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#rohirric
ettelenethelien · 2 months
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(Because I've seen too many posts about how Boromir doesn't speak Sindarin)
Which members of the Fellowship (+ assorted other LotR characters) speak which languages:
(canon, interpolation and headcanon mingled, so beware)
Boromir: Westron, Gondorian Sindarin (many Gondorians and certainly members of the nobility are billingual), probably at least a little Rohirric given how much he seems to like them and vice versa, any random Quenya words Denethor hammered into him before he decided military training was more important that he hasn't managed to forget yet (few)
Aragorn: Billingual in Westron and Sindarin since very early childhood, Quenya, Rohirric, definitely several tongues spoken in Harad and Rhûn
Frodo: Westron, some Quenya and Sindarin
Sam: Westron
Merry: Westron
Pippin: Westron
Legolas: Mirkwood Sindarin (with Silvan elements), Silvan, Westron
Gimli: Khûzdul, Westron
Gandalf: Westron, Quenya, Sindarin, Rohirric, wouldn't be too surprised if Khûzdul + an immense number of other languages - more rather than less
Faramir: Westron, Sindarin, Quenya, some Adunaic* (dead language) (hc), if he doesn't know Rohirric yet, he will learn it from Éowyn
Elrond: Sindarin (likely his mother tongue), Quenya (with Feanorian accent?), Adunaic* (dead language he learned before it was dead), Taliska* (even dead-er language, same), Westron, countless more
Theoden: Rohirric, Westron, Gondorian Sindarin (everyone is sleeping on the fact that he spent his childhood in Gondor because his father did not get along with his grandfather at all, enough to move to another country)
Éowyn: Rohirric, Westron, if she knows any Sindarin at all, it would be a few random words, but she will learn upon moving to Gondor
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(* If anyone wants to know, Adunaic is the predecessor of Westron and Taliska is the predecessor of Adunaic)
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nerdanel1485 · 2 years
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My LOTR oc: Ciarándh, a former forest warden of Rohan 
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borom1r · 26 days
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⚔️ 𝑳𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒎𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 ⚔️
Behold, an Ongoing Project! 📯
I've been wanting to compile this for a while, instead of frantically scrambling for references every time I sit down to write — I thought it would be fun to share! I'm mostly tackling this from the perspective of a fanfic author, and also as someone who's very into viking era-through-renaissance men's fashion and armor.
I think it's really fun to look at the decisions that were made strategically (to maintain actor mobility, for example), because they looked cool (Faramir's pointless hinged piece on his helmet), or because they were actually period-accurate (gambesons under chainmail, or worn as armor by themselves!). I'm also taking it as a chance to point out what these garments say about their owners!
I say this in the document itself, but there's no need to credit me if you reference/use the doc for your own writing ^_^ this is some of my favorite stuff to discuss, so just getting to share it is cool enough to me.
I'm purely focusing on human characters to start, because of the more solid real-world parallels, but I'm happy to add on to this if there are other characters you'd like to see!!
(@potatoflower7 + @rivers-for-me, tagging you both bc you interacted w/ the posts I made when I was just starting this!)
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Random Thoughts in a Boring Meeting, Quirks of Middle Earth Languages Edition:
You know how every language has certain words that don’t translate easily into other languages? Maybe they represent something specific to their own culture/setting, or maybe they describe a broadly recognized concept but others just never assigned a specific word to that idea (like how there is apparently a term in Tagalog for “something so cute that you just want to squeeze it”?). I’m writing a fic now about Faramir learning Rohirric as a surprise for Éowyn, so I’ve been thinking about how that dynamic might show up in Middle Earth.
Of course I think Rohirric would have lots of horse-related words that other races never bothered with. Like, the Rohirrim don’t just have walk, trot, canter and gallop. They’ve got all kinds of words for the way a horse moves, like when it’s wading through shallow water or slows down to pick its way through rocky, uneven terrain. Culturally, too, I think they’d have plenty of unique terms that reflect their particular way of life. If this is a society where they can all scream “DEATH!” as they battle their opponents, Rohirric probably has a word that translates literally as “dark strength” but captures the idea of “persisting through hopelessness with grim determination.” And the keepers of the oath of Eorl absolutely have a term that translates as “pledge honor” and means “the special pride of having fulfilled a promise at great personal cost.”
But it’s an interesting thought exercise in all parts of Tolkien’s world. Elvish must have tons of specific nature words the other races don’t, like something that translates as “leaf song” and evokes the specific sound of wind rustling gently through the trees. Or beyond nature, maybe something that translates as “beautiful grief” and means the kind of pleasurable pain of revisiting old sadnesses. And Gimli has a khuzdul word that translates to “foreign home” and means the place that your people dwell when they are prevented from being in their true homeland. In Minas Tirith, having lived so long with Mordor literally right on their doorstep, they’ve made a word that translates as “defiant joy” and means “daring to live your life happily despite an ever present threat looming.” In the Shire, they have twelve different words for “butter” depending on the texture, fat content, color, etc.
I don’t know. To me it’s just kind of amusing to think about, and I bet others could come up with even better examples.
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kylobith · 4 months
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LotR Week - Day 2 (12th Dec)
language | culture | beauty
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Word count: 4,197
Under the burning afternoon sun reflecting upon the white city, Faramir emerged from the library, instantly shielding his eyes. Had he truly kept his nose buried in scrolls for so long? When he had entered, it was merely dawn, the palace still lulled in peaceful sleep. Constantly awoken by the tiniest noises and cracks from the hallways or outside, he had stirred out of bed and had decided to do what he did best in such irritating moments.
Studying.
Recently, he had found a plethora of reasons to delve into books again — not that he truly needed any — and learn as much as he could about a realm whose history and people that he admitted to not have paid heed to often enough.
Now that he and Éowyn were married, he felt a pang of guilt for not knowing more than he already did about her kingdom and her kin. Although they were to settle in Ithilien once their new home would be born from the ruins of a previous mansion, Faramir yearned to respect the customs of her land as much as his own within their household.
He was willing to compromise and demonstrate his sense of flexibility. Where their art of guest-receiving would align with Gondor’s standards, he saw no problem with providing a mixed education to the children he hoped to have and raise with her. Often had he pictured it; a blonde little being mounted on horseback with the poise of a court member of King Elessar’s entourage. The child would master Westron and Rohirric at equal level, speak Quenya fluently, and have at least some notions in Sindarin or Dwarvish tongues. They would be both wild and tame, proud of the two united banners of their bloodline.
Sensing that he was getting ahead of himself again, Faramir departed from the archives and set out for the citadel. As he paused to contemplate the breath-taking view upon the Pelennor, one which he should have long grown weary of, he found his mind drifting back to his research.
Rohirric. A language unlike any other that he knew or at least encountered, with its peculiar grammatical structure and malleable word order. For the first time in years, he was facing a barrier between the knowledge he sought and himself, as if the more he read about it and its phonetic system, the less he understood. It was as though he was grappling with a most complex device he needed to unlock, but missed the keys to access even the most basic notions of the dialect that she grew up speaking.
He had considered asking Éowyn directly to teach him, and the thought of having her sit him down at a table whilst happily scribbling away on a piece of parchment to also participate in the recording of Rohan’s oral culture sounded like the best way to ever spend time.
Faramir pictured her hardly-concealed impatience at his mistakes and his horrid accent, typical of beginners. How she would be unable to tame her reactions to spare his feelings, wincing whenever he would say something wrong or pronounced something to the point of complete incomprehension. And he would love every bit of it. She was Éowyn, after all. The fairest maiden he had ever beheld, the one who accepted his hand in marriage and shared his bed ever since the lavish wedding at Edoras.
But he meant for the whole learning process to remain a secret for now. It was all part of the grand gesture he wanted to make for her. He had already planned most of it. At sunset, he would take her to the garden in Minas Tirith, where he had held her hand for the first time. They would watch the golden and rosy hues of the evening sky from underneath the arches, and he would slip a carefully-picked flower into her luscious hair. Then, he would recite a love poem he would have written in her language, ending it with a simple sentence reflecting his adoration for her, and making a point of how beautiful she was to him.
If he finally managed to grasp the quirks of Rohirric, that is. Aware that each language reflects the culture of those who speak it, he needed to put himself in the boots of a Rohir, but he could not wrap his head around the way that they thought, the way that they felt and experienced the world around them. Something as simple as the subtlety of terms and the connotations of certain phrases eluded him.
He had seldom ridden through the plains and valleys of Rohan. Its landscape, although now somewhat familiar, remained a great mystery to him. Having lived all his life in Gondor, he had enjoyed the privilege of encountering visitors from nearly all over Middle-earth, engaging in hours-long conversations with them, but he had never known the challenge of settling down in a foreign land and immersing himself in another way of life. Faramir had offered to stay in Edoras until their Ithilien home was ready to welcome them; he would have gladly helped Éomer in his new role as king, to provide him with wise counsel and serve as mediation with Gondor.
But Éowyn had refused. While she was elated to have wed him in the heart of the colourful Meduseld, she was eager to start this new chapter in her life, to leave her past behind and begin her assimilation to Gondorian culture. Perhaps she was braver than he had ever been in this regard, he thought. There had been no hesitation on her part, and he had assumed that she would have wished to stay in Rohan longer in hopes to make a difference in the treatment of women. Or, more realistically, she would have barked at her brother until he would yield and introduce new laws while getting rid of archaic ones.
As he entered the Hall of the Kings, Faramir faced the two empty thrones ahead of him. Aragorn must be attending another council meeting in a different part of the citadel, he thought. It did seem rather strange to him that the hall was left vacant; what if somebody entered to beg for help? Would they even be heard?
A rustle coming from his right alerted him that he was not alone after all. Under the arches, studying one of the statues with passive interest, stood the king of Rohan himself, clad in his armour, yet comfortable enough to let his guard down.
‘Éomer, my brother!’ he exclaimed, walking up to him with a beaming smile and open arms.
The king pivoted and his stern expression softened upon seeing his sister’s husband. He indulged him to a warm embrace and patted the prince’s arm rather harshly, but the latter paid it no mind.
‘I did not know you were visiting!’ Faramir said, surprised to see him in Minas Tirith at all, especially in the empty hall. ‘Has anybody been notified of your presence? Have you been assigned quarters for your stay?’
‘Yes, yes, don’t worry. I wanted to enjoy a bit of peace before being swarmed with servants and diplomats.’
Faramir laughed and shook his head. He would have felt exactly the same way, had fate been different and had he become Steward in his father’s stead.
‘Does Éowyn know that you are here?’
‘Not yet. Ah, she will find out soon enough.’
‘Are you not eager to see her?’ he inquired, his curiosity piqued. ‘If you do not send for her, you know that you will hear about it until you are on your deathbed.’
Éomer laughed and responded with a simple shrug. Faramir invited him to his office so they could both sit down and share news of their respective lives. How things had changed! After the pouring of wine and the exchange of pleasantries, the prince noticed that he had left some of the borrowed scrolls from the library wide open onto the desk. Unwilling to stain them with spilled wine or ink, he began to roll them up again, but their content did not escape Éomer’s notice, who squinted at the writings.
‘That is Rohirric!” he noted with a pleased expression. ‘Are you studying our tongue, brother?’
Faramir blushed and sheepishly nodded his head. He hoped that Éomer would not start questioning him about his knowledge, since he still considered it to be awfully vague.
‘Indeed. I wish for our household to be shaped by Rohirric and Gondorian customs alike. Éowyn is my equal, she should not forsake her culture for my own, even now that she came to live in my land.’
‘How’s the learning so far?’
‘Not great.’
He placed the secured scrolls onto a nearby shelf, away from the dangers of clumsiness, and returned to his chair, picking up his goblet.
‘I cannot seem to wrap my head around the way that your people see and write about the world. Do you see the same things that we Gondorians do? Do you see the bud of a flower and feel the promise of a fruitful spring to come?’
Éomer snorted and chugged the rest of his wine in one, large gulp.
‘You are overthinking it, Faramir,’ he said in reassurance. ‘The Rohirrim are not as complicated as you think. We do not need a hundred words to describe a tree.’
With Faramir’s permission, Éomer helped himself to another cup, stretching out his legs in front of him.
‘See us as more… practical people. Where you might look at this desk and say “Here stands the pillar of knowledge, the support of my hours of contemplation and meditation, the theatre of my duty and of my wit, where justice is served and culture preserved,” us Rohirrim would just say…’
The king waved his hand with raised eyebrows towards the piece of furniture in brief silence.
‘“It’s a desk.”’
Faramir chuckled and sipped the deep burgundy nectar.
‘Well, you sound well-learned in Gondorian phrases and imagery,’ he teased.
‘That happens when your brother-in-law keeps pestering my men about lore, poetry and song whenever he visits Edoras.’
Their shared laughter fills the room and instantly brings more warmth to it. The new prince of Ithilien stared at his working table in deep contemplation and pondered Éomer’s words. It’s just a desk. And indeed, it was, but could there not be more to it?
There it was again, his damned eternal Gondorian perspective.
Faramir tapped his fingertips against his goblet and reclined in his seat.
‘What makes your people so practical indeed?’
‘You are asking the wrong person, brother. I can’t say that I have much interest in knowing about such things. But the way I see it, it has something to do with our lack of documentation. Our stories, our tales, our history… We share them orally. We don’t value written records the way that your kin do. I suppose that we do need to keep it simple so our message and our motivations do not get lost in translation and interpretation. Besides, we see beauty in simplicity.’
‘Is it so?’
It made sense to him. Éomer might not have been raised a scholar, but his argument seemed to have opened Faramir’s eyes to something he had never even suspected. Of course, he had forgotten about the risks of oral tradition! How many names, accounts and legacies had been misshapen by the trials of time? By the innocent romanticisation of narration at the detriment of facts?
Faramir drank his wine pensively and glanced at his guest. Perhaps he could let him in on his little quest. After all, Éomer was great at keeping secrets, and he spoke the language he sought to master.
‘Éomer, I wish to learn Rohirric for Éowyn. I want her to feel at home wherever she goes, and I want her to feel understood. I have been trying to teach myself in secret for weeks, but it seems that the more I learn, the less I know.’
His brother-in-law curved his eyebrows in surprise — although he did not expect any less of Faramir. The king put down his cup and opened his hands.
‘I am a warrior, not a scholar. But I suppose that if there’s anything you wish to know, perhaps I can help.’
His host beamed at the offer and put his cup aside as well. He grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, propping up the sheet on his knee with a thick volume on the history of scientific innovations of the Haradrim.
‘There is one notion that seems to differ much between our mentalities,’ he started, ‘and it is this of beauty. You said that your kin find beauty in simplicity, but what else? How do you express it?’
‘Oh, well, we feel connected to the earth and fire, where Gondorians evoke air and water to us. Any aspect of our world that we find attractive, we connect to these two elements. We like what is grounded as much as we like that which is fiery. Many of our sayings and expressions comprise these themes, when they don’t revolve around horses.’
Not wasting a single second, Faramir scribbles away, his brow furrowed in concentration. Earth. Fire. Noted.
‘Do you have vocabulary with elemental connotations to describe something you find pretty?’
‘Yes, we do,’ Éomer answers before marking a pause, seeking examples. ‘When we mean to say that someone is as beautiful as the sun, we say sunne fyrna. Burning like the sun. Like they radiate light.’
Rejoiced at the idea that he might have found something to use to compliment Éowyn, he continued to take notes, guessing the spelling from the rules he had read about.
‘Is it a powerful way to compliment somebody’s beauty?’
‘Yes, and no. It can be overused.’
‘Oh.’
Éomer chuckled and drank another gulp of wine, before scratching his beard. He pictured his sister and tried to imagine how she would like to be complimented by Faramir. Not how anybody else might, but which words she would value from his mouth. Then, with a smile, he held out his hand for Faramir’s quill, and his brother-in-law did not hesitate to lend it to him, alongside the parchment.
Not quite used to writing, Éomer’s trembling hand formed a few words onto the paper and showed it to his host.
‘This is the highest compliment that Rohirric women could ever hear. If you wish for Éowyn to fall for you all over again, this is your key. But let me warn you: do not blame me if her bairn sees the light of day nine months after you say it to her,’ he winked.
A few days later, once Éomer had departed Minas Tirith to return to Rohan, Faramir approached Éowyn and tenderly wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing the back of her head. Despite the tears of sorrow from seeing her brother leave again, she allowed herself to smile and turned in his embrace to place a tender kiss upon his lips.
‘How about you and I have a walk in the garden at sunset?’ he murmured, his fingers weaving through her golden hair.
‘I would rather stay at home, if you don’t mind,’ she said with a sniffle. ‘How about we sit by the fire and you read to me again? I love hearing you tell stories.’
Faramir’s disappointment was powerless compared to the thrill that invaded him to know that she enjoyed listening to his tales. So, he gladly accepted, but still took the time left that day to pick the most beautiful flowers at the market for her, as well as her favourite Gondorian pastries.
When the fire crackled in the hearth of their home, Faramir entered the room, finding her already nestled onto a chair, her eyes admiring the dancing of the flames. Éomer was right; the Rohirrim were particularly bound to this element.
And now, he found beauty in it, too. Perhaps not like a Rohir would, but he did.
He found elegance and refinement in the way that it illuminated her delicate traits, her chiselled cheeks and the lovely dimple on her chin that he so often kissed. In its halo, the fairness of her hair glowed and radiated like the summer sun and the bright moon had come together in one. Her thin, pale hand rested onto her lap, only adorned by her wedding band. It was the perfect image; the love of his life in the firelight, making him fall head over heels all over again.
Faramir stepped inside ever so calmly, holding the flowers in his hand. Éowyn, alerted by the soft footsteps, turned to him and instantly smiled.
‘Fari, are those for me?’
He nodded, mirroring her grin and brushing his fingertips against her cheek. He came to one knee before her, admiring her with the most loving eyes that any being would be graced with.
‘Beautiful flowers for my most precious lady. My gorgeous wife.’
She chuckled and leant closer to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him into a tender kiss. Then, she took the flowers and admired them with her lips parted in awe.
‘They are perfect! Thank you. Let me find a vase for them.’
‘Do this, and I shall find a book for us to enjoy.’
They parted ways with another kiss and joined again after a few minutes. Faramir sat on the chair by the fireplace and patted his knee. Éowyn kicked off her slippers and sat in his lap, tying her wrists around his neck and resting her head in its crook. He opened the book and proceeded to read a tale of romance, the type that they had both come to appreciate more ever since their first encounter.
As he spoke the words in his solemn and affectionate voice, his eyes losing themselves in hers every so often, she felt her heart slowing down. Passion that causes one’s heart to race at the sole sight of one’s lover sure is pleasant; but to her, there was much greater satisfaction in finding a person with whom one feels so at ease and at peace that their heart would feel tranquil at last.
When the story came to a close, Faramir felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. Now was the time to surprise her. He had written the poem with Éomer to help him translate his feelings in the Rohirric tongue, and his brother-in-law had provided with ample wordings and phrases for him to convey his affection for his wife.
But now that he had to recite it, he found himself at a loss. None of the words remained within reach. They eluded him every time that he thought he could reshape one of the verses. Oh, what to do?
Well, he would have to do what he always did in unforeseen circumstances as a Ranger. Improvise. At the very least, he could remember the loose vocabulary. He could manage to simply tell her that she is beautiful. That was easy.
Closing the book and placing it on the rug, Faramir held his beloved wife’s hand and stroked its smooth skin. Lost in her deep eyes, he let the words overcome him. He let them invade every piece of himself that was not already conquered by the sight he beheld.
‘Éowyn,’ he intoned with a lovestruck voice, ‘leofest wife min, is éosgitan prættigre thonne thé.’
Éowyn froze, her eyes round as marbles and her jaw slacked. Faramir beamed with pride at the sheer surprise upon his wife’s face. But when her bewilderment turned into a deep frown, his exaltation swiftly came to an end.
‘Did I mispronounce something?’
She blinked a few times before rolling her eyes to the ceiling with a groan. The tension in her shoulders decreased, until she met his gaze once more.
‘Did Éomer teach you this?’
‘Well, yes. I have been studying Rohirric for the past weeks, but I needed his help. I wrote you a whole poem, but as soon as I looked into your eyes, I… I could not retrieve the words and I felt rather foolish. So, I used the other words he taught me to compliment your beauty.’
Faramir ran a hand through his hair, rather embarrassed. Surely, if this was her reaction, he had done it all wrong.
‘Was my pronunciation that horrendous?’
Éowyn laughed and pecked his cheek.
‘No, my love,’ she consoled him. ‘If you need advice about learning Rohirric, here it is: never trust Éomer. What he taught you means that horseshit is prettier than me.’
‘Oh. OH. No, no, this was not my intention at all! I…’
‘Calm down, Fari. I figured as much.’
He sighed in relief and wrapped his arms around her waist.
‘Why would he do such a thing?’
‘He’s a big brother. That is what big brothers do.’
‘Boromir never…’
‘My love, from all the things I have heard about him, I can assure you that Boromir was no typical older sibling. Siblings bicker, they fight over the pettiest thing. Éomer and I often shouted death threats to one another!’
Faramir blanched and shook his head in disbelief. He could not fathom Boromir ever uttering such calamities to him. But come to think of it, his father had done that aplenty in his stead.
‘I see. Well… I apologise for my words. I never meant to insult you.’
‘I know, Fari, you do not need to reassure me. Take it easy on yourself. Éomer took advantage of your cluelessness about our tongue to trick you. In a way, I think it comforts me into thinking that he sees you as his brother now. Not only did he gratuitously insulted me through you, but he also played a trick on you to embarrass you without harm.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh, yes. He would not do that to just anyone.’
The pair exchanged a loving smile and indulged into a slow kiss. When their lips parted, Éowyn instantly forgot the incident and traced his jaw and chin with the tip of her nail.
‘So, you said that you are learning Rohirric? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I wanted to surprise you. I wrote a poem in your language for you, and I meant to recite it in the garden at sunset. But since you preferred to stay at home, I wanted to pronounce it here instead. Again, I forgot all of it. But I have it written in my office. Now, I do not know how much of it I can trust.’
‘You had Éomer translate it with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Expect the lewdest things, then. But I will read it, if you allow me. Perhaps he did grow some common sense and actually did a good job. You can never know, with him.’
She peppered his face with kisses, causing him to blush and giggle. Oh, how he loved it when she made him drop his guard and made him giddy with the simplest of gestures. None other could bring him to such heights.
‘Min se swetesta sunnan scima,’ she murmured into his ear.
‘Wait,’ he exclaimed, perking up. ‘Sunnan… It is the sun, is it not?’
‘See? You know more than you think.’
Faramir grinned from ear to ear in victory. At last! He had understood a spoken word! He felt like a child whose arrow reached the target for the first time. It did not matter whether he did not hit bullseye; he had reached it.
‘But what does it mean?’
‘It means “my sweetest sunbeam”. And seeing you now, I believe that it could not fit you more.’
He chuckled and cupped her face, gently tracing her cheekbones with his thumbs.
‘What word is there in the Rohirric tongue to describe what I feel when I see you?’
‘Your words were spot-on.’
‘Come on,’ he playfully groaned, rolling his eyes. ‘You know that I was the mere victim of a crude trick. I want, no, I need, a word to express the fact that you are my most precious treasure. A gem I shall never tire to behold. One I seldom dare to touch with my rough fingers out of fear that I might shatter you.’
Éowyn flushed red yet did not avert her gaze. She stroked his hair and sighed.
‘Sincroden.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sincroden. It means “treasure-adorned”. Many maidens of the Rohirrim dream to have a man address them as such.’
A shy smile played on his lips as he registered the information. He shifted a little on his seat and, sensing her slipping off his lap, he held her knees firmly and pulled her back onto him, pressing her to his chest.
‘Sinchroden wife min.’
The twinkle in Éowyn’s eyes betrayed the bursting joy within her thundering heart. Once again, she bestowed him with a most tender kiss, and none of them let go for the rest of the evening. Clad in the flames’ cast orange hues, they no longer needed words to convey their devotion to each other. They spoke the universal and unspoken language of bewitched hearts, eyelashes grazing their cheeks and the caress of their mouths the only syllables they required.
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katajainen · 13 days
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Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing. To hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking: Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!
These staves he spoke, yet he laughed as he said them. For once more lust of battle was on him; and he was still unscathed, and he was young, and he was king: the lord of a fell people. And lo! even as he laughed at despair he looked out again on the black ships, and he lifted up his sword to defy them.
And then wonder took him, and a great joy; and he cast his sword up in the sunlight and sang as he caught it. And all eyes followed his gaze, and behold! upon the foremost ship a great standard broke, and the wind displayed it as she turned towards the Harlond. There flowered a White Tree, and that was for Gondor; but Seven Stars were about it, and a high crown above it, the signs of Elendil that no lord had borne for years beyond count. And the stars flamed in the sunlight, for they were wrought of gems by Arwen daughter of Elrond; and the crown was bright in the morning, for it was wrought of mithril and gold.
Please remember that the last time Éomer heard of Aragorn, he believed he was riding to his certain death, so this must truly be a surprise past all thought of hoping.
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a-lonely-dunedain · 11 months
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oh silly me, I introduced Ealwar in @rohirric-hunter's ask but forgot to add a screenshot of her!
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here she is! I like her design, maybe one of these days I'll finish developing her character. also practicing making screenshots look less stiff, I like how these turned out :)
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tar-thelien · 8 months
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I´m working on a fic about Erestor such as where he´s from, his family, and what could have led to him only being of enough importance to be named in the third age if he is from the first age
Here is some translations I´ve done for the fic in writing - QUENYA and ROHIRRIC (the langue of the people of Rohan)
Quenya:
Cullo = Red gold: Quenya
Carne = Red: Quenya; Carne is the word for red but if it´s a word holding more it changes to Carni-(other word) therefore it´s Carnistir and not Carnistir as Caranthir´s Quenya name
Sen = Child: Quenya
Carnisen = Red child: Quenya
Mori = Dark: Quenya
Attea = second: Quenya
Moriatfinwe = Dark second Finwe: Quenya; I don´t think I abbreviated it right but I did try
Yon = Son: Quenya; The reason why I don´t use Yondo is that Tolkien had some problems with the meaning so it ended up meaning both great grandson, child, and son, descendants, personal I like it to just mean great grandson
Meles = Love: Quenya; That is in “old Quenya” the one Tolkien ends up changing it to is Melme, although Meles seems to hold a meaning og more platonic than Melma
Eldarion = Son of the Eldar: Quenya; Yes it´s also the name of Aragorn´s son I just think it fits as a sharp remark of defense
Atan = Men/second (people): Quenya; Yes it´s more or less a way to say second in all and not just second born
Rohirric:
Theo = People: Rohirric; I am never going to try and find around in Rohirric, what a nightmare! Tolkien did imply that the Haladin were the forefathers of the people of Rohan so that´s why I´m using Rohirric
Eo = Noble: Rohirric; Eoh means horse (usually war horse) and Eorl nobleman and looking into the importance of horses for the people of Rohan I´m translating Eo to noble (yes I like the idea of them calling all their horses noble)
Red = Counselor/Wiseman: Rohirric; this is taken from the name Theodred which means folk counsel and we know that Theo is the people so Red must be the counsel
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enekorre · 3 months
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I love rohan so much
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I wonder if the 'wyn' part of Éowyn was something like 'kali' in the original Rohirric? Since 'wyn' means 'joy' in Old English and we know from Merry's name that 'kali' means 'jolly' in Westron, and it's plausible that those words could be related
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laigaming · 7 months
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Helwynn Grimwight, Thane of Hytbold, takes her duties seriously and joins the other leaders of eastern Rohan in repelling Saruman's forces and exposing a traitor.
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marblecarved · 8 months
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thinking about théodwyn growing up speaking both sindarin and westron, since they were both spoken at home by her parents, and only later in life learning rohirric,
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actuallyfingolfin · 2 years
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continuing from my nessa-train-of-thought earlier: the rohirrim know orome as bema, so i’m thinking that since orome & nessa are siblings, they know of her too, and of vana and then i got to thinking “then what are their domains?” 
well, they exist as sort of two ends of a continuum: with nessa representing the more “untamed” side of nature and with vana representing the more “domesticated” side. 
nessa is a patron of the shieldmaidens too, as well as being considered the protector of children. vána is particularly associated with agriculture and all the things that grow, and in rohirric iconography she wears a crown of wheat stalks. (nessa has a crown of antlers and fawn spots on her arms)
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borom1r · 2 months
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I've always head-canon/referred to the language as Rohirric, just made sense in my mind, along the lines of Rohirrim-multiple people/nation, Rohir-singular person. I also use it to refer to anything cultural; a Rohirric poem/saga, a Rohirric wedding. Thoughts?
I tend to default to Rohirric = culture and Rohanese = language for no real reason other than Rohanese is the most documented term Tolkien used for the language in his notes, but at the same time even Tolkien went back and forth + other Tolkien scholars use Rohirric for the language so it really doesn’t matter— at the end of the day, use whatever sounds best to you!
(ultimately I do think Rohirric sounds better than Rohanese by a MILE and ik it’s more widely used in fandom so there’s that too lol)
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rohirric-hunter · 10 months
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erotetica · 2 years
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Why were the pauldrons so little in lotr
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