h e a l e r

Indie LOTR OC

[amdirfiren]

                      Gentle healer, daughter of Gondor

[andhumanslovedstories]

Mutual pining is delicious but recently I’ve been very into a variant, mutual pining where they both know the other one loves them but some very valid noble reason keeps them apart (like a sacred job or the timing is so bad right now, not like a spouse) but they both know they’d be together if circumstances were different but they aren’t and there’s nothing either of them can do about that except….maybe…….what used to be So Important that they had to stay apart starts to seem not as important anymore…….but what if the impossiblity of being together was the appeal for both of them in the first place because neither knows what to do with a romantic relationship and they’d only disappoint the other person if they actually got together……it’s better to stay as they are rather than risk everything in their life for the chance of something more…..and yet

Ideally these characters come Very Close to having honest good communication together but something remains unsaid, always unspoken, and also there’s a LOT of tense handtouching

[amdirfiren]

@warhornofgondor

[celebrimbot]

the ever lovely @dunadaan commissioned me to do this piece for @amdirfiren and @warhornofgondor <33

[amdirfiren]

[ a bitch........ has come back. it’s me, i’m the bitch

[silvanborn-a]

❛ 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓.

to be added to this masterlist,  𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆  this post and add your character name(s), whether you are a single or multi muse, and whether you are canon, canon divergent or an oc !   [ e.g.  gollum / single muse / canon ] 

[charlotterileybr]

Charlotte Riley atuando como Rachel Lombard em “Close to the Enemy” minissérie da BBC 2 (2016)

[amdirfiren]

Starter for @vezely​

     A healer was no warrior--they took no orders, they fought no battles save that of life against death. Their oaths, sworn to the Warden of the Houses of Healing, forbade them from doing harm.

     But the Healers were only human, with all the flaws that came with it, and none had yet stepped forward to even offer to tend the growing pile of wounded, dying, and dead servants of the Enemy. Never had they sworn to protect the lives of those who had fought against them, who had taken up arms and killed their husbands, fathers, brothers, sons. No healer who broke their oaths remained a healer for long, but hatred ran deep, eyes turned elsewhere, and negligence took root. No one would weep for the loss of another sword stained with Gondorian blood.

     So when one of the guards sent for a healer at last, Alwen was called forth. Beredhil might have done it once, but she was beside herself now in grief, her husband slain--they did not trust her to be impartial, and so they asked for the next best surgeon.

     They had long been ignored, that much was clear. The first four men Alwen stooped beside were dead, and had been for hours, if her guess was correct. But the Healers’ focus had been elsewhere, tending their own who were still living. It did not matter now--they were dead. The wrath and ruin of Gondor had been swift, and Alwen heaved a sigh and moved to the next body.

     She was less surprised to discover a woman, long black hair tangled, pale face flushed with the beginnings of fever, than she was to discover that she was still breathing.

     “You are hardy indeed to have lingered this long,” she whispered, brushing the long black locks away with a strange tenderness. Enemy though she was, she was wounded. She needed help. And Alwen was too exhausted to hate, too tired to feel anything but pity.

     “Come,” she called to the guard, gently lifting the Easterling by the shoulders. “Help me get her onto the table.                               I shall see what I can do for her.”

[amdirfiren]

game over

[ here’s a terrible horrible au for you my friend

She cuts her hand on the black arrow, and the Black Breath looms over her like a heavy blanket. She finds herself in a bright hall. It is unlike any she has ever seen, and walking past her she can see the soldiers and rangers she has only just lost. She knows now where she is.

The Halls of Mandos look as if they are endless. It is bright, so bright she almost needs to shield her eyes, but she supposes that it is something she will adjust to in time.

Am I dead? she asks. No one answers, not even the passing ghosts. But she reaches out and feels the fabric of one ranger’s cloak, and they are not ghosts at all. They are real, tangible--or perhaps she is now one of them.

She calls out for someone to hear her. Some turn their eyes to her and then look away, pitying. And then she hears her name, and she sees him.

“Oh, Boromir--” Of course. He was slain in battle, so where else would he be found but in these hallowed halls? But her eyes burned to see him here, and he takes her hands, brow furrowed, angry--he asks what she is doing here? It is not her time, she is young and healthy--

The arrow, she whispers, and she can hear the calls of her friends, trying to rouse her. She is lingering between life and death, and it seems so is he, because he reacts to a sound she cannot hear. It takes but a moment for her to make the choice. She calls out, calling upon the Valar, upon anyone who will hear her, to let him have what days she had left. To give her life for his.

Boromir protests. He is angry, hurt, perhaps even betrayed, and she wonders if he will ever forgive her for this. But she does not relent, though tears do stream down her face. Her life for his. It is done.

“Our people need a leader more than they need one healer,” she tells him, and she pushes him away. He seems to be fading, pulled back from this place, and she smiles at him.

“I love you. I never got to tell you, but I love you.”

He is gone, pulled back to life, and she remains. Alwen sits in what appears to be a bright garden, and her eyes at last begin to adjust. She will wait. She will see him again.

But for now, the garden is quiet, and she will wait for him there.

[amdirfiren]

@dunadaneth​ said: 

WOW I FUCKING HATE YOU!!!!!!

BITCH!!!!!!

WHAT TJE FUCK!!

[ i hate me too

[amdirfiren]

GAME OVER

[ in my ship with @warhornofgondor, Alwen and Boromir have two sons; Baramdir and Amondir, and a daughter.

But Alwen’s third pregnancy does not go smoothly. It is difficult from the beginning, with morning sickness that does not relent. She is nearing forty, and she has no Númenórean blood to speak of, so her life is only as long as fate allows. She tries not to worry Boromir, but he frets regardless. He has been having dreams, he tells her, like before the war, and they are vague and troublesome. She reassures him--this will pass, as all things do.

The birth is hard. Their daughter is born breech. Alwen knows it is bad. The midwife knows it is bad. She cannot hide the fear in her voice any longer, and Boromir’s hand is clutched in her own so tightly.

It is suddenly quiet, beyond the cries of the baby. Alwen is gone, like her mother before her, torn away prematurely from the daughter who needs her. From the husband who loves her.

Alwen is gone, like Finduilas, leaving her children behind without warning. Boromir is not his father, he will not fall down that path, but that does not stop the grief, the pleading. Do not go, do not leave me. Alwen, please. Alwen, come back, come back.

Their daughter is named Areth, for her grandmother, who was gone too soon. He could not bear to call her for her mother, gone too soon.

[amdirfiren]

GAME OVER

[ aside from any ships, etc, Alwen’s life ends in one of two ways:

1. She dies just after the War of the Ring. In pulling a dark arrow from a soldier’s body, she cuts her hand, and she too, like so many she was trying desperately to save, falls under the Black Breath. There is nothing her sisters can do for her, save make her comfortable. She wastes away in a spare bed in the Houses of Healing, lingering between life and death. She is rarely lucid, and soon they cannot force food or water down her throat. She calls for her father. She calls for her cousin. She calls for the mother she never knew. And some say she even calls for Lord Boromir, his name a sad sigh from her lips, and she asks him if it will hurt?

The healers think she found an answer, as she goes gently into the dark.

2. She lives through the War of the Ring, and they erect a statue of Boromir. She walks past it every day on her way to the Houses of Healing. She hates it. She loathes it. It isn’t him. It has his face, the proportions are all correct. In truth, it is a perfect copy of the man he was, but it is wrong and she hates it because it is stone. It does not smile, it does not laugh, the eyes to not shine. It is not him, because he is dead.

She never stops hating it, but she sits beneath it most days. She eats her lunch there, beneath the statue. Sometimes she brings something to work on--making bandages or mending some of her clothes. Sometimes she just sits and talks about her day. Some people pity her--poor thing must be so lonely, talking to a statue. Some think she’s gone mad. Poor thing, they say. Poor thing.

Her life is a waste. She never corrects anyone who says that, no matter how cruelly or kindly it is meant. She’s wasting away, that much is true. But she has little else left to live for. She heals, she works, she gives and gives and gives, and she sits beneath the statue of the man she loves and she wastes away.

There is a bouquet of flowers and herbs left one day when she does not appear, as she has done for years. She is gone. A waste. Poor thing, they say. Poor thing.

[petalmemes]

Send ‘GAME OVER’ to get a glimpse of one of the worse possible endings that can happen to my muse in their life.

It can vary to death, tragic occurences, loss of loved ones, becoming evil, betrayal, etc. It can be a short description or a short drabble.

For multimuses: Specify which muse(s).

[amdirfiren]

My Muse’s Everyday Wear.

1. In her teen years, Alwen wore very simple dresses. Some were far more detailed in embroidery than others, but overall most were light or pastel colors. She also rarely did anything with her hair, letting it hang loose, brushed back over her shoulders.

2. As a student learning the arts of healing, Alwen took to wearing clothing that was cheaply made as it was constantly covered in stains from the poultices she was practicing making. She also began wearing aprons or tunics that were easy to clean. Her hairstyles began to grow more elaborate as she bonded with the other young women learning to be healers who taught her better ways to fashion her long locks.

3. As she grew older, Alwen set out to purchase clothing for herself for the first time. She was finally earning her own money, and so began settling into her own style: dresses with half-sleeves for ease of movement, bright colors and light-weight fabrics, and belts with silver accents to hold the purse she now carried as a symbol of her independence.

4. The “formal” garb of a Junior Healer in the Houses of Healing includes a wimple and veil along with the usual white or cream-colored dress and chemise. The head-coverings are traditional in Gondor for women who are in mourning or who wish to show great respect by covering themselves in modest clothing. Alwen wears her veil after the death of her cousin, when she is mourning, or after particularly bad battles in which many soldiers and rangers die. She also wears it in the presence of the upper echelons of society in Minas Tirith.

5. Alwen usually is found in the white dress and chemise of a Healer when she is working. The fabric is light-weight and breathable, as well as surprisingly affordable. They are washed and cared for on site in the Houses of Healing, and most healers have their names embroidered on the inside so that there are fewer mixups. In Alwen’s case, it is difficult to mistake her dress for another’s as she is a good deal shorter than many of her fellows. She covers her hair with a soft linen scarf to keep it out of the way.

6. As a surgeon, Alwen wears a soft blue kirtle which acts as an apron as well as a mark of rank and skill. All surgeons wear blue in the Houses of Healing to make them easier to find in emergencies and Alwen is no exception. She keeps her hair tied back, as usual, but she also has a small linen handkerchief to wear as a face-mask so that she doesn’t have blood splattered into her mouth while she works.

7. As a woman grown, Alwen’s favorite dress is by far the green. Paired with embroidered chemises, specifically with pops of red and pink, she is often found outside the Houses with this dress on. She calls it her “spring” dress, as it reminds her of the fresh green blooms after the snows melt. Her hair is tied up in an intricate braid, which becomes her usual style as she fully comes into her own as a healer and an independent woman.

8. Alwen’s second favorite dress is a sapphire blue cotehardie over a plain chemise or two, depending on the weather. It is her simplest gown by far, but the simplicity is what she thinks makes it look good. She often wears it in the winter, as the cotehardie itself is slightly too big and thus is good for layering and keeping her warm in the harsh Gondorian snows.

9. Alwen’s “finest” when it comes to her every day dresses is the pink and blue embroidered one. She often pairs it with her finest chemises and wears it anywhere she needs to look a little more dressed up, but still not “formal,” such as visiting the Houses of Lore. Sometimes she just wears it because she wants to feel pretty, and the cut of the gown as well as the colors makes it stand out as her best.

Tagged by: @vezely​ ( thank you!! ) Tagging: @dunadaneth, @warhornofgondor, @westcalled, @asteeledheart, and anyone else who wants to!!!

[amdirfiren]

[ let alwen braid your hair

[veiligplekje]

[amdirfiren]

warhornofgondor​:

“You will have to make her acquaintance one day. I will introduce you, even under the threat of a united front. It would be well worth it. She has been akin to an aunt to Faramir and I, and will no doubt tell you embarrassing stories if you ask kindly.”

That would be quite the ally. Merendis was a force unto herself. No doubt Alwen would also be swept up into her sphere should they meet. And, Merendis would take the young healer under her wing like she had with others, Finduilas for one. In the chilly chamber of Denethor’s heart there still remained a warmth for the woman who could certainly go toe-to-toe with him. 

Oh! would that she had left her hand there he might have closed his eyes and leaned into it relishing her touch. The words burned in his throat and remained unspoken. For all the foes he had faced rejection was the most terrifying. Honesty, loyalty, and friendship would replace sword, shield, and armor. There was time to determine and decide if the feelings he held for her should be revealed.

“I believe that day has come. You deserve happiness and joy, Alwen, for that is what you offer the world. I have seen pain and sorrow cross your features far too often, and been the cause of it. No longer. That is not how one should treat a friend, especially one as dear as you are to me. My path to redemption will not be watered with your tears.”

     “Oh? And I shall have to tell her all the stories that I have gathered over the years tending you.” She teased, but she was warmed through at the thought of meeting someone he clearly looked up to, someone who had been part of his life far longer than she had. “You do know you are setting yourself up for a great deal of embarrassment?”

     She had always known that this day would come--that he would have to put up his sword and his shield, to shake off the weight of armor and take up the weight of ruling in its stead. She had always believed that would be the day they parted forever, and she would lock her foolish heart away, chastising it for dreaming and yearning, and never think of him again, as he would surely do as well. But now it was upon them, at last, and it was not at all like that--

    --this was no goodbye, it was not even the hint of one. It was the promise of his friendship, no matter what rank stood between them, and Alwen could have wept in joy. But she did not, nor did she throw herself into his arms and kiss him like she wanted to.

     But she smiled at him, taking both his hands in her own.

     “You are dearer to me than you can imagine, my lord. The war is over, and I am glad to know that you will no longer face such danger, even if it means I shall not see you in these halls. But your path is not one you need to walk alone.”

     And she dared, one last time, and leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his brow.

           “I am here, always, my lord, if you need me. You need but ask.”

[tolkienillustrations]

In the South the realm of Gondor long endured; and for a while its splendour grew, recalling somewhat of the might of Númenor, ere it fell. High towers that people built, and strong places, and havens of many ships; and the winged crown of the Kings of Men was held in awe by folk of many tongues. Their chief city was Osgiliath, Citadel of the Stars, through the midst of which the River flowed. And Minas Ithil they built, Tower of the Rising Moon, eastward upon a shoulder of the Mountains of Shadow; and westward at the feet of the White Mountains Minas Anor they made, Tower of the Setting Sun. There in the courts of the King grew a white tree, from the seed of that tree which Isildur brought over the deep waters, and the seed of that tree before came from Eressëa, and before that out of the Uttermost West in the Day before days when the world was young.‘

The Council of Elrond (via tolkienillustrations)