d vehemently deny owning if Elladan or Elrohir ever asked.

 “Éomer has agreed that it is imperative to defeat this ‘Son of Sauron’ before he becomes a real problem,” Aragorn said, walking back through the door of their bedroom – he had been highly amused by Feron originally designating a bedroom for each of them, but Arwen had managed to make a combined bedroom seem like the man’s own idea in ways that Aragorn still did not understand. Looking at his Queen, he was once more struck by her ethereal beauty, momentarily transported decades into the past as he saw her dancing in a forest glade on the first day they met. Arwen smiled, putting aside the scroll she was reading. Aragorn yawned lightly, sliding the hastily donned robe off his shoulders as he walked to the bed.

“When will you leave?” she asked, lifting the light blanket that covered their bed and resting her dark head on his shoulder when he slid in beside her.

“The Rohirrim will be in Osgiliath in three weeks,” Aragorn murmured sleepily, running his fingers slowly through her unbound hair. “Our own forces have already received orders to muster at the garrison in Southern Ithilien – some of Faramir’s rangers have been sent south of Poros to scout the terrain.”

   For a long time, as he was being trained in the Orocarni, he had thought that the stories he was being told of her cunning and bravery had to be embellished, but as he had journeyed with her, he had come to realise that the touch of the Ancient One seemed to linger in the hearts of those who knew her. Whether her service consisted of small favours or grand deeds, they all served her purpose: reminding the People of the East that there was light in the world, a life to be had that did not depend on the whims of a Dark Lord.

She was quiet, soft-spoken unless angered, her face wrinkled with the passing of time and Sun, but her back was unbowed by age, and the staff she carried saw no use to aid her steps. She might look like she was of an age to be cooing at grandchildren if one ignored the colour of her hair, but the Ancient One exerted a peculiar form of power over her surroundings. Something indefinable seemed to surround her, as though her form was too small to contain the fire that burned inside her; as though getting too close would burn.

Umbar was loud as always, the busy docksides bustling with people who stepped aside for the Ancient One almost without thought. Abbas, his black tresses artfully wrapped with gold and rubies that glinted with the fire of the sun, following along behind her, a wide curved blade strapped to his belt and several knives within easy reach was another deterrent. His dark expression promised trouble for whomever disturbed his Mistress, and the cut-purses and thieves of Umbar’s streets and canals slunk away warily, looking for easier targets.

They were headed for the Lady of Tears, one of the ships that belonged to Sea-Lord Zhubin, whose fame as a corsair – infamy, in Gondor – did not mean that he had forgotten the time Azarpari had saved his brother from being sent to Mordor as a sacrifice. It was the way the Ancient One worked, Abbas had learned, building long-lasting alliances by demanding very little for the deeds she did, the favours she granted.

 Concealed beneath her blue hood – the sun was sharp at midday – Rómestámo hurried onwards, Abbas following behind like a silent shadow as she breathed in the salty air of the sea. Ahead, the Lady of Tears lay at anchor, just as Zhubin’s messenger had promised, bound for Gobel Mírlond’s markets with a cargo of silk and mumakil tusks. It had been no trouble to secure passage for herself and her companion; it was well-known among the sailors who traded up and down the coast that having Rómestámo on board – no matter the name they called her – resulted in favourable winds.

     Abbas did not enjoy sailing. By no means was that a new trait in one of Rómestámo’s many companions; his people were made from stone and felt far better when their connection to the land was not hampered by however many dwarf-lengths of water that currently stood between him and the shore – or the bottom. The sailors had laughed in Umbar, predicting that he would be among those who made sacrifices to Ulmo, but Abbas had gritted his teeth, refusing to shame his kin by being conquered by the sea. Rómestámo had laughed, shaking her head at his stubbornness, but she had made no fuss about it, letting him handle the light rocking in whatever way he saw fit.  

The Captain of the ship had nearly fallen over himself in his haste to offer Rómestámo the use of his personal cabin, but she had refused. Instead, she had taken up a space in the prow of the ship, where she was not in the way of the sailors, but able to see the glitter of the stars above, and feel Manwë’s wind against her skin. It made her long for home, though the ache was as familiar to her as a cradle-song to one who has long-since left their mother behind; softened with time and distance but no less heart-breaking to remember. For scores of years, her duty had kept her here, in this land of sand and heat, fulfilling the task set before her, but now… now it was ended. At least, that was what she had thought, taking Abbas along on what was – to her – merely a trip through the pages of her memory, a last glimpse of the parts of Arda she had loved best before she followed the call to go home, to return to Taniquetil and shed the shell she had worn for so long her own form seemed almost unreal to her mind.

And then the wind had changed, and her path stretched before her once more, as clear and brilliant as the light of Varda’s stars.

#aragorn #tolkiensecretsanta2017 #post-lotr #fourth age #istari #Where stars are strange

[luinihildearchive]

headcanon: ninimeth’s timeline (until the end of the War of the Ring)

SA 1600: Glorfindel, Rómestámo (Pallando aka her father) and Morinehtar ( aka Alatar) come to Middle-earth.

SA 2215: Miriel, Ninimeth’s mother is born

SA 2245: Ninimeth is born in the East to the Blue Wizard Pallando and the human Miriel

SA 2299: Miriel dies of illness, leaving her daughter devastated

SA 2486: Ninimeth leaves the East after determining she is not of much help to her father & Alatar, and goes out on her own to offer her services to those who need it

SA 2767: Whilst travelling, she is attacked by orcs. She sruvives and is left with two large scars on the left side of her face

SA 3319: She arrives secretly in Numenor again, having frequently snuck in to aid the faithful where she could. Ellendil, who was her friend, ensured her survival by taking her along on one of the nine ships.

SA 3320: Wandering around, she witnesses the foundation of both Gondor and Arnor.

SA 3429-3341: Takes part in the War of the Last Alliance, switching back and forth between the battles & sieges and te East, where she helped Pallando & Alatar thwart Sauron’s operations to keep his forces in the East from outnumbering the forces of the free people in the West. Ninimeth is wounded several times and sustains a large injury on her back in 3340 during the siege of Barad-dûr, which leaves her with a grand scar stretching over her whole back.

TA 1-10: Ninimeth dwells in Rivendell, recovering from both her physical wounds as well as the trauma the war left behind in her mind.

TA 490-541: Remains close to Gondor, aiding the, during the continious attacks of the Easterlings

TA 1635-37: The Great Plague sweeps through Middle-Earth and Ninimeth divides her time between Harad, Gondor, Eriador, Rhovanion, and Rhûn in her effort to help people get through the plague. Not everyone can be saved and in 1636 even she briefly succumbs to the plague but recovers.

TA 1851-2510: Participates in the Wainrider/Balchoth War several times, frequently coming to aid Gondor & Rhovanion

TA 1974-1975: Participation in the Angmar War, specifically the battle of Fornost. Witnesses the end of the kingdom of Arnor

TA 2139: Ninimeth meets Éomund, son of Aldred during the Wainrider war, as he is a soldier. They fall in love in the midst of war.

TA 2140-2041: Ninimeth and Éomund become engaged, planning a wedding despite the current difficulties the war brings to Rhovanion. Tragedy strikes a year later, when Éomund is slain, months before their wedding was supposed to happen. Ninimeth remains griestricken and heartbroken by her beloved’s death for nearly 800 years.

TA 2510: Witnesses the foundation of Rohan

TA 2635: Ninimeth visits Ereebor & Dale as the realm prospers

TA 2770: Ninimeth is passing through Dale on her way to visit a friend and is caught up in the destruction of Dale by Smaug during the Sack of Erebor. She is burned severely on her right leg in her escape from Dale, and afterwards remains with the refugees to provide them with medical aid. She stays a year before returning to the East to her father, to recover from her own injuries.

TA 2941: Ninimeth returns to Esgaroth/Laketown, passing through and resting on her way to the East, and finds herself in an eerily similar situation when this town to is attacked by Smaug. She became involved in the Battle of the Five Armies as a battle medic for men, elves, and dwarves. She sustained minor injuries and minor scarring was remained. Ninimeth once again remained for a year and a few months to help out where she could.

TA 3018-3019: Heavily involved in the War of the Ring, switching back and forth between the East & Gondor, helping out wherever possible and not shy to enter the battlefield. Collapses after the Battle of the Morannon ends but recovers in a few days. Attends the coronation of Aragorn with her father and Alatar

#this took a while but im pleased it's finished #all that i believe is true (headcanon)

[daughterxftheseas]

Basic Timeline for Laume

It has been brought to my attention that Laume’s timeline is kinda confusing which is probably my fault so here’s a quick thing. Base for most of the events was the Tolkien Gateway Second Age timeline found here

1,050 Laume is born 1,075Queen Tar-Ancalimë takes Sceptre 1,098Death of Tar-Aldarion 1,150 Laume’s hundredth birthday and about the time she starts going to Eregion occasionally 1,174 Súrion born 1,200 Ereinion Gil-galad turns away Annatar, Númenóreans begin to construct permanent havens 1,211 Hallacar dies       1,280 Tar-Anárion takes Sceptre 1,285 Death of Ancalimë 1,320 Telperiën born 1,350 After this time, Galadriel and Celeborn leave Eregion and go to Lothlórien. 1,394 Tar-Súrion takes Sceptre 1,404 Death of Tar-Anárion 1,474 Minastir born 1,500 The Rings of Power are forged, Sauron departs Eregion 1,556 Queen Tar-Telperiën takes Sceptre 1,574 Death of Tar-Súrion 1,590 The Three Rings are forged 1,600 The One Ring is forged, Barad-dûr completed, Sauron openly proclaims himself, Glorfindel, Rómestámo and Morinehtar come to Middle-earth 1,634 Ciryatan born 1,693 The Three Rings are hidden, War of the Elves and Sauron begins 1,695 Sauron invades Eriador 1,697 Sack of Eregion, Death of Celebrimbor, Rivendell founded, Dwarves assail Sauron from behind, Khazad-dûm closed((Laume would be about 647 and still young by Elven and Ainu standards) 1,699 Laume makes the decision to sail after Celebrimbor’s death and Sauron’s(In the case of admirable-mairon and misbehavingmaiar’s Sauron's ) betrayal(even if fishnet should have seen it coming).

Laume doesn’t comeback until about 3,117 S.A. and somewhere between there the island that Ossë gifts Mitsanar becomes a thing.

#ooc #headcanon #timeline

[varaenthefallen]

Here, weary traveler rest your wand

Over time, the Sanctuary became the centre of power in the east. No man knows how, or why.

For the Legendarium Ladies April 2017 April 8. General Prompt: If They Were Women

Read below or on AO3.

Elia almost cried with relief when she finally reached the oasis. The last stretch of her journey had been the hardest and felt the longest, and she was more than ready for it to be over. She had been honoured, and beyond ecstatic to be chosen for pilgrimage, but she had underestimated the hardships of traversing the open plains by herself. She was not the first, and surely not the last to do so, but that thought lifted her spirits only marginally.

With a tired sigh, Elia slid out of the saddle and patted her camel.

"You did well, Surefoot. We're finally there."

She allowed herself this moment of respite before straightening her dress and steeling herself for the conversations ahead. Her journey may be over, but the hard part had only just begun. She had heard many stories of the challenging trials each pilgrim had to undergo before they were allowed to petition the oracle. First, she would rest, if only for a while, before surrendering to judgement. She led Surefoot to the well to have her drink, and washed her hands and feet before she sated her own thirst.

“Welcome to Sanctuary, sister.”

Elia startled. She had been so deep in thought that she had not heard anyone approach, but there was a woman next to her, dressed in a blue robe that reminded Elia of traders from the south, with an embroidered shawl that covered her hair and the lower part of her face. The corners of her eyes were wrinkled in the way of women who laughed often and liked watching the sunset.

“My name is Aʒina. I can show you around when you are ready,” she offered.

Elia splashed a handful of lukewarm water and turned to face Aʒina.

“I am ready now.”

The Sanctuary was much larger than Elia had expected. Nestled between the grassy hills hid a sprawling city whose actual size was impossible to guess from the outside. The dirt-coloured houses blended in with the dry steppes that surrounded them, and the green trees and gardens were hidden from sight. A serpentine path led to the centre of the settlement. Aʒina nodded and smiled when Elia admired the inconspicuous defensive labyrinth and its simple architectural elegance out loud and extensively. The layout was a relict of more trying times, when the Sanctuary was the last refuge of women who had to flee an abusive relationship and defend their freedom with subterfuge and violence. The very existence of the Sanctuary was one of the main reasons why things had changed so drastically in the meantime.

“We live in peace and as equals, now, but we must not forget that it is a hard-won equality. But you understand that only too well, little sister, don’t you?”

Elia squirmed uncomfortably under Aʒina’s scrutiny, and nodded. She felt strangely exposed under the older woman’s knowing gaze, as if she was naked and her secrets were written on her skin, visible to all.

“Come. Ialani is ready to see you now.”

They had arrived in front of the temple, the oldest and largest structure in the city. There were more people around, too. They had only passed few women on the way, obviously busy with one errand or another, but the temple and its forecourt was a centre of activity. Elia saw women of all ages, from toddlers that were clinging to their mother’s skirt to old crones with bent backs and a few boys among them. Adult men were entirely absent. They wore garments of different styles, some familiar, others completely foreign. A few wore eclectic combinations that looked even stranger. All of them had blue sashes or shawls. In fact, Aʒina was the only one Elia had seen who was dressed entirely in blue. Astonished, Elia turned towards her, but Aʒina took her by the hand and pulled her bodily into the temple.

Inside, it was cool, and silent. Chants were echoing in the wide chamber, and every step resounded. At the back of the hall a woman sat cross-legged on a carpet, meditating. She had long white hair and was wrapped in a deep blue cloak that covered her from her neck to her toes. When Elia came to stand before her, she opened her sky-blue eyes, and smiled.

“Welcome to Sanctuary, Elia. Sit with me, little sister, and tell me of your worries.”

Aʒina knelt down next to Ialani while Elia bowed down in supplication, and the two of them looked right next to each other in a way that she could not imagine verbalising.

The Blue Wizards: Alatar (Morinehtar) => Aʒina Pallando (Rómestámo) => Ialani

#Legendarium Ladies April #Roméstámo #Morinehtar #Istari #Maia #Tolkien #My Writing #Varaen's originals

[ao3feed-tolkien]

The New Shadow

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2OEbF5l

by Arvin

TA3019-Fourth Age 210 第三纪魔戒圣战后至第四纪Legolas西渡之间的故事

Words: 686, Chapters: 1/?, Language: 中文

Series: Part 1 of The New Shdow

Fandoms: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Hobbit - All Media Types

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Major Character Death

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Thranduil (Tolkien), Legolas Greenleaf, Galion (Tolkien), Glorfindel (Tolkien), Gimli (Son of Glóin), Aragorn | Estel, Arwen Undómiel, Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Éowyn (Tolkien), Morinehtar (Tolkien), Elros the Guard (Hobbit Movies), Rómestámo (Tolkien), Gwaihir the Windlord, Galadriel | Artanis, Celeborn (Tolkien), Radagast | Aiwendil

Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf/Thranduil, Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Celeborn/Galadriel | Artanis

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2OEbF5l

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Tolkien #JRR Tolkien #Tolkien works #ao3 #fan fiction