#when we say ‘eorlingas’ we mean ALL the eorlingas

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

Yes, yes, Sean Bean was afraid of the helicopter and Ian McKellan hated Elijah Wood’s music choices in the makeup trailer and Billy Boyd had to go to the emergency dentist in full hobbit get-up, but my absolute favorite behind-the-scenes tidbit from the LOTR movies is that half the riders of Rohan were actually women. A whole army full of Dernhelms, it just couldn’t be more *chef’s kiss*.

#lotr #lotr movies #lord of the rings #rohan #dernhelm #éowyn #forth eorlingas #when we say ‘eorlingas’ we mean ALL the eorlingas #elfhelm would approve

[madamebaggio]

Notes: I mentioned a while back I had this ÉomerxLotty thingy on my head...

I actually have two of them, one is just an excuse for romantic cliches + smut, this one if more like a comedy, I guess.

It isn’t finished, but let me know what you guys think.

***

Queen Lothíriel had been married to Éomer, King of the Riddermark for almost two years now.

Their marriage was good. Éomer was a good man, who treated her well and actually listened to what she had to say. He’d been really kind during the time she was still trying to adapt to living in a completely different place.

All the stories she’d heard about his temper, about Eorlingas being savages, how The Mark was a country of simpletons, were a bunch of horseshit. 

Her husband might have a temper, but it rarely made an appearance. Sure, when he got angry, he got furious; but even that hardly ever happened. Éomer was good at listening to people and thinking through before taking action. He didn’t go around losing his temper at anything said to him.

The people from the Mark were not simpletons or savages. They were hard-working, kind, loyal and brave. Honestly, these days Lothíriel prefered her people to most nobles in Gondor.

She was content with her life in the Mark.

She liked her husband a lot, and might even be in love with him. 

She only had one problem.

Queen Lothíriel spent a lot of her time thinking of all the ways she wanted to be ravished by her husband, Éomer King.

Now, mind you, she didn’t mean she wanted to make love to him. That they did. Éomer was kind and gentle and attentive and it felt perfectly lovely.

But…

Lothíriel wanted something more. Something besides being treated like a fragile doll that couldn’t handle anything. She wanted what she’d seen in those novels she pretended she’d never read before.

Things like… Like Éomer pushing all the things and documents from his table, before lowering her onto it.

Or maybe sharing the tub on a cold night and having him say he’d keep her warm.

Perhaps getting lost in the middle of a storm and then having to… Wait… Yeah, perhaps not that one. It sounded a bit dangerous.

The table one actually sounded uncomfortable too.

But, you get the idea. Something like that.

The main problem was she didn’t know how to get it. In the books she read those things just kind of happened. There was this passion, this tension and then it just… Happened.

Nobody had to ask for it. Ladies just got properly ravished by the men they loved. It was all very simple.

She quickly realized that it wouldn’t be like this in her life.

But that couldn’t mean that… She’d have to ask Éomer for it?

No! She couldn't do that!

He’d think he was married to a harlot.

Although… With the kind of thoughts she was having lately, she might as well be a harlot.

Lothíriel remained stuck on this dilemma for more time she probably should have. Then, one day, she came to a conclusion.

There was a simple way to fix this without having to actually talk to her husband about it!

She would seduce him! She could do it.

Lothíriel was pretty sure Éomer enjoyed being with her as much as she enjoyed being with him. It shouldn’t be that hard to just seduce her husband into taking her to bed, and once they were there, his passions could overtake him.

Right?

It sounded very plausible.

She’d read things just like that in a book -or twenty.

Therefore, Queen Lothíriel prepared herself to seduce her husband into ravishing her properly. She waited until there was a banquet -everybody would be happier and more carefree on such a day, including her husband -, then took extra care in her appearance, from the bath with rose oil to the earrings she chose to wear.

Tonight she’d dance with him, laugh, be charming and mysterious and he’d be so taken with her, he wouldn’t be able to control himself.

She might have read that in a book.

It was going to work.

Lothíriel just needed a glass of the sweet wine her father had sent her as a present to gather her courage.

Fine. Maybe two glasses.

***

Éomer was a little confused by his wife.

That itself was a novel experience. Lothíriel tended to be a quiet woman, but she expressed herself well whenever it was necessary.

He was incredibly fond of her -probably in love, if he were to be honest -and liked many things about her. She was smart, kind-hearted, sweet, pretty and easy to talk to.

Tonight, not so easy, as it turned out.

She’d been remarkably pretty at the banquet. The green dress she was wearing made her look like a dream, she was laughing and dancing with him…

She was also quite drunk.

Éomer had never seen his wife consuming that much wine before.

So much wine that he actually had to carry her to their room.

She was flushed, her hair was a mess and she looked absolutely lovely that way.

“Drink this, love.” He told her, passing her a goblet with water.

Lothíriel grunted a protest, but drank the water then fell back on the bed.

“This wasn’t my plan.” She grumbled.

“You had a plan?” Éomer asked, amused by the sight.

“Yes! I was supposed to seduce you.” She whined, throwing her arm over her eyes.

Éomer was now very interested in this conversation.

He kicked off his boots and dropped his coat on the floor and sat beside her on the bed. “You were going to seduce me?”

She nodded.

Éomer didn’t bother to hide his grin, since she couldn’t see him anyway. “Why do you need to seduce me?” He asked. “You could’ve just told me you wished for my company.”

“But…” She huffed in frustration, finally uncovering her eyes. She was pouting at him. “Then you wouldn’t ravish me.”

Now that… Éomer had to take a deep breath in. She looked so upset by the notion, she was still pouting and Éomer wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or kiss her.

“And you want me to ravish you?”

“Yes!”

Another deep breath in. “I see.” He said at last. Éomer laid down next to Lothíriel, propped his head on his hand and smiled at her. “Can we do that when you’re sober?”

She bit her lower lip. “You think it’s better?”

How could she be so adorable while asking him to ravish her? “Probably.”

She frowned, considering his words. “Will you rip off my clothes then?”

Béma, give him strength to get through this night. “Well, I could.” He offered carefully. “But are you sure you want that?”

She actually thought hard about that one. “Actually, no.” She finally decided. “I really like my clothes.”

Éomer chuckled, putting a hand to her belly. “I like them as well. Let’s keep the ripping to a minimum.”

Lothíriel groaned. “Do all things sound better in books?”

Was this how they came to the situation? Had his wife been reading too many books? “I’d think so.” He told her honestly. “Reality tends to be a bit more boring.”

In books things were much easier, less messy and complicated. In books ripping clothes off was probably very easy.

However, the word ‘boring’ made Lothíriel gasp in despair. “Is that what happens to us?” She wanted to know.

“Not exactly.” Éomer was fast to assure her. “I didn’t want to scare you. I thought you might not like being treated more…”

“Roughly?” She offered.

He sighed, asked Béma’s guidance one more time. “Something like that.”

She hummed her understanding. “I mean… I wouldn’t know, right? You’re the only who’s ever touched me and you’re always really gentle.”

Éomer hadn’t even noticed he was drawing circles on her belly with his thumb until that statement made him stop. “Was that bad?”

“No. I was just curious.”

He put his hand on her waist and pulled her tight against him. “Why didn’t you ask me before?”

“I don’t want you to think I’m a harlot.” She confessed.

“I would never.” He told her seriously, then dropped his forehead against hers. “You can always come to me and ask me anything, Lothíriel. We can at least talk about it.” He brushed his nose against hers. “We can even do it.”

She giggled. “Can we?”

She was really testing him. “In the morning, when you wake up, ask me again. If you still want it, I’ll ravish you then.”

She gasped. “Really?”

Éomer chuckled. “Really.”

#madame baggio #snippet #The Lord of the Rings #gifs not mine #eomer #Lothiriel #eomer x lothiriel #you just had to ask

[felsenbluete]

Mass textpost with things I was tagged in over the years (and I mean years, I think some of them might be three or more I’m so sorry lmao)

@undead-letsrebellamy​

Indoor plants or gardens // cloud-watching or star-gazing // water or fire // paperback or hardcover // running or hiking // sleeping with socks or without socks // fruit or vegetables (10 yo me would shoot me on sight) // hanging plants or succulents // dark wood or light wood // handwritten or typed // instagram or pinterest // braids or pigtails // dc or marvel // books or movies // oceans or meadows // forests or fields // sweet or salty // ice cream or chocolate // hoodies or sweaters // long hair or short hair (vokuhila) // piercings or tattoos // summer or winter // boots or sneakers // cars or motorcycles // curls or straight hair // castles or cottages // sunny days or storms // reptiles or birds // disney or nickelodeon // strawberries or watermelon // essays or posters // phones or laptops // glass or stone // dark or light // photos or paintings // circuses or theatres // reading or writing // dogs or cats // poetry or novels // monsters or ghosts // thrift shops or libraries // fiction or non-fiction

@northernmoments​ Name/Nickname: Kira Jennifer, the only nick name I’ve ever had was Jenjen and that’s just a shame Pronouns: She/Her, but honestly brave of you to speak about me Star Sign: Aries Height: 178 cm Time Currently: 13:05 When is Your Birthday: 15.04. Favourite Band/Groups: die ärzte, Guns ‘n Roses, Linkin Park, Kaizers Orchestra, Fiddler’s Green Favorite Solo Artists: Howard Shore should count!, also P!nk Stuck in Your Head: Caledonia by Celtic Thunder, but that’s because I’m listening to it right now Last Movie You Watched: I Am Legend Last Show You Binged: tried Superstore, but watchseries is down rn  Last Book You Read: the last one I actually finished was Going Postal by Terry Pratchett.   When You Created Your Blog: 2013?  Last Thing You Googled: How to spell Sir Terry Pratchett’s last name  Other Blogs: about three for just different #vibes, a ski jumping side blog that has so many followers and where I’m the saltiest person on earth, also one for Naruto (don’t look at me), one “studyblr”/”langblr”/resource mine Why I Chose My Url: Wanted a Tolkien one and in the audiobooks by Bluefax the way Smaug says this “title” is one of my personal highlights  Do You Get Asks: almost never How Many People Are You Following: about 20 actually active blogs How Many Followers Do You Have: looking at my activity: 8 Average Hours of Sleep: ~8 hours Instruments: viola/violin What I’m Currently Wearing: grey sweatpants, grey socks, grey sweater, my Gollum-tshirt Dream Job: Rentner (in all honesty I would enjoy being a housewife) Dream Trip: I want to go to Iran just to eat fruit and meet potential in-laws, why is that so hard Favorite food: pannekoeken or Palatschinken, I hate American pancakes, it’s important to me to state how much I disrespect thick pancakes Top Three Fictional Universes You’d Like To Live In: 1, 2 & 3 are all Lummerland

@curuvari​

spell or curse ∙ abandoned mansion or haunted cementery ∙ vampire slayer or ghost hunter ∙ phoenix or griffin ∙ wrist bite or neck bite ∙ fairy godmother or evil stepmother ∙ herbs or potion ∙ ghost or wraith ∙ dragon scales or werewolf claws ∙ druid or mage ∙ elf or hobbit ∙ divination or necromancy ∙ wand magic or hand magic ∙ centaur or unicorn ∙ dark fairytale or disney-style fairytale ∙ sword or bow & arrow ∙ siren or water nymph ∙ garlic or silver ∙ talking animal or walking tree (but in a Huorn, not in a Ent way) ∙ demon trap or crossroads pact ∙ enchanted fairy forest or mermaid lagoon

@mattikitku​

first 10 songs on shuffle - note: my itunes library is very very old, but on the other hand I haven’t really listened to music in years, so here we go

1. Massachusetts - Ylvis 2. Treebeard - Howard Shore 3. Your Mother Should Know - The Beatles 4. Pushing Me Away - Linkin Park 5. Pfingsten - Christoph & Lollo 6. Out Ta Get Me - Guns ‘n Roses 7. Rage of Poseidon - Apocalyptica 8. Monster Monster - Lordi 9. Wie es geht - die ärzte 10. Forth Eorlingas - Howard Short 

@mona-liar​ only the answers that weren’t already included above

Sexuality: very deep into aspec territory and we’ll leave it at that Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw Favorite Animal: cats Number of Blankets: one, I’m German Where I’m from: Westfalen  Dream Trip: oh, also Singapoor  Why I created this account: I was really into ski jumping and Ylvis

uhh, so anyone who is tagged already choose one you wanna do? also @margalotta​ and @take-hell-with-a-smile​

#I love everyone that has ever tagged me in anything #and esp mona-liar and mattikitku: I've felt bad about this at least thrice a week #the first two @s don't work because Tumblr truly is a website #EDIT: now they do!!

[theemightypen]

eothiriel + 5 (things you didn’t say at all)

(Because I have no self control, here’s a scene (that may or may not be included in the fic proper) from the Persuasion AU)

Dol Amroth truly is beautiful.

It being so is doing nothing to quell the nausea rolling in his stomach. The fact that the serving girl has led him to the garden--their garden--helps even less. 

Perhaps I should just leave, he thinks, desperate for some alternative to his present course. Perhaps if I simply went away, stop replying to her letters, she would forget me--

“I did not expect you back so soon!”

Eomer forces himself not to flinch. 

He turns. 

Lothiriel is hurrying towards him. Her hair is unbound, glossy and black in the midday sun, and her pretty face is set in its familiar smiling lines. Bright eyes sparkle with unrestrained happiness at seeing him. Bema above, but she is beautiful.

She is hugging him before he can stop her, arms tight around his waist and her face pressed into his chest. Everything in him aches to put his arms around her. But he cannot. For her sake, above all others, he cannot. 

She stiffens, slightly, in surprise at his lack of welcome. Tipping her head back to meet his gaze, he can see the confusion writ on her lovely features. The concern.

“Eomer?” She asks. “Is something wrong?” 

“My lady,” he says, willing his face to remain impassive and still, despite how bitter the formal address tastes on his tongue. “I--I am afraid I have bad news.”

Lothiriel gives a sharp gasp, tugging him down to sit beside her on the nearest bench. “Oh, Eomer, I am sorry! Is it your uncle? Has he grown so ill?”

“My uncle is fine. Thank you for your concern.”

She blinks again. “My...concern? Eomer, why are you speaking like this?”

“Like what, my lady?”

“As if we are strangers! Surely we have not grown so distant in only a month’s time,” Lothiriel teases, nudging him.

Of course not, he thinks, I know you better than anyone. I would know you anywhere in the world. 

But he cannot say that. Not with Grima’s threats still ringing in his ears.

It would be a shame if something were to befall the Princess of Dol Amroth. So fair, so young...so unused to the dangers of the road. Of travel. Of men. Take her to wife by all means, Eomer, son of Eomund. But do not expect a long union should you do so. Such a...delicate creature surely would not last long amongst the Eorlingas. 

“I am afraid that we have and that we must,” Eomer says. “Due to the news I must give you, my lady. My uncle will not permit me to marry outside the Riddermark.”

There! It is said. A lie and a truth, all in one. Theoden King had refused his petition to court Lothiriel. Or Grima had, somehow using his uncle as a puppet to keep Eomer from finding even the tiniest shred of happiness. And the councilor’s hold on Theoden is horribly, terribly strong. Eomer has no doubt that he would hold good on his threats to Lothiriel, should he do what his heart wants and marry her regardless. Even if she were to stay here, in faraway Dol Amroth. Grima’s reach is long and his mind is cunning. Bema, how he hates that wyrm--

“I do not believe you,” she says, pulling him from his thoughts. Her brows are drawn together, eyes sharp. Oh, Bema. He knows that face. She is as stubborn as Eowyn, when she sets her mind to something, and it is very clearly set now. “You have never mentioned such a stipulation before. And--you are unsettled, I think, rather than upset.”

The urge to press his forehead to hers, to tell her that she is right, that she has used her uncanny ability to read him once again, is strong. So very strong. 

A Marshal’s wife faces many trials, Grima’s voice whispers, and all of them stem from her choice of husband. Would you really want to subject her to that?

He will not risk her. Not even for the chance of their happiness. 

So. It is to be the more painful way, in which he must break her heart. 

“I was trying to spare you discomfort,” Eomer forces himself to say, “but I see now you will leave me no other choice.”

“No other--Eomer, what are you--”

“Please, my lady. Do not make me say it.”

“Say what?” Lothiriel explodes, shooting to her feet. “That you are not acting like yourself? That you are frightening me? That you are not telling me the truth?”

“Then let me tell you it now. Yes, it is true that my uncle did not give his permission, but it is also true that I no longer require it. For I do not love you.”

Lothiriel’s pinked cheeks drain so rapidly of color that he cannot help but reach out to steady her--Bema, this will be the last time he touches her and it feels like a dagger in his heart--to prevent her from fainting. 

But his mðdleófu is made of sterner stuff than that. She stands firm, eyes baring into his.

“You--you do not--”

“Love you. I have been dishonest to both of us--”

“You are being dishonest now! How can you say--after everything--”

“My time away gave me clarity. It was an infatuation, nothing more. I should not have taken advantage of your youth and inexperience--”

“Taken--you--Eomer, I do not understand--”

“I am sorry to cause you pain. But you would not make me a good wife. Nor I you a good husband. I cannot continue to lie to myself, or to you.” 

Bema, this was true torture. Every word out of his mouth is a lie--Eorlingas do not lie--and painful ones at that. Lothiriel is crying now, try as she might to keep the tears at bay.

“But--you said--you said I was--”

Mðdleófu. Beloved above all others. Dearest. 

“I was mistaken.”

“A-and what of me? My love matters so little to you?”

It is more valuable than I know how to say. It is more than I ever thought to have, and more than I expect to ever know again.

“I cannot change my heart, my lady.” 

At this, she slips out of his grip, wrapping her arms around herself. As if she is holding herself together. “Nor can I change mine,” she cries, “for it is still yours, even as it breaks!”

Oh, Bema. His hands shake with the effort of not reaching out to her. She will not forgive him for this, even if the truth ever comes to light. That is well enough; he will not forgive himself either. 

“I am sorry that it is so,” Eomer manages to say.

That, of everything he’s said, is true.

#OOF it's angst o'clock apparently! #eomer x lothiriel #eothiriel #persuasion AU #my writing #prompt response #fully expecting the pitchforks for this one

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

A Light That Endures, by  The Moonlily [@themoonlily] (432k)

Of old days of the Mark the tale of Lion of Rohan and his Lady fierce and brave is remembered and beloved by Eorlingas beyond any other... This is a story of being lost and found, and discovering your redemption. Here is a Light that Endures. 

Behold the result of an hour of photoshop editing. This is what happens when I’m left unsupervised, I get sucked into the éothiriel vortex and make shitty fanart for want of writing my own fanfictions for this pairing.

I’m currently in the process of reading this fanfiction - I’m only 1/5 into the story but it already holds the promise of long sleepless nights spent reading it until the wee hours. What do you mean I can’t make a fic rec if I haven’t finished said fic? Nonsense.

Listen, I don’t need to read any more of it to assure you that it’s a jewel, alright? A diamond, the huge kind everybody wants to see on their ring finger at some point in their life. Although you better believe I will read it until the very last word, all 432 264 of ‘em. Because, like my gal pal Jane Austen once said “When a book is well written, I always find it too short.” And if you think I’m going to bully all of my friends into reading it too, you are absolutely right, and while we’re at it you should give it a go too.

UPDATE: I have finished it. My life is a pile of fuming ashes on the desolated ground, I have nothing left to live for, and am forever bound to wander aimlessly on this doomed earth without a purpose. What am I supposed to do after reading this? Can life live up to what I just experienced through these words? Is it even worth finishing college or should I sit on a window sill and simply melancholy stare out the window until my body ceases to function and turns to dust?

Am I being dramatic? Certainly, that’s just who I am as a person. But the fact remains that my world has been turned upside down. Granted my sleeping schedule has significantly improved since I finished this fanfiction, but what is a bit of sleep if my waking hours aren’t filled with quality Eothiriel stories? Gotta say it: the bar has been set rather high, and I’ve been struggling to find a work that rouses similar enthusiasm in me as this one. Life has been generally a bit more dull now that I cannot look forward to reading a new chapter of ALTE anymore.

So, to all of you who stuck around until this point:

UPDATE (2): You know how I’ve been throwing my very own little pity party because this fanfiction was over and my life has basically become aimless? Well, I was in the wrong, because there IS MORE.

Flickers of Light (54k)

It’s a series of 48 oneshots, little snippets of Eomer and Lothiriel’s everyday life, a bit fluffier than what the author used us to in ALTE. I’m in the process of reading them all but I honestly don’t know what more to say if you’re not convinced that you should read this story at this point.

I wish I knew about this while I was reading ALTE because reading 54k worth of oneshots in one go sure is tedious when you have to try and replace each of them in the chapter of ALTE they belong to. So it’s best to read them as you go and switch between ALTE and Flickers of Light because of the chronology.

King and Lioness (266k)

Ghosts that we knew will flicker from view and we will live a long life. 

I’m thrilled about finding this one, seriously people, I once again have a goal in life. I’m so excited! ALTE is perfect one its own, so I was a bit scared before staring to read this one, because what if it ruined a perfetly good story, right? Well, I sure was wrong, because it’s fantastic. The mood is quite different from ALTE, that’s true, but it’s a natural evolution and not an abrupt change of tone. The characters follow their arc, and life goes on (a lot more time goes by in K&L than in ALTE even if this one is shorter) following its natural course. It’s quieter, cosier, it a story you can read without wanting to rip your hair out because of the STRESS and SUSPENS which nearly made me go bald during ALTE.

Then again I’m only halfway through so maybe the stressful/suspensful parts are yet to come.

UPDATE: I have finished it. Last night I pushed through the last handful of chapters because I stubbornly refused to go to bed before reaching the end. It took me forever the read the last chapters because I was too busy bawling my eyes out - and consequently having the clean my glasses and blow my nose regularly - because of how sad I was.

And it’s not even a sad ending, it’s a happy ending. But it made me sad, and I honestly don’t know how I even managed to ugly cry for over two hours without alarming my roommates or drowning in my own snot. (Classy, I know.)

I knew how it was going to end for Eomer and Lothiriel, I knew it from A Light That Endures, but I didn’t expect it to be so heartwrenching, and I especially did not expect it to be written all the way to the end. I thought the author was going to stop at the peak of happiness in the story. But no, she didn’t. And while you see the end coming, it doesn’t make it easier to read it, or accept that it’s how things are.

SPOILER WARNING ----

@themoonlily You made me cry so hard I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all after finishing it. From the moment Eomer freed Silfren tears starting blurring my vision and after that the flow didn’t stop until I reached the very end. It really broke my heart to read about Eomer’s death even though it was peaceful. Of course I personally love Eomer, but having to read about Lothiriel’s mourning and aching made the loss ten times worse. I was already there, a weeping mess, and then I thought about how much pain she must be in if it’s that bad for me, and it only made me cry harder.

I have loved your story and the characters in it from the very first chapter of ALTE to the last of K&L, and it cost me so much to read about their end. I love your writing to pieces, and I know I will read ALTE again at some point in my life, but I don’t think I can go through the emotional turmoil of K&L again, I genuinely don’t have the strength to do that to myself again. It was so cathartic, I was exhausted by the time I finished (at an ungodly hour of the night) like I’d run a marathon, I was drained of my energy as though I was the one who’d lived their lives, and done what Eomer and Lothiriel had done -instead of reading a book while snivelling and crying-  

I will cherish your story forever, thank you for writing it (and nearly killing me with Feels)

#éothiriel #éomer #eomer #tolkien #jrr tolkien #lotr #lord of the rings #lothiriel #lothiriel of dol amroth #eomer x lothiriel #eomiel #eothiriel #lothíriel #éothíriel #rohan #riddermark #eomer king #king eomer #katie mcgrath #karl urban #fanart #fanfic #fanfiction #alyssa talks #fic recommendation #fanfic rec #writing is hard #fic rec

[therangerofthenorthernlands]

Tolkien Update #1 (7 June 2021)

GENERAL SPOILER WARNING FOR THE LORD OF THE RINGS

Hey guys, so I've finally finished with school and now I get to read to my heart's utmost desire. Therefore, I'll be giving regular updates on my journey through Tolkien's works. They will be very heartfelt posts, as Tolkien’s writing consistently manages to touch the deepest parts of my heart. I’ll probably go chapter by chapter for The Lord of the Rings, going over quotes that I loved or found interesting and making general comments... not sure what I'll do for the rest of the books. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Also I’m starting in the middle of the trilogy because that’s where I’m at right now. Retroactive posts may or may not come For now, here is my "review" of:

The Two Towers being the second part of The Lord of the Rings

Chapter 6 “The King of the Golden Hall” otherwise known as “Eowyn is a Fucking Badass”

To give a brief overall review, I found this chapter rather interesting. It chronicled the end of Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli's journey across the plains of Rohan and their arrival at the Golden Hall, Meduseld, the seat of King Theoden son of Thengel, in Edoras. I found Tolkien's specificity in ethnic distinctions between men from different regions of Middle Earth (men of Gondor vs. men of Rohan vs. Men of, for example, Bree) particularly fascinating. His attention for detail is absolutely spectacular. Also in this chapter, Eowyn is introduced, and let me tell you that I fell in love with this woman at first sight. Further commentary in the quotes down below, but damn I love her. I wanna be her. Not sure how I feel about the whole thing Tolkien is setting up between her and Aragorn, though... I definitely hated it in the movie but I feel a little bit better about it in the book. I believe Eowyn's representation is overall more thorough and better in the book than in the movie.

Quotes that I liked/highlighted from this chapter and perhaps some general commentary/observations to accompany them (If I don’t provide commentary for a quote, assume that I just thought it sounded pretty):

As the company approaches Rohan, Aragorn and Legolas observe the lineage of the royalty of Rohan. Legolas notes how insignificant the passage of these five hundred years is to the elves and Aragorn counters that “’…to the Riders of the Mark it seems so long ago,’ said Aragorn, ‘that the raising of this house is but a memory of song, and the years before are lost in the mist of time.’” (pg. 112)

Aragorn’s lamentable tone resonated with the deepest parts of my soul here. I believe that his reflection upon the “mist of time” here mirrors reflection on his Numenorean blood and extended age, and perhaps the alienation he feels from his kin because of these extraordinary traits.

A little later on Legolas observes the language of the Rohirrim and humbly notes that “‘[He] cannot guess what it means, save that it is laden with the sadness of Mortal Men.’” (pg. 112)

This quote kind of left me speechless, the melancholy in conjunction with Legolas’ humility in the observation of the culture of the race of man, a culture and a race that elves normally look down upon or scorn... It just makes you realize the innate goodness of Legolas, and makes me love him all the more.

“‘It is not clear to me that the will of Theoden son of Thengel, even though he be lord of the Mark, should prevail over the will of Aragorn, Elendil’s heir of Gondor.’“ (pg. 115)

...Everytime someone mentions Aragorn’s lineage it gives me chills. Every. Single. Time.

“‘In this elvish sheath dwells the Blade that was Broken and has been made again. Telchar first wrout it in the deeps of time. Death shall come to any man that draws Elendil’s sword save Elendil’s heir.’“ (pg. 115)

See above. Also, no idea who Telchar is yet. Maybe I’ll find out when I read The Silmarillion?

“‘Yet in doubt a man of worth will trust to his own wisdom.” (pg. 116)

Thought this was a good aphorism. Tolkien speaking straight facts.

“’...ill news is an ill guest they say.’“

See above.

“‘The wise speak only of what they know, Grima son of Galmod. A witless worm have you become. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a serving-man till the lightning falls.’“ (pg. 118) Gandalf putting the traitorous Grima in his place, as he should...

HERE’S WHERE THINGS GET INTERESTING

As the company proceeds outside with King Theoden, Tolkien provides the first description of his niece, Eowyn. “Grave and thoughtful was her glance, as she looked on the king with cool pity in her eyes. Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed and stern as steel, a daughter of kings. Thus Aragorn for the first time in the full light of day beheld Eowyn, Lady of Rohan, and thought her fair, fair and cold, like a morning of pale spring that is not yet come to womanhood. And she now was suddenly aware of him: tall heir of kings, wise with many winters, greycloaked, hiding a power that yet she felt. For a moment still as stone she stood, then turning swiftly she was gone.” (pg. 119)

Wow. And just like that, I’m head over heels for Eowyn in just a few words. Especially the bolded part. I just feel so empowered by this description. I love her. I want to be her. AND THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING OF HER BAD-ASSERY, as you will see in my following quotes. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love Miranda Otto, she’s amazing in the movies. However I do in fact adore her more in the books. BUT THEN THE DESCRIPTION OF ARAGORN FROM HER PERSPECTIVE. I WANT TO BE HIM TOO. I love them both, I love them all. I still don’t know how I feel about the romance that Tolkien is hinting at, though... Leaning toward not liking it especially.

“‘Alas!’ he said, ‘that these evil days should be mine, and should come in my old age instead of that peace which I have earned. Alas for Boromir the brave! The young perish and the old linger, withering.’“ (pg. 121)

I like Boromir more in the books, movie did him dirty :(

This is the second time an observation of this type has been made. The first was by Frodo to Gandalf in FOTR. Recurring themes people, recurring themes.

I forgot what number three was. Oh right, spot the aphorism!

“Arise now, arise, Riders of Theoden! Dire deeds awake, dark is it eastward. Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded! Forth Eorlingas!” (pg. 122)

I always love Tolkien’s verse. Also the repetition of “Forth Eorlingas!” always hits different :’)

“‘If we fail, we fall. If we succeed--then we will face the next task.” (pg. 122)

Wise, pertinent words. (Spot the aphorism!)

“‘There is no rest yet for the weary.’“ (pg. 123)

yardy know... spot the aphorism! no, but, fr, i felt this. school’s tiring, dude. it’s over tho. good times!

“’Then even the defeat of Rohan will be glorious in song,’“ Aragorn says as King Theoden insists upon riding out to battle with the company, the Rohirrim, and the amassed male citizens of Edoras. “‘The Lord of the Mark will ride! Forth Eorlingas!’“

Chivalry, nobility, humility, and “Forth Eorlingas!” Honestly, what more could you ask for?

“‘Down, snake! ...Down on your belly! How long is it since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price? When all the men were dead, you were to pick your share of the treasure, and take the woman you desire? Too long have you watched her under your eyelids and haunted her steps.’“ (pg. 124)

Gandalf’s confrontation of Grima. Noted because this exchange is transposed almost word for word in the movie (if I’m not mistaken) and I found it interesting.

Following King Theoden’s rallying of the troops, “already they heard below them in the town the heralds crying and the war-horns blowing. For the king was to ride forth as soon as the men of the town and those dwelling near could be armed and assembled.” (pg. 125)

The way Tolkien phrases this makes one feel so powerful.

“’Faithful heart may have froward tongue.’“ says King Theoden regarding Eomer. “’To crooked eyes truth may wear a wry face.’” says Gandalf about the same. (pg. 126)

Aphorisms, aphorisms, aphorisms! Love this man.

When asked what gift he would have from the King of Rohan, Gandalf petitions “give me Shadowfax! He was only lent before, if loan we may call it. But now I shall ride him into great hazard, setting silver against black: I would not risk anything that is not my own. And already there is a bond of love between us.’” (pg. 126)

I love Tolkien’s mention here of love and bonding with animals. Really highlights his special connection with nature and emphasizes the fact that we should all try to be closer with and kinder to our environment as a whole.

“Now men came bearing raiment of war from the king’s hoard, and they arrayed Aragorn and Legolas in shining mail. Helms too they chose, and round shields: their bosses were overlaid with gold and set with gems, green and red and white.” (pg. 127)

Powerful. Just... no words. Powerful.

“’Indeed sooner I would I bear a horse than to be borne by one.’” says Gimli the dwarf. (pg. 127)

Some comic relief from the comedic legend that is Gimli son of Gloin, the dwarf.

HERE WE GO BABY HERE COMES EOWYN MY LOVE

Speaking of who should take charge of Rohan in the absence of Theoden and Eomer, “there is Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, [Eomer’s] sister. She is fearless and high-hearted. All love her. Let her be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone.’ ...Then the king sat upon a seat before his doors, and Eowyn knelt before him and received from him a sword and a fair corslet.” (pg. 128)

YES! JUST, YES! NEED I SAY MORE? NEED I REPEAT MYSELF? NEED I EMPHASIZE MY UNENDING LOVE FOR EOWYN?

AND HERE WE GO AGAIN WITH THIS BAD-ASSERY

“Aragorn looked back s they passed towards the gate. Alone Eowyn stood before the doors of the house at the stair’s head; the sword was set upright before her, and her hands were laid upon the hilt. She was clad now in mail and shone like silver in the sun.” (pg. 128)

*INTERNAL SCREAMING OVER HOW MUCH I ADORE AND WANT TO BE THIS AMAZING POWERFUL WOMAN*

“‘Men need many words before deeds.’“ says Gimli the dwarf. (pg. 128)

Aphorism >:)

“‘An axe is no weapon for a rider.’” says Legolas to Gimli. “And a Dwarf is no horseman. It is orc-necks I would hew, not shave the scalps of Men.’“ (pg. 128)

Love Gimli’s enthusiasm. Right attitude, right execution.

It’s too long for me to effectively quote it but on pg. 129 there’s a pretty humorous exchange between Eomer and Gimli. Love the character dynamics of the two, and I love their interactions. They’re great, especially considering the emergence of their burgeoning friendship!

“’Here now I name my guest, Gandalf Greyhame, wisest of counsellors, most welcome of wanderers, a lord of the Mark, a chieftain of the Eorlingas while our kin shall last; and I give to him Shadowfax, prince of horses.’” Theoden to Gandalf. (pg. 129)

Don’t know what Greyhame means. Gandalf has so many names that sometimes (*cough* all the time *cough*) I get lost. Besides that, this passage gives me chills. The whole atmosphere and tone of it. The humility between two completely different yet eerily similar people. The power in kindness.

Continuing in this same thread, “’Behold the White Rider!’ cried Aragorn, and all took up the words. ‘Our King and the White Rider!’ they shouted. ‘Forth Eorlingas!’ The trumpets sounded. The horses reared and neighed. Spear clashed on shield. Then the king raised his hand, and with a rush like the sudden onset of a great wind the last host of Rohan rode thundering into the West.” (pg. 129-30)

Internal screaming at how much this gives me chills. I cannot express enough how much I love Tolkien’s writing. Also, istg that I’m gonna end up with “Forth Eorlingas!” stuck in my head for the next millennia for how much I absolutely adore it.

Aaaaaaaand I guess that’s pretty much it for this chapter? Really honestly short post really. Definitely not long. No. Yeah. Really long post. Wow. Wasn’t expecting to write that much, but here we are! And I’m happy! Well then, all my love to Tolkien and all my love to you dear reader if you have somehow made it this far. I hope see you in the next update! Until then I must say: Forth Eorlingas!

#lordoftherings #lotr #legolas #aragorn #gimli #gandalf #books #reading #grimaworm #grima #hama #eomer #eowyn #rohan

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

Oh, hello!

It’s time to replace my original pinned post with a more permanent choice, so here’s the quick, updated scoop on what you can expect here:

I love all things Tolkien and looking at, thinking about, and talking about those things. So I will absolutely reblog your fan art of Thranduil draped across his throne in that sultry pose or like your fic about how Tuor came to love Voronwë as a brother on their long journey to Gondolin. But in my heart, I’ve always been a Rohan kind of girl. That’s where you’re going to find my interest most often drawn, and it’s what I write about almost exclusively (with the very occasional tangent into Haldir-related content, which I understand is totally inconsistent, but the heart wants what the heart wants!).

So, if you could talk about the Eorlingas for hours on end, if Éomer is the Middle Earth king of your dreams, if you find yourself unreasonably attached to minor characters like Háma and Elfhelm or have tons of opinions about how amazing Théodred is, if you’re personally invested in Karl Urban’s dimples …maybe we should be friends! And if you like those things, then maybe you’d get something out of my fics. Or not. Either way is fine!

Those fics are now collected in one place below, which I’ll try to keep updated. I make no claim that they are fine works of literature, but they make me happy and that’s their primary purpose. While they’re all consistent with each other and exist in my unified headcanon, they tend to be one shots based on some particular thing I was interested in–a specific plot point, an unanswered question, a desire to see a certain character grow/develop a certain way. Anyway, you get the idea. So thanks for being here, click through to the master list (such as it is) and FORTH EORLINGAS!

Rohan: (stories in rough in-universe chronological order)

Éomer-focused:

TFW Siblings Prompt: Éowyn is frustrated by Éomer’s attempt to protect her from Wormtongue.

Turning Points: Éomer is back from the war of the ring with a changed worldview and an intention to get married. Includes the first look at the character who becomes his wife.

A Vigilant Eye: A marital scene between Éomer and his wife, Mereliss, focused on Éomer’s stubborn need to never admit weakness. This is as spicy as any of my fics get, which is to say…only very mildly spicy.

A Need of the Soul: Éomer is teaching Faramir how to speak Rohirric as a surprise for Éowyn. Cute brotherly bonding moments, remembrances of Boromir and Théodred and lots of horse talk.

TFW Parent-Child Prompt: Éomer becomes a father for the first time and has lots of feelings about it.

TFW Extended Family Prompt: Éomer’s father in law, Elfhelm, realizes what he means to Éomer in light of the many losses Éomer has already experienced.

The Fire Inside: Éomer is back in Gondor after the war to help with the ongoing clean-up after Sauron, but his life has changed a lot and so have his feelings about battle so he needs Éowyn to help him talk it out.

Nowhere Else: A look back at how Éomer met his wife, told from both sides of the meeting. Includes a look at several other sweet moments from over their years together.

Théodred and Éomer art by Valeria Salo

Théodred-focused:

TFW Cut Ties Prompt: Traces the unshakable bond forged by shared grief between Théodred and Éomer, enduring all the way to Théodred’s literal last words.

Into the Breach: My most comprehensive look at Théodred the person and his backstory, told in the few days leading up to his death. It's more or less my answer to the question of what Théodred was doing in/around major canon events from LOTR. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

Ties That Bind: A look at how Wormtongue’s manipulation of Théoden affected the larger royal family, as seen through Éomer’s experience when Théoden had him jailed. Théodred's fiancee is a key element of this fic, so I'm putting it with the other Théodred stories though he's not directly in it.

A Life Interrupted: Éomer reckoning with the death of Théodred. My original story with details of Théodred's life and my HC for him.

Háma-focused:

Those Worth Fighting For: Family fluff of Háma being a sweet dad to his little girl while shielding her from the reality of the increasing danger posed by Isengard.

TFW Freeform Prompt: Háma and his wife struggle with how to protect their children from the increasing likelihood of war.

Not This Time: The discovery of Háma’s body after the battle of Helm’s Deep has major consequences.

Other Rohirrim:

TFW Ancestors Prompt: Théoden’s father, Thengel, returns from exile against his will to take up the throne in Rohan.

Untitled intro piece about Guthláf: A short musing on what it means to Guthláf to be Théoden’s banner bearer.

Untitled ficlet on Elfhild: A short intro to Théodred’s mother, who had a premonition she wasn’t going to survive his birth.

Lórien:

Three Weeks on the Nimrodel: Haldir meets his perfect match while posted for 3 weeks with a substitute marchwarden who understands and appreciates his natural reserve.

The Guardian: Haldir finds a lost and scared little human girl while on patrol in Lórien. Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Epilogue.

#lord of the rings #lotr #fan fiction #tolkien #lotr fanfiction #eomer #Éomer #theodred #Théodred #Háma #hama #guthláf #guthlaf #rohan #forth eorlingas #haldir #there is no character in rohan too minor to be of interest to me #with a dash of haldir

[theemightypen]

eothiriel for 18?

18) Things You Said When the Sun Was Shining

also yikes this took me 18 million years to fill

It is a beautiful spring day in the Riddermark. There is a gentle breeze coming in from the south, stirring up the scent of honeysuckle and lavender in what was once Theodwyn’s garden. Eomund had built it for her in their house in Aldburg as a wedding present, years ago.

Not for the first time, Lothiriel wonders what her mother and father-in-law would have made of her. Never more so than now that she, at Merthwyn’s insistence, has been all but banished from Edoras for a few days, for a much needed reprieve from her duties as Queen.

“You’ve done your duty admirably these past few months,” the housekeeper had tutted. “And we are all very proud of you, but no eorlingas alive would begrudge you a break, nor time with your children. The council can handle the Riddermark and I the Hall. Go, my lady, and spend time with your babes!”

And so she is. Olfete is playing with her carved horse–a much beloved gift from Eothain–under the dappled sunlight of a nearby tree, while Ecwen gurgles happily around a wooden teething ring, one hand fisted in the fabric of Lothiriel’s skirt.

All in all, a perfect day, but for one thing: Eomer’s absence.

He has been away on campaigns before, of course. Sauron’s fall and the dissolution of Mordor’s armies had not rid Middle Earth of evil. After re-swearing the Oath of Eorl, he has had to aid Aragorn numerous times in keeping their mutual enemies at bay, both within Gondor’s borders and without.

But he has never been gone quite so long. Ecwen had been six months old when he’d left, and six months has it been since his departure. To say that Lothiriel misses him would be an understatement. He has been as consistent as he can, with his letter writing, but that is simply not the same as having him home. Of being able to turn to him for help with Ecwen’s midnight tears, to laugh about Olfete’s attempts at making flower crowns, or to be able to press her face into the curve of his neck at the end of a long day. Their bed has been cold, in more ways than one, for six months. Lothiriel is weary of it.

His last letter had said he would be home sooner rather than later, as quickly as Firefoot’s hooves will take him, but there is the well-being of the returning eorlingas  to consider, the new treaties with North Harad to solidify, and all the many miles still to travel.

Lothiriel had known what it would mean to wed a man in such a leadership position. How many times had Ada been called away for just as long when she was a child?

That knowledge helps–somewhat. The ache of missing him–of their girls missing him, for surely that explains at least some of Ecwen’s fussiness–will not be eased by anything other than his eventual return.

“Modor, look!” Cries Olfete, pulling her from her melancholy thoughts. “Buterflégan!”

And it is. A handful of them, brightly colored and graceful in the spring sunshine.

“They’re pretty,” Olfete declares, abandoning her play to climb into Lothiriel’s lap for a better view.

“Pree!” Echoes Ecwen.

“They are indeed,” Lothiriel agrees, “thought not as pretty as you, min swetes.”

Ecwen babbles happily as Olfete giggles, leaning her head against Lothiriel’s shoulder. Their oldest daughter looks very much like her. Dark skin, dark eyes, darker hair–hræfnsweartu, Eomer has always said of them both. Ecwen, even at only a year old, has her father’s tawny hair, his green eyes. But there’s no mistaking the House of Eorl in both of them, in the delicate point of Olfete’s nose, in the stormy expression Ecwen makes when she is well and truly displeased. It has been both balm and pain to see Eomer so plainly in them during the campaign.

“But where’d they come from?” Olfete asks.

The butterflies, Lothiriel thinks, and resolves to stop being so gloomy. Being so will not make Eomer arrive faster and will only serve to upset the children. Olfete has always been very perceptive and Ecwen mercurial, so even the hint of a sour mood is enough to make them both less than happy.

“From far away, I expect,” she says, stroking a hand through Olfete’s dark hair. “Perhaps Haruni sent them.”

“Haruni sent them? Why?”

“Let me show you.” At this she reaches out, gently, carefully, toward the flock of butterflies. One–bolder than the rest–inches towards her finger from its safe perch on a bloom. Lothiriel waits, patiently, until it is settled on her finger to slowly bring it back towards them. Olfete is watching in wide-eyed fascination, one fist tight around the silver chain of Lothiriel’s necklace.

“She will not hurt you, Olfete. I promise. Can she give you her gift?”

Cautiously, Olfete nods. Lothiriel brings the butterfly close to her daughter’s cheek where it obligingly flaps its wings. Olfete giggles, wariness quickly giving way to delight.  

“It tickles! What is it?”

“A butterfly’s kiss. Our loved ones can send them to us on their wings, no matter where they are.”

“Ecwen should have some too!” Olfete declares.

“Mo!” Cries Ecwen, in obvious support of the idea.

Lothiriel laughs, bringing the butterfly close to Ecwen’s nose. Fearless as ever, Ecwen eyes the animal with fascination–so much so that her eyes cross. Lothiriel laughs, Olfete giggles, and Ecwen grins, even though it is likely she doesn’t understand what is so amusing. She grins wider at the touch of wings to her nose and mercifully doesn’t try to bat the butterfly away with her chubby, baby fists.

Eventually, the butterfly takes flight, fluttering off to rejoin its kin in the flowers.

Ecwen has crawled into Lothiriel’s lap as well, her head on Olfete’s shoulder. They watch the butterflies in comfortable silence for a while.

Just as Lothiriel begins to contemplate gathering them both up for a nap, Olfete stirs, turning a little to fix her with a piercing stare. It is such an utterly Eomer-like expression that Lothiriel’s breath nearly catches.

“Modor, did the butterflies have to come from Haruni?”

“Well, no,” Lothiriel assures her, shifting Ecwen more comfortably into the crook of her right arm. “Any one we love could have sent them. Aunt Eowyn, Mistress Brandybuck, Legolas–”

“What about Faeder?”

Oh, Lothiriel thinks, willing herself not to cry. “Of course. That is who probably sent them, Olfete, you’re right.”

Olfete’s lip quivers in what is a valiant–and heart wrenching, Valar, how strong she is, for one so young–attempt not to cry. “S’not as good as Faeder’s real kisses, but. It would be ok. If he did send them.”

“I am sure he did. And besides, he will be home soon. He said as much in his last letter, remember?”

Olfete sniffles and leans her head back against Lothiriel’s shoulder. “Soon is taking forever.”

Lothiriel cannot help but huff a laugh before pressing a kiss to her eldest’s forehead. “I know. I think so, too.”

“Fa!” Declares Ecwen suddenly, with a very forceful point in the direction of the butterflies.

No, not the butterflies, but rather the broad-shouldered figure rounding the hedge behind them–

“Faeder!” Cries Olfete, launching herself from Lothiriel’s lap with every ounce of her four year-old’s strength. She is down the path before Lothiriel can even draw a breath to urge caution–surely it could not be Eomer in truth, she would have been told if his eored was so close–

But no, it is him, handsome and tall as ever, bending down to sweep Olfete up in his arms with a relieved laugh.

“How tall you’ve gotten, mitting!” He is saying, as if he hasn’t been gone for months. “And even more freckled than I remembered–

“Faeder, you’re home, I missed you–” Olfete cries, wrapping her little body as tightly as she can around him.

“I missed you too, swete.”

“How much?”

“Very much.”

Lothiriel’s heart is in her throat. Oh, Valar, she’s so happy she could burst. And there has never been anything more touching than Eomer with their children. But she also is torn between the distinct urge to throttle her husband, no matter how much she’s missed him, and give Merthwyn a serious piece of her mind, so for so obviously–in hindsight–tricking her into coming here.

“Say hello to Ecwen, too, Faeder!” Olfete orders.

Somehow Lothiriel manages to stand though her legs feel like water beneath her, with Ecwen balanced on her hip. Eomer has shifted Olfete to one side, so that one hand is free to reach out to her and Ecwen both. For once Ecwen is uncharacteristically shy and hides her face in Lothiriel’s hair as they approach. Eomer’s expression shifts–happiness to incredible sadness and regret–in the blink of an eye. Valar, how could she even feel a moment’s irritation with him? It is not as if the separation has been easy for any of them!

“She does not remember me,” he says, voice rough. “I had not thought–I should have expected–”

“Give her a moment,” Lothiriel assures him. Ecwen had not hesitated to pet a stallion the other morning; surely her own father is less threatening than that?

Mercifully, she is proven right, for Ecwen lifts her head from her shoulder with a small–but still sunny–smile. “Fa,” she says, again.

Eomer swallows. “Yes. That’s–yes, Ecwen.”

He reaches out to touch the soft curve of her cheek. Ecwen giggles, pressing her face further into his hand, and Lothiriel gives a helpless sort of laugh. “She was just surprised, I think.”

Eomer’s eyes shoot up to meet hers. “I do not think she was the only one. I–it was meant to be a kindness, Lothiriel, but–”

She steps forward to kiss him, unable to bear the note of uncertainty in his voice. As if she can be anything other than happy to have him back again, safe and whole. It’s much more chaste than the welcoming kiss she’s dreamed of giving him over the course of the past six months, but it achieves its purpose; Eomer relaxes, his hand sliding to grip her arm that’s around Ecwen’s back.

Olfete’s giggles pull them from their embrace. “See? Told you Faeder’s real kisses would be better than the butterfly’s!”

Lothiriel laughs at the confused expression on Eomer’s face. “The buterflégan you sent,” she explains, with a nod in the direction of the flower bushes.

Mercifully, he follows her line of thinking. “Ah. I am glad I can stand up to their kisses, Olfete!”

“Silly Faeder,” she says, wrapping her arms tight around his neck again, “you’d always win!”

The blush that fills his face is so endearing that Lothiriel cannot help but kiss him anew, even as Ecwen gives a sharp tug on her hair. “I agree. And welcome home, Eomer King.”

His smile is no less beautiful than it was the day she knew she loved him. “There is,” he says, nudging his nose against her temple, “nowhere else I’d rather be.”

#eomer x lothiriel #eothiriel #with bonus kidlets! #prompt response #dolamrotha #this took me 18 million years to fill and i'm SORRy #my writing #also i rotted my own teeth while writing this so you're welcome??

[theemightypen]

“So. It was you.”

The sound of furious whispering is the first thing that greets her as she enters the royal chambers. The second thing she takes note of is the equal parts humorous and endearing sight of the heads of her three children bent together, clearly conspiring something.

“Olfete, Ecwen, Elfwine,” she says, smothering a smile when they all jump in surprise. “Dare I ask what mischief you’ve gotten into this time?”

Olfete cringes–as the oldest, and most level-headed, she’s most accustomed to to cleaning up the messes of her younger siblings, with varying success. Ecwen, on the other hand, offers her best, most guileless smile, which means something is afoot indeed. Elfwine, at only 3, hasn’t mastered lying in any capacity, so it’s he who answers her, saying, “We let Fi out of his stall!”

Fi is what poor Firefoot has been dubbed since Olfete began talking. He’s in his old age now, much more gentle than he had been in the height of the War, little as Eomer wants to admit it. All of her children are as fond of him as their father, but generally with more disastrous results.

“Ah,” Lothiriel says. The mess in the courtyard–an overturned watering trough, a very shaken groom, and a rather muddy warhorse–makes much more sense now. “I see.”

“It was Ecwen’s idea,” Olfete says. “I tried to stop her but–”

“Tattle tale!” Cries Ecwen. “You helped! I couldn’t lift the latch on my own anyways, Modor knows that–”

“I helped too!” Elfwine declares, proudly. “I gave Fi an apple!”

“Did you now,” Lothiriel murmurs. She drifts closer and Olfete–holding off a now wailing Ecwen with one arm–presents her free hand for inspection. It’s dirty, certainly, but there’s no other sign of injury. Ecwen’s hands are much the same and Elfwine’s are entirely clean, likely thanks to his smaller role of apple provider.

“And why did we decide to unleash Firefoot on Edoras?”

“Faeder said he needed a good walk soon!” Ecwen says, through tears. “We were just trying to help!”

“Who was to walk Firefoot once you’d released him?” She asks, gently lifting Ecwen to place her on her hip. She’s nearly too big for it now, at 6, especially with the way the new babe has set her stomach to swelling, but Lothiriel knows there is no better way to calm her middle child’s tears.

“W-well, I thought I could hold his bridle,” Olfete admits in a small voice. “I am 9 now, and Faeder said that is plenty old enough to manage my own horse–”

“Yes, your own horse,” Lothiriel agrees, giving a small sigh of relief as she settles into the chair nearest the fire. Her back hurts nearly all the time now, and it is not helped by Ecwen’s added weight. “A gelding or a yearling, swete, not Firefoot.”

“But Fi likes us!” Elfwine protests, coming to lay his head against her knee. “He does, Modor!”

“I know he does, lytling. But Firefoot is much bigger and stronger than you. It isn’t safe for the three of you to let him out by yourselves. You need to ask someone to help you take him for a ride. And you should always as your faeder’s permission first.”

She doesn’t miss the guilty look that crosses Olfete’s face, nor the nervous way Ecwen starts chewing on her fingernails.

Oh, Valar.

“Olfete, Ecwen,” she sighs, knowing the answer before she can truly formulate the question, “did you even ask Faeder if Firefoot needed a stretch?”

“He said so last night at dinner!” Ecwen protests. “He did–he was telling Uncle Eothain–”

Resisting the urge to groan, Lothiriel places a finger to Ecwen’s lips. “What have I told you about eavesdropping, dohtor?”

“That it’s not nice manners. But Faeder’s voice carries, Modor! I didn’t mean to hear it.”

“And he’s let us all ride Firefoot before,” Olfete adds. “Even Elfwine.”

“I held the reins!” adds Elfwine. “Faeder said I was good!”

That is news to Lothiriel, and certainly something she and Eomer would discuss in detail later. Once he’s been fully convinced of his beloved horse’s lack of injuries. And once likely all of their children have been suitably chastised.

“That is beside the point,” she says. “He was with you then. If Firefoot were to accidentally hurt one of you, or you to accidentally hurt him…”

She trails off, watching realization dawn on all three of their dear, sweet, troublesome faces.

“Faeder would be sad,” Elfwine says, lip quivering.

“No, Faeder would be furious,” Olfete amends, twisting her fair hair nervously.

“Nu uh!” Protests Ecwen, contrary to the last. “He’d be proud of us for being eorlingas and taking care of Firefoot–”

“So,” comes Eomer’s voice, cutting across their daughter’s argument, “It was you.”

All three children flinch. Elfwine tucks himself more securely against Lothiriel’s legs, Ecwen does her best to hide her face in Lothiriel’s hair, and Olfete–who takes after Lothiriel most, in all things–turns bright scarlet.

Lothiriel can’t say she blames them; Eomer looks anything other than happy. She shoots him a look–be gentle, they meant well–that has his shoulders relaxing, at least a little, as he crosses the room to stand in front of them. In nearly 12 years of marriage, Lothiriel doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so stern.

“Faeder,” Olfete starts, “it was my fault, I turned the latch–”

“Yes, under considerable duress,” he interrupts. “Or at least that’s how Heurbrand tells it.”

Herubrand, Master of the Stables since Eomer was a boy, would not lie. Lothiriel presses a hand to her temple. Ecwen, for all her good intentions, is trouble made flesh in many things. In contrast to Olfete’s natural responsibility and Elfwine’s innate sweetness, she is the source of most of the mischief the children get up to. It would seem now is no different.

Ecwen is crying again, tears dripping down on Lothiriel’s neck. “I just wanted to help,” she whispers miserably. “Modor says–”

“Modor says to help when you can and if you can, Ecwen. Firefoot is not your responsibility. You could have been hurt. Olfete could have been hurt. Elfwine could have been hurt. Poor Freca very nearly was hurt when he tried to get Firefoot back in his stall.”

“Is he alright?” Lothiriel asks. Freca has been a loyal groom for years and has a family to feed.

“He is fine, thank Bema,” Eomer confirms. “But you owe him an apology, Ecwen. And Firefoot as well. He is an old man, now, dohtor, and does not do well with surprises.”

Lothiriel purses her lips to keep from smiling. Eomer’s eyes narrow; he knows her too well to not easily read the he’s not the only one so clearly writ on her face.

“I will go with her,” Olfete offers. “I should apologize to them too; Ecwen could not have opened the door without my help.”

“Yes,” Eomer agrees. “And then to your rooms. You will eat dinner alone tonight.”

“B-but the spring festival starts tonight–!”

“It does. And you should have thought of that before disrupting Firefoot and the stables.”

Lothiriel presses a kiss to Ecwen’s forehead before gently depositing her on the floor. “You owe your faeder an apology too, swete. It was kindly meant, what you did, but not well done.”

Sniffling, Ecwen murmurs a muffled sorry into Eomer’s hip as she hugs him. Eomer sighs, stroking her hair once before giving her a nudge towards the door. He chucks Olfete under her chin as she passes him, earning a wobbly smile. She takes her younger sister’s hand and leads her back out into the hall.

“M’I in trouble too?” Asks Elfwine, finally removing his head from her leg.

“That depends on what your role in this was, my son.”

“He gave Firefoot an apple,” Lothiriel murmurs. Eomer pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Yes. You’ll stay with your sisters during dinner as well. And no more rides until the festival is over.”

Elfwine frowns. “But Faeder–”

“I agree,” Lothiriel interrupts. “And it is high time you had a nap, Elfwine.”

His frown only deepens, but he mercifully doesn’t cry even when one of Lothiriel’s ladies appears to take him to the nursery. Eomer sinks into the chair opposite her with a groan when the door closes behind them.

“Bema, what did we do to deserve this?”

“I certainly got up to my fair share of mischief as a child,” Lothiriel says, crossing the distance between them to run a soothing hand through his hair. “And with a sister like Eowyn, I suspect you did too.”

Eomer snorts. He wraps an arm around her waist and reaches for the swell of her stomach with his other hand. “And yet we have been mad enough to try for another.”

“I do not recall you complaining during the trying–”

He snorts again. “Well, I may be mad, but I am certainly not a fool.”

She’s still rolling her eyes, albeit fondly, when he rises to pull her into a kiss.

“And perhaps,” he says, pulling away just enough to press his forehead to hers, “this little one will be less trouble?”

It’s Lothiriel’s turn to laugh. “Do you truly think we could be so lucky?”

Eomer’s expression softens. “Do you not think we already are?”

And what can she do but kiss him for that?

(Five months later, when Mistress Deorwyn emerges from the birthing chamber to inform Eomer is father to twin boys, he cannot help that think that lucky may not be quite the right word.

“Well,” Lothiriel says, smiling despite her weariness, “they do call you ‘the blessed’, my love.”

“I did not think they meant it in terms of number of children,” Eomer grumbles–though he remains as helpless as ever at the sensation of one of the babe’s–their babes–tiny fingers wrapped around his own.)

#eomer x lothiriel #eothiriel #my writing #prompt response #heckofabecca #this is also set in the Too Wise verse just FYI #in which Lothiriel and Eomer end up with 5 kiddos who very nearly succeed in making them go grey early

[theemightypen]

9, 40 and 41 for Éothíriel please :D

The rest are under the cut! :)

9) “There’s a leaf in your hair…” (Canon)

The King of Rohan is staring at her.

Lothiriel cannot fathom why he is; he is friends with her father, of course, and with her brothers, but they have exchanged perhaps five words at most. She is not a beauty, not in the high, otherworldly way of her new Queen, nor in the golden, fierce way of his fair sister, but she knows she is not unpleasant to look at. (Or, if she is, everyone has been very good at keeping it from her.)

And yet the king is staring at her, as if she has suddenly grown a second head.

It is…disconcerting, to say the least.

“You are blushing,” her sister-in-law murmurs, low enough for just Lothiriel’s sensitive ears. “Would you tell me why?”

“Aly, please,” she begs, dropping her gaze. “Don’t tease me so.”

Alycia frowns, but pats her hand under the table subtly enough. “Alright. For now.”

Lothiriel tries to eat her meal as gracefully as she can, but every time she looks up he is still staring. On one such time, she meets his sister’s eyes as well. The White Lady of Rohan had been intimidating at first–so fair! So brave!–but she has come to know her cousin’s betrothed very well, and likes her very much.

So of course, Eowyn reads the distress in her face, follows her embarrassed gaze to her brother. Who is promptly elbowed–rather viciously, from what Lothiriel can tell–in the side.

Finally, he seems to realize he’s been making her uncomfortable, grimacing into his wine glass as Eowyn whispers Valar-knows-what into his ear.

Still, she feels ill at ease. Why had he been giving her such scrutiny? She is not much like the other ladies of the court. Too soft-spoken, taking the most pleasure in small, intimate groups of those she already knows than the loud, raucous celebrations the end of the War dictates…Lothiriel rarely calls attention to herself.

Her father offers her a sympathetic smile when she slips from the table–Amrothos would usually call her out, or Elphir would join her, but both are absorbed in conversations with various members of the famous Fellowship.

The garden is a quiet relief after the loudness of the hall. Lothiriel could sit all night, alone, under the stars, and wish for nothing else in all the world.

But it is not to be.

The footfalls that announce someone’s presence are light, controlled. The walk of a soldier, she thinks, and turns to face them, expecting her one of her brothers, or even Faramir.

But no. It is the King of Rohan, once again.

“I owe you an apology,” he says, startling her. “I should not have stared at you so.”

Lothiriel gulps. He should not be frightening–he is a king, a friend to her family, remarkably tender with his sister, and prone to sincere smiles when talking with Merry and Pippin–and yet there is something about him that makes her face flush, her pulse race faster.

“I am not accustomed to such attention,” she admits in a quiet voice. “But you need not apologize.”

His small smile only makes her face heat further, and she is grateful for the relative darkness of the garden. “Will you let me explain, at least?”

She nods, rather curious herself.

He reaches out towards her and her breath nearly stops in surprise–what is he doing, does he not know how improper it is for a man to touch an unwed maiden’s hair–only to wince when something catches, tugs a few strands of her braid out of place.

“There was a leaf in your hair,” he says, holding the offending item up for inspection. “And as I have never seen you anything other than perfectly poised, I could not imagine how it came to be there.”

Flushing deeper still, she tucks the loose strands back behind her ear. “I am fond of the outdoors, my lord. Even we Gondorian princesses are permitted some imperfections.”

His laugh is perhaps the most charming thing about him, and she finds herself wanting to bottle the sound, to keep it for times when things are less easy, less happy.

“I am glad to hear it,” he says, and offers her his elbow.

Her fingers tremble, but she laces her arm through his all the same.

40) “You call that music?” (Canon)

“You call that music?”

Lothiriel startles, the harp tumbling noisily to the floor.

Eomer merely grins as his wife glares at him, crossing the room to sit on the carpet at her feet.

“I am trying to do something productive today,” she says. “Would that you would do the same.”

“I have been productive all morning, swete,” Eomer argues, holding the harp out of her reach. She’s such a little thing, his wife, and it is an easy thing to tease her like this, using his longer arms to his advantage.

She huffs, blowing a few strands of hair out of her face. “Please, Eomer. I have tried every instrument I can think of, and the harp is the only one that seems to not fail me.”

Eomer frowns, looking down that the stringed instrument in his hands. “I still do not see why you can’t just sing.”

A flush enters her cheeks–even after a year in the Riddermark, there are still parts of her that are so Gondorian–and she frowns at him. “It is not proper for a lady to share her voice with a large assembly.”

“In Gondor, perhaps,” he says. “But we are not in Gondor.”

“I am well aware,” she says with a roll of her eyes, but he knows she isn’t truly irritated by how she leans willingly into the touch of his hand on her cheek.

“And you have such a lovely voice, Lothiriel,” he wheedles. “Surely it is more…improper not to share it? Every Eorlingas would agree with me.”

Lothiriel blinks. “I…had not thought of it like that.”

Sensing victory, he rises to his knees, crowding her back against the chair. “I would be happy to help you practice.”

Her eyes are dark as always, but the pupils are blown-wide–he suspects his are, too. A week of marriage, a year of marriage; either way, she was as desirable as ever. “And how should we go about that, husband?”

She gives a shriek of surprise when he stands suddenly, tugging her into his arms.

“Vocal warm-ups,” he says, before dropping her onto their all-too-inviting bed.

Lothiriel laughs, bright and warm, and opens her arms up to him. “By all means, instruct away.”

Eomer does not need to be asked twice.

41) “Damn auto-correct….” (Modern AU)

Not for the first time, Lothiriel curses her brothers, vodka, and Friday nights all together.

“I think my head is going to split open,” comes Pippin’s voice, from somewhere in the vicinity of her couch.

“Mine’s already cracked,” says Merry, who Lothiriel can just make out sprawled across the sleeping bag left over from her one attempt at camping. “Remind me to never challenge Legolas to a drinking contest again.”

Lothiriel manages a snort, despite the pack of wargs currently pounding behind her temples. “Gimli could have told you that, Merry.”

There’s a knock at the door and they all groan. Eowyn’s amused face appears, with Faramir not far behind. “Good morning, you three.”

“The light, the light!” Cries Pippin dramatically. “Turn it off!”

“That ‘light’ is the sun,” Faramir says. “It lacks a switch, I’m afraid.”

Eowyn comes to sit beside Lothiriel and gives her hair a stroke. “On a scale of 1-10?”

“Oh, a 15 easy,” Lothiriel says. “Thanks for coming to pick us up.”

A sudden stillness falls over the room.

Something like panic creeps up Lothiriel spine. The headache suddenly seems minor, unimportant. “What?”

Wordlessly, her phone appears in view, presented by a clearly-struggling-with-laughter Faramir.

“What,” Lothiriel repeats again, “did I do?”

She looks at her phone, feeling on the verge of vomiting–and not from the hangover.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, no.”

In her phone, Eowyn’s name (which is accompanied by a horse, heart, and sword emoji) is directly next to Eomer’s name (which is accompanied by the much less flattering grouchy-faced emoji).

“Damn auto-correct!” She cries and then winces, as her head throbs in response.

“It might have been better that you did call Eomer instead, Lothiriel,” Pippin offers tentatively. “After all, I don’t think Eowyn could have carried you out of the bar after that last shot.”

Lothiriel groans, burying her face in the pillow. “Oh, Valar.”

“And I don’t think you would have been waxing poetic about Eowyn’s biceps, either,” Merry says. “No offense, of course, ‘Wyn, but I think your brother has you beat.”

“None taken.”

“Kill me,” Lothiriel whines, grasping Faramir’s hand in desperation. “Please, if you love me at all, you’ll take this pillow and smother me with it.”

“I’m afraid he can’t,” Eowyn says, sounding horribly, awfully cheerful. “Because you have a date in approximately twenty minutes.”

Lothiriel shoots up, nearly knocking her forehead against Faramir’s. “I have a what.”

“With Eomer. At the coffeeshop on the corner. In twenty minutes,” Eowyn says. Her eyes narrow in a way that Lothiriel has long since learned tends to indicate a hidden death threat. “And since he was kind enough to bring you and these two drunken hooligans–”

“Hey!” Protests Pippin. “I prefer the term ‘wastrel’, thank you!”

“–home last night, I suggest you go. And explain yourself.”

She’s out of the door in under 15 minutes, the hangover still pounding dully behind her temples, but it’s less nauseating than the guilt and panic swirling under her breastbone. Of all the people to call–Eomer! Damn autocorrect! She must have been much, much drunker than she thought–she’d done so well up until now, to not let him (or anyone else, especially Eowyn) know she very much would not mind being pushed up against a door–or a table, or any available flat surface, really–and be kissed senseless by him.

Every nerve in her body is on-edge when she opens the door to the coffee shop. His arched eyebrow is as familiar–and attractive–as ever and she makes one last attempt to smooth down her likely horrible looking hair before settling into the seat across from him.

“So,” she says, “I’m…sorry?”

“For which part?” He asks. “Calling me at 2 in the morning? Singing with your head out the window of my car? Calling me a ‘grade A Rohirric beefcake’ in front of my sister and her fiance?”

Oh, Elbereth. “All of it?”

Eomer snorts. He fixes her with a look then, and this one’s. Oh. It’s…different, somehow, with a hint of vulnerability in his dark eyes. “What about the part where you tried to kiss me?”

Lothiriel’s stomach drops to somewhere near to the depths of Moria. Or lower, maybe. “I. Um. Yes?”

That vulnerability shutters away, and Valar, she knows this look–irritation, anger, and yes, a little bit of hurt, too. She’s said entirely the wrong thing.

“Of course,” he says, bitterness in every tone, “of course you regret that–”

“Eomer,” she interrupts, drawing courage from Elbereth knows where to reach across the table and take one of his hands–warm and calloused and attractive, something must truly be wrong with her, to be so entranced by his hands–”I only regret that I was falling-down drunk when I. When I tried to kiss you. That’s not something I think would have been pleasant for either of us.”

His hand is stock still in hers for a moment and she cringes, tries to pull hers back–maybe she can tell him that she’s still drunk, or that this has been some kind of weird fever-dream–but then his fingers are laced through hers and he’s. Oh. He’s smiling. A real, honest-to-goodness Eomer Eomundson smile, complete with crinkled eyes and that one dimple she’s-never-noticed-not-once.

“Another time, then,” he says, voice pitched low, and Valar, if she doesn’t want to launch herself across the table to test the truth of his words. But this is a public place, and her head still hurts, and part of her isn’t entirely sure she hasn’t dreamt the entirety of the last hour up.

“Maybe breakfast first?” She asks.

Eomer nods, his hand still warm around hers.

“What do you like here?” She asks, suddenly curious.

The spark of mischief in his eyes is utterly, utterly terrifying. “I don’t know. I hear they have great grade A Rohirric–”

She flings her napkin at him and he laughs.

#eomer x lothiriel #eothiriel #LOTR fic #prompt response #my writing