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Oneshot for Day 1 of #lotrweek on tumblr

Prompt: memory | history | home 

This oneshot is inspired by these lines from Seeds of the White Tree by @GreenScholarTales :

"When she had first come to him in Minas Tirith, Aragorn discovered his bride to be both joyful and restless. No longer was the elvish reverie enough for her to fully replenish herself, but neither did a human's sleep come easily. It had taken time, and many long nights spent lying awake in Aragorn's arms after he nodded off before she learned to sleep and dream as he did."

•●•●•●•

The memory of smoke still lingered in the air.

It was a pale morning, one of Arwen's favourite kinds. The city of Osgiliath was just about visible, with a combination of distance and morning haze obscuring its ruins. The sun had not quite risen yet, but the sky was light, light blue, with distant clouds a rosy hue that heralded dawn.

Arwen knew the meaning of the rising of a red sun, and shivered, wondering how many of the wounded soldiers had died in the night. The number was decreasing day by day - in fact, for the last few weeks, nobody had died at all, and the remaining wounded were healing, slowly but surely. Even so, the old elvish saying remained in the back of her mind.

She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and looked to the mountains beyond the fields of Pelennor, still darkened where horses' hooves had trampled blood into the earth, of orcs and men alike; black indentations where the Mûmakil carcasses had been burnt still dotted the landscape.

Last night, Gimli had regaled them all with a song in his deep bass voice about the Misty Mountains, a melody passed down to him from his father about the quest to reclaim Erebor. The Misty Mountains could not be seen from Minas Tirith, but the Ephel Dúath were a good imitation, reminding her of the view of the Misty Mountains from the Hidden Valley - tall grey peaks, blurring into shadow. Gimli's song was a reminder that they were grim, and cold, and very, very dangerous.

Now however, they were at peace. It was a sensation they were not quite used to, Arwen could sense that, but now the mountains slept, knowing the evil they held was banished from this world.

Arwen felt a hand on her shoulder then, and knew without looking that it was Aragorn, leaning back against him even as his free hand slipped around her waist. The easy way in which they slipped into such shows of affection, as in Lothlórien in times of old, was a testament to both the endurance of their love, and relief at its survival into this new world.

"Your hands are cold, meleth-nîn," he noticed, his voice low and warm. Arwen smiled at his concern.

"I have been here for some hours already," she explained. "Sleep eludes me, even now. I feel its pull, but it is such a fleeting thing. I confess, Estel, I am used to a different, darker feeling than mere tiredness - a weariness of the soul, where lying still with my eyes closed, or wandering dreams, would not bring much relief. Now that weariness has vanished - and thank the Valar for it -"

"Thank the Valar for it," Aragorn repeated into her hair, so quietly that she could hardly hear him, even as his arms trembled slightly. The Evenstar had been made anew, but Arwen knew that her husband was still plagued by visions that haunted the darkest corners of his dreams; visions of her life smashing into countless pieces as if it was crystal on a cold marble floor.

"What need do I have to sleep? The Enemy had been defeated, and even the Ephel Dúath radiate a serenity they have not felt in generations. Now my weariness has vanished, and I feel so light, that sleep seems so trivial an occupation."

Aragorn laughed. "You have a great many things to learn, rían-nîn. The mortal body does not function very well when it lacks sleep."

Arwen nodded slowly. "That stands to reason. I went to see Éowyn last night - she has been moved from the houses of healing, you know - and was told she was asleep. I was confused, because Adar always told me that sleep is the greatest healer - why then would she be taken away, if she still needed to heal?"

"He was right," Aragorn said, taking hold of Arwen's hands properly and rubbing them gently within his own. The increased blood flow restored some warmth, and he guided her over to a nearby couch where they sat and observed the view together. "However, you and Éowyn and every woman and man in the world still need to sleep - to be mortally wounded is not a requirement."

Arwen yawned, despite herself, and leaned her head onto Aragorn's shoulder once more, settling into his warm tunic. "What about you, meleth-nîn? You are the king. You need rest at this time more than anyone."

He ran his fingers softly through his wife's hair, the strands as soft as the blossoms of the White Tree even as its jetlike darkness reminded him of the night sky. Even more so when she wore white gems in it, or the queen's diadem, that sparkled like starlight. In his youth he had dreamed up a thousand songs about his lady's hair, or her endless grey eyes, or her soft white skin like silk - more than he cared to remember, as his skills at poetry had improved somewhat since then. Even so, a thousand songs would not be enough to do her justice. To say nothing of her endless patience and wisdom, her kindness and steadfast loyalty, and her love - her love, her love, her love. 

To hold her in his arms like this was unbelievable, yet he could think of no other possible reality. Finally, they were together - he was hers and she was his, after a lifetime of patience and despair.

"Estel?" Arwen could tell he was lost in thought. "What of your sleep?"

Aragorn came back to reality slowly, and laughed softly, answering with a question, as he had in the days of their courtship in Lothlórien where they spoke in nothing but riddles and song. "Do you know what home means to a human, a mortal human?"

"Home." Arwen thought about it. 

Just then the sun graced the eastern horizon and crept over the balcony rails, slowly and steadily bringing light to the White City. Soon the haze that lingered in the distance would be dispelled; soon the daily work of rebuilding the city would begin. Arwen would find herself in high demand again, surrounded on all sides by men and women who sought her guidance and leadership as their queen. She loved it, being the one these people needed the most, being able to help those in need and provide the support that her people needed in this time of regrowth and renewal.

"Home is where a person feels safe," Aragorn explained. "Safe enough to build a family, safe enough to have a fire and not worry about attracting orcs or other beings of evil with its light. Home is where you feel safe enough to fall into helpless sleep, where you can curl up and rest without fear."

Arwen only half heard him. The edges of her vision were blurry, her head was heavy, and Aragorn's rhythmic stroking of her hair was making her feel very sleepy indeed. It was hypnotic, and would be an almost frightening sensation, were it anybody but Aragorn.

"Then -" just before darkness consumed her entirely - "home for me is with you."

Thus, the newly crowned High Queen of Gondor fell asleep in her husband's arms on the morning of the one-month anniversary of the Fall of Sauron, finally safe in the knowledge that she could be helpless - just for once.

•●•●•●•

Prompt: language | culture | beauty

One-shot for Day 2 of #lotrweek

There it was, that little shiver of delight that came whenever the new policy was missing a detail, or contained an error. King Elessar had asked him to review it, write a second draft - an improved trade manifesto to Dol Amroth. Faramir had spent days poring over the old one, deciphering the heavy legal language and comparing it to the King's hurried first draft.

His study was in a very quiet corner on the second floor of the Tower of Ecthelion - the very room, in fact, where Mithrandir had taught him as a child, struggling through lessons of geography and history while his mind wandered. The traditional Steward's rooms were just off the King's receiving hall and throne room, but Faramir had opted to use these only for ceremonial purposes. They brought back too many unpleasant memories of his father. King Elessar had understood at once, and given his official blessing for Faramir to retreat to this hiding place to do his more thorough administrative work as Steward, when his business brought him to the White City.

The only noise in the room was the soft scrape of his quill against paper, interrupted periodically when Faramir dipped it into the ink. He already had a pile of scrolls, half unravelled and scattered across his desk, copies of letters from various Gondorian lords, and books spilling from cupboards and shelves, that he used for reference on his document. Yet - he read it again, just to be sure - there! An omission on a proposal that hadn't been resolved in the new policy.

Faramir stood up and stretched, going over to the window for a moment.

A shaft of sunlight streamed through, the sun almost at its peak in the bright blue sky. Good day for a hunt, Faramir thought, despite himself, and smiled. He'd take Éowyn out to the forest the moment this draft policy was finished, if this glorious weather persisted.

For now, though, he took his ring of keys from a hook on the back of the study door and set off for the archives.

They were like a sanctuary for him, even now, when the days of his youth were long past. He felt a sense of importance - the physical act of looking for a book, or a scroll, in the candlelit gloom and towering shelves and shadowy nooks of the Old Archives of Gondor, made him feel as though his work was not purely theoretical. Someone, sometime, had made the effort to document all this information; spent lifetimes working on the lives of the people of Gondor, recounting everything from laws (made or broken) to land boundaries from hundreds of years ago. It was hard, sometimes, to imagine anyone other than his father - or now, King Elessar - presiding in the throne room, throwing feasts in the Merethrond, holding counsel and court alike in the Great Hall, despite generations of kings doing so previously. In the archives however, Faramir got a true sense that people had lived here long before his time; meticulous records of their actions, hundreds of years old, crowded these narrow, dimly-lit halls. The evidence of the truth of all the old legends lived here.

It was incredible.

Faramir held up the flaming torch closer to the bit of paper he’d scribbled the location of a potential source on, to get a better look, and set off down the aisles. He stopped here and there to gaze longingly at some of the volumes, the dusty scrolls - one day he’d have the chance to read them, to discover their secrets. Now he was on a mission.

The sorting system of the Old Archives worked, more or less, but it was very complicated and hopelessly outdated. The first scroll he had in mind was nowhere to be found, at least on the shelf it was supposed to be, according to the archive guide (whose author, long-dead, had had the worst handwriting Faramir had ever seen). The second source was a book of figures with over a thousand pages - even the newly-minted Steward, with all his love of books and hopes and dreams for the archives, recoiled from that.

Finally, Faramir stopped by a cupboard of scrolls with a layer of dust an inch thick on the top. He sneezed about seven times before he finally found the one he was looking for amongst a mess of others, and the result was worth his watering eyes. It was labelled Land laws of Lamedon, dating back about a few hundred years. With their close ties to the princedom of Dol Amroth - it was perfect.

A quick glance showed Faramir that it was written in some form of elvish - only a minor setback. Due to his noble upbringing, he could read Tengwar runes without much difficulty, and translation of official documents into Sindarin had still been mandatory until the time of his grandfather Ecthelion despite the language not being spoken as frequently. Mithrandir had been very thorough in teaching Faramir these elvish languages, though he was not quite fluent.

However, upon closer inspection, Faramir realised to some consternation that the scroll was written in a form of elvish he did not understand. He made a halfhearted attempt to find some of his old rune charts, but some of the characters he was certain he’d never seen before.

Faramir thought about it. He couldn’t simply leave his policy as it was - Prince Imrahil would be sure to spot the omission even if it was minor enough for King Elessar to let it slide. Imrahil was a decent man, a great soldier, but would not stand for loopholes in trade agreements if it showed Dol Amroth in a bad light. After the war he was trying his utmost to secure the future of his princedom for his sons, which was why he had called in a few favours to get this policy settled so soon.

Faramir rummaged about some more trying to find a different scroll - or at least a translation into something he could work with. This stirred up even more dust, which caused him to sneeze so violently he banged his head on the top of the cupboard and had to sit back and swear quietly to himself for a bit before starting again.

It was all in vain. This scroll, in a language he did not understand, was his best - and only - option.

Then something fell into place, and Faramir hopped up from his position on the dusty archive floor, laughing out loud. Why had he not thought of this before? He put the scroll into one of the protective cases that were available at the warden’s desk, and set off to find Queen Arwen.

Faramir found the queen in her audience chamber - a large, spacious room lined with curtains of soft white silk that fluttered in the gentle breeze, blowing in from the courtyard outside, and large, comfortable chairs. Queen Arwen was sitting in one of these, listening to a young lady pouring her heart out. Lingering in the open doorway, Faramir recognised the young lady as Meluieth, newly married to Elphir, son of Prince Imrahil - perhaps she could also provide some feedback on his policy, if she had the time. The queen spotted him in her peripheral vision and gestured for him to come in.

“I understand your concerns,” she was saying, gravely. “However, I would advise you to be more open about them. Share your grievances with your husband. It is likely he does not realise your anxiety.”

“Oh, I know you’re right,” Meluieth sighed. “It’s just so hard.”

Arwen looked into the young lady’s eyes - Faramir knew how daunting that was, having been on the receiving end a few times. His queen’s eyes were like nothing of this world - depthless grey, like crystal. However, Lady Meluieth squared her shoulders in a show of real determination as Arwen spoke.

“I can see the strength you possess, even if you cannot,” she said. “Coming to me was the first step - that alone took courage. I’m glad we had our talk now, instead of in twenty years when change would be a thousand times more difficult.”

Meluieth hopped up, and dropped a deep curtsey, finally smiling. “I’ll talk to my lord tonight. Thank you, your Grace. Good afternoon, my lord Steward,” she added, hurrying from the room before Faramir could stop her.

“What was that about?” Faramir asked, curious.

Arwen tilted her head slightly. “I don’t want to break her confidence. Suffice it to say, when Princess Lothíriel leaves for Rohan, Meluieth will be the first lady of Dol Amroth and she is feeling rather nervous about it. In her own words, her mother raised her to run a household, not a whole city, and certainly not both at once. What can I help you with, mellon-nîn?”

“I need your help with a translation, your Grace,” Faramir said, bringing over the scroll. Arwen unravelled it on her lap as Faramir took the chair Meluieth had just vacated.

“This is for the new trade agreement, is it not?” Arwen asked, running her fingers over the lines of elegant script and smiling slightly.

Faramir nodded. “What language is it, and why on Earth was it used to write out a list of land laws from Lamedon, of all places?”

“It is a form of Noldorin, one that I have not seen in a long time,” Arwen said absently, engrossed in the text. “And any reason I can think of for this particular translation is only speculation. Perhaps a party of elves was passing through the area, and stayed with the Lord of Lamedon for a time; or perhaps some scholar translated a few random documents to improve his limited knowledge of the language. The latter is probably more correct, as there are some grammatical errors.”

Faramir’s face fell. “Then I probably can’t count on its accuracy in my policy draft.”

Arwen nodded, sympathetically, though she smiled. “No matter how much you love the Old Archives, Lord Faramir, perhaps it would be best to write to Lord Amarthon and ask for the current land agreements between Lamedon and Dol Amroth - or at least their own historical records.”

The Steward of Gondor looked wistfully at the scroll, one last time, before rolling it back up and putting it back into the case. “I probably ought to have done that to begin with, your Grace. Thank you for your help. One of these days I will sort out the Old Archives properly.”

“The whole archive, by yourself?” Arwen’s lips twitched with amusement. “That would be a fierce undertaking indeed.”

Faramir laughed. “With the help of as many scholars as I can find, naturally.”

“And your queen, as resident identifier of strange languages,” Arwen inclined her head. “Now go, my lord Steward, and hurry back to your draft before a storm breaks out over the forests of Ithilien, and the Lady Éowyn brings forth her wrath upon your desk for keeping you away from her for too long.”

Faramir laughed again, bowed, and hurried. He had a letter to write, and sunshine to enjoy, - the war was over. Life had meaning once more.

Voilà - my very first Éothiriel fic, which has been inspired by many, many authors and fics over the years! Find the rest of this first chapter of A Starling in Rohan on AO3 (where my username is niamh_cinnoir) or Wattpad (where my username is yavanna_kementari)!

Éomer listened - yes, the distant thunder of hooves against a dry forest path was all too recognisable. He gestured for Aldred and Théoling behind him, to be quiet and be ready, just in case anything happened. Their party slowed as the rider neared the bend up ahead, and Éomer's hand drifted towards his sword-hilt...

The rider came into view, an a sigh of relief rippled unseeingly through them. It was only a young lady, galloping on a huge chestnut gelding so violently that her long dark hair was flung out to the wind and the horse's hooves sent clods of hard-packed earth flying in every direction. Éomer saw the instant the horse noticed them, from years of experience with the animals - before even his rider did. A surprised whinny, a jerk of the head, and a sudden bolt of speed brought on by the unexpectedness of their appearance.

"Whoa!" The young woman fumbled with the reins, but Éomer knew there was nothing she could do, nothing anyone could do in the split second it took for her horse to lose control.

They looked on in horror as the lady tried valiantly to hang on, gripping the horse's mane, but even Éomer or one of his éored would have been hard-pressed to keep their seat as the gelding bucked wildly into the forest. The lady, caught by the momentum, was flung wildly off to the side, striking a young oak with force that rivalled the throwing arm of a mountain-troll. She landed limply in a bed of bluebells. Éowyn let out a low cry of horror, and dismounted, rushing to help; meanwhile Éomer and his men followed the horse into the forest of Emyn Arnen.

Happy New Year! Chapter 2 of A Starling in Rohan has been published!

"Look at how happy they are," Lothíriel sighed happily, leaning her head on the arms she'd folded on the windowsill. So it was - as Aragorn sang, Arwen leaned her head on his shoulder. He put his other hand in hers and looked down at her, and he had no need of smiles or laughter; even from the distance, and past the crowd of people, his level of devotion was obvious. "You and Faramir are very lucky, to share a love as strong as our King and Queen."

"Someday you will have it also," Éowyn hastened to assure her. "I do not even need to hope it for you, because it is a sure certainty."

Lothíriel allowed herself for a brief moment to dream, then reminded herself of her principles by which she seriously doubted such a thing. She knew exactly what Éowyn was feeling - such an unrelenting joy that she felt the need to share it with everyone in her path, that it overflowed from her in a river of need to give it back to the world. Her sister-in-law Meluieth had spoken similar words of assurance the night of her wedding to Elphir, Lothíriel's eldest brother, some five years ago, and though Lothíriel had seen only sixteen summers that time, no suitors had followed that had held her fancy for more than a few days.

Also available on Wattpad where my username is yavanna_kementari!

Chapter 3 of A Starling in Rohan is out!! Thanks for all the support so far <3 do ask if you want to be tagged in further chapter updates!

@konartiste hope you enjoy!

"I shall not be entirely happy today, brother, unless you are. I want everyone to feel as I do! Now come, share your worries."

She sank down into the deep velvet cushions in the window alcove, and patted the nearest chair.

Éomer sighed, and relented, knowing she would not give up until he told her what was on his mind. "A messenger arrived yesterday from one of the marshals. Farms across the Eastfold have reported a disease amongst the potato seedlings that renders them completely useless. Éowyn, unless I am provided with a miracle, Rohan will suffer heavier loss of life this coming winter than in the War of the Ring - I am certain of it."

Éowyn went to bite thoughtfully on her thumbnail, caught herself in time, and smoothed over the folds of her dress instead. "A solution will be found, Éomer. I am sure of it."

Éomer was less sure, but he didn't say this aloud. Already he had cast a shadow over the happiest day of his sister's life, and he didn't intend to add to it. "Perhaps, but not today. Today I don't mean to be King of Rohan - only your brother."

Chapter 4 of A Starling in Rohan is out!

I reckon @konartiste inspired me lol. Go read Veiled Hearts if you haven't already!

Imrahil looked over to the King of Rohan. He was turning to face every lord that spoke, acknowledging their empty and sincere words alike with a nod of his head - the picture of kingly grace - but his attention was clearly already gone, his eyes hopeless. The Prince of Dol Amroth looked at his old friend, then at his children - even Amrothos, leaning over his shoulder - all of them had the same anxious expression, like the time they had found a puppy half-drowned on the banks of the Anduin and had begged him to keep it as little children.

Lothíriel especially looked like her mother, a woman Imrahil had never been able to resist. Sweetness and a kind heart masked unwavering resolve and loyalty.

She took hold of his arm. "Surely, Father, there is something we can do."