This is an event that will be running from the 27th of April to the 3rd of May, in honour of Aragorn being coronated on the 1st. Bring absolutely anything (fics, gifs, meta, etc) to this event - as long as it's related in some way to Gondor, or Gondor's many characters.
Here's the basic rules, how I'm going to tag posts, and the ao3 collection.
Prompts:
The Line of Kings, Minas Tirith, "It has come to me, the One Ring. It shall be an heirloom of my people." (Further inspo)
The Line of Stewards, Artifacts, "fealty with love, valour with honour, oathbreaking with vengeance" (Further inspo)
The Rangers of Ithilien, Nature, "By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe!" (Further inspo)
Osgiliath, Grief and Conflict, "I love only that which they defend." (Further inspo)
Dol Amroth, Cultural Differences, "the great stone city, vaster and more splendid than anything he had dreamed of" (Further inspo)
Minor characters, Tradition, "But there are no travellers in this land: only the servants of the Dark Tower, or of the White." (Further inspo)
Fourth Age, Gondor's past, "I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom." (Further inspo)
To people newly stumbling upon this event as it's finally begun: Participate in as many - or as few - days as you would like! Start from whichever day as well, even if you stumble upon us in the last!
Firien Wood, on the border between Gondor and Rohan, was also called the Whispering Wood, and it was said that when one entered, the urge to whisper fell over them
This is based on cool and moist deciduous forests, in this case several in Germany and southern China. I headcanon the Whispering Wood as somewhat cooler than the surrounding regions
Apologies for the late respond (a mixture of waiting for any last stragglers and a post mod thought was scheduled). Just want to thank absolutely everyone who participated in Gondor Week - and everyone who was a viewer/reader/enjoyed it as much as I did.
It will absolutely be coming back next year, with a semi-changed prompt list.
Check out @tolkienfandomevents for the next one coming up, or @boromir-week in June for the next Gondor-centric one.
With just under two hours to spare, I got (some) of my Gondor OCs done in this little collage thingy for @gondorweek. And all dark-haired as god intended. Totally new style to try and find a style that isn't full realism for pics that are a bit quicker to draw. Pencil on paper.
Happy with the tree. Unhappy with those stupid stars. Mostly happy with the characters if I don't think about it too much.
Few people care about OCs from my experience on the internet, so I'll put that blabbing under the cut. These are all RP characters from Lord of the Rings Online. ... and they're all from Minas Tirith because I'm heavily biased. So this could fit for either minor characters or the city prompt.
Top: Laerlin
Faceclaim: Jennifer Connolly from Dark Water (2005)
Created: 2011
Age: Uh, she was 21 when she started, and she like in the 28 range now. Time is weird in a game where less than a year of canon time has taken 19 RL years. The WOTR is much longer in her timeline.
Brief blurb: Her dad was an Ithilien Ranger. Mom died, dad died, some other tragedy common in RP back stories, she left the country and started her little RP adventures. Which were numerous as she was my main for several years.
She is a healer by profession, specializing in surgery and triage, and by the ring's destruction she has gained some respect after a bumpy start in the Houses of Healing. Plan to traumatize her further by sending her on a plot into Mordor (because it's open season there in this game's version of post-destruction) before likely sending her to rebuild Arnor or something.
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Middle: Finesten
Faceclaim: Benedict Cumberbatch in Sherlock (2010-2017)
Created: 2017 or 2018, can't quite remember.
Age: I rebooted him with LOTRO's new servers, so he's 36, having only aged a year now.
Brief blurb: Several years ago I thought it would be super funny to put the really ornery assholey Sherlock in M-e, with similar skills but not the profession. A Sindarin translation later created Finesten. When server migrations happened, I rebooted him and revamped his back story to major success. He's still a bit assholey, but has had a lot of growth over the last year to help shape him into his own character who occasionally does a deduction and mystery solving.
In Middle-earth, he is pre-War and in that fun period of time where the Fellowship isn't in TTT territory yet. He'll stick in that canon zone until I feel like moving his story up the timeline. His role in the "war effort" was helping come up with antidotes to Mordor's poison of the month until he got tasked to do research on the Great Plague as there was rumor starting that Mordor may try to weaponize that devastating disease once again. So he is tasked to find as much about it as humanly possible and, if possible, figure out a treatment should that end come to pass.
Oh, and his brother is naturally in the council of Gondor. Not trying to rule the country or anything, he is a very loyal servant.
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Bottom: Meluion
Faceclaim: Sharlto Copley circa early 2010s. With longer hair.
Created: Uh, 2015 I think it's when I brought him to LOTRO with a new background.
Age: He was 67 when I started with him, I'd say he's about 69 now with the amount of RP time he's had.
Brief blurb: His original form was a Northern Dúnadan, created because I wanted one who bucked all the typical stereotypes. So he's quite personable and jolly in nature. When I brought him into LOTRO, I moved him to the position of a retired Ithilien Ranger with strong Dúnedain roots so he could look late 40s in his late 60s lmao.
He serves more as a support/advisory role to the much younger characters that tend to be in the RP scene. He's had his adventures, had his sorrows (lost his wife to disease), had his dumb moments, and is now more there to help along and provide expertise when a certain role needs filling.
I was planning on posting the Umbrella Scene (the ruling Steward of Gondor recieves a strange present from the Thain of the Shire) from my other Boromir lives AU for @gondorweek, but then I realized just how long and incomplete it is, so instead here's an excerpt from Frodo And Boromir's Terrible Camping Trip (although this is rather later than the camping trip; the Ring has been destroyed and Boromir is recovering from near-fatal wounds inflicted at the Black Gate, some of which are aggravations of those he sustained saving Frodo from Grishnakh's band), where they discuss Isildur, since the Council of Elrond gave Frodo a rather incomplete picture.
*
“The last true King of Númenor was named Tar-Palantír – the Far-sighted,” he added to avoid confusion, although he suspected Frodo might be the only Hobbit with enough High Elvish to understand the meaning of the name. “He brought about a return to the ways of the Faithful, but not all were pleased by it. His daughter was Míriel – she should have been Tar-Míriel, the fourth Ruling Queen – but Pharazôn the son of the King’s brother usurped her by force, and she was made to submit to him, and to wed him.”
“She was forced to marry him?” Frodo repeated, looking faintly ill. The disgust, however muted, was a more visceral feeling than any Boromir had seen on his face since he had properly awoken, somehow more real than the quietness which had seeped into everything else the halfling did. It was a strange relief to see.
“It is vile,” he agreed, his breath catching as he tried to ease himself into a better position and the skin pulled around the edges of his wound. “He took the kingship upon himself – “
– and strike him down, that he might fall forever, for who else will do this deed; if there is no King in Gondor to do it then there shall be a King in Gondor –
His voice faltered. He had not thought – he had not thought beyond laying the base for understanding of what led to the desecration of Númenor –
Disgust of a different sort choked him. To have been angry when the wraith at the gates likened him to Eärnur, who had been guilty only of gross irresponsibility, of impetuous disregard for his duties, rather than treachery and mortal hubris, as if he had any right…
Frodo’s hand was on his wrist, and he flinched from it.
“He took the kingship upon himself and named himself Ar-Pharazôn,” Boromir finished mechanically. He could not, would not, allow his own shame to become a burden for his companion, not when Frodo had borne such dreadful burdens already, not when the halfling’s tender heart would doubtless result in further undeserved forgiveness.
“You should drink some water,” Frodo said. He did not try to touch Boromir again.
But the worst part, the further comparison which he had seen only too late, was yet to come, and best over with. Boromir shook his head. “He had – ambitions, beyond Númenor,” he said, keeping his voice even with an effort. “He sought to face the Enemy, but for his own aggrandizement only. He did not choose to allow any other to call himself Lord over Middle-earth.” Boromir might have dwelt on this specific point, on Pharazôn’s lack of motivation beyond his own self-aggrandizement; a large part of him wished to, tempted him to. He did not. “He came to Middle-earth with his armies and the Enemy, ill-prepared to face him, feigned surrender. Pharazôn took him back to Númenor as a spoil of war.” That was the worst part over. He took a breath and allowed himself to acknowledge what it was he had most dreaded: for Frodo to comment on what he himself could see all too clearly. Of course he had not and would not; he was far too kind to do any such thing. “He consulted with him, however in secret, perhaps of a mind to gloat, or…” He only barely stopped himself from shrugging, which would have been very painful, and instead reached slowly and carefully for the cup of water beside the bed. Frodo watched him anxiously, seeming relieved when he managed the process without anything more than a wince, and took the cup back from him once Boromir had drunk. “It ended as you might imagine: soon enough he was in Pharazôn’s confidence, and then advising him directly, no longer in secret. Then he turned his mind to destroying everything remaining of the Faithful’s customs.” Faramir would have been able to speak at length of those customs, but Frodo had not wished to hear the story from Faramir. “There was a White Tree in Númenor – the scion, they say, through many cuttings of the Silver Tree itself that once stood in the far West, before the Great Enemy destroyed it. This he intended to destroy. But the Faithful still remained, though they were hard-pressed from all sides, and Isildur was the grandson of the Lord of Andúnië who was greatest among them – in faith as well as in lineage.”
That was a tale Frodo should hear from Faramir, if he wished to hear it at all; Boromir had always found the story of Amandil frustrating at best, a parable with no real end that he was nonetheless supposed to take a lesson from. It was Elendil’s actions that had preserved the customs and history his father had cherished, in however small a part, Elendil and his sons. More importantly, they had preserved their people, even in the face of the Downfall.
“He made his way in secret to the heart of the King’s courts at Armenelos, passing even the guards posted upon the Tree itself, and saved a fruit that still clung to its branches before it could be destroyed. But he was detected as he made to depart, and forced to fight his way through many opponents, succeeding in the end only after taking grievous injury. He brought back the fruit before he succumbed and lay stricken with his injuries for many months, but Amandil Lord of Andúnië blessed and planted the fruit, and it grew in safety because Isildur had never revealed his face even in the heat of battle. And in time when Númenor fell and Elendil came with his sons to Middle-earth, it was planted in place of honour in Minas Anor, and though it did not survive the Age and the city is no longer Minas Anor, still it remains.”
“The White Tree in the Citadel?” Frodo asked, in no little surprise. “It is from Númenor – I mean, it is the same one? I know many things in Gondor were built by the Men of Westernesse, but I never thought that the tree… perhaps many generations back, you know…”
“It is even the same,” Boromir said, and despite his discomfort he could not but smile. “Though it has been dead many lives of Men, still it is the heart of Minas Tirith, and Gondor.” He tapped his chest – gently – where the White Tree would rest were he prepared for battle.
“A great deed,” Frodo said, “and a shame the Man who did it is remembered for one mistake.”
“Not in Gondor,” Boromir averred. It was why he had told the story in the first place, although speaking for so long had begun to weary him.
“No,” Frodo said softly. “Not in Gondor. And that is only right. I daresay he did many other deeds of great worth as well, and perhaps in time might have redeemed his misjudgement, if he had been granted it.”
Chapters: 1/3
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aragorn/Boromir (Tolkien), Aragorn/Arwen Undómiel/Boromir
Characters: Aragorn (Tolkien), Boromir (Tolkien), Imrahil | 22nd Prince of Dol Amroth (Tolkien), Forlong (Tolkien), Arwen Undómiel
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boromir Lives (Tolkien), tradition, Trust, Dom/sub Undertones, Blindfolds, Hand Jobs, Teasing, Orgasm Edging, Politics, political scheming, Post-War of the Ring (Tolkien), Despite what those tags imply there is no public sex
Summary: Several Lords of Gondor bring forth concerns regarding the Lord Steward and his ability to submit to the king’s will.
An ancient tradition is found.
Aragorn decides to use it to make a point.
The lords find they have even more questions than before.
For @gondorweek Day 6 Prompts: Minor Characters and Tradition
@gondorweek day seven | gondor's past | the founding of pelargir
Thus it came to pass in that time that the Númenóreans first made great settlements upon the west shores of the ancient lands; for their own land seemed to them shrunken, and they had no rest or content therein, and they desired now wealth and dominion in Middle-earth, since the West was denied. Great harbours and strong towers they made, and there many of them took up their abode; but they appeared now rather as lords and masters and gatherers of tribute than as helpers and teachers. And the great ships of the Númenóreans were borne east on the winds and returned ever laden, and the power and majesty of their kings were increased; and they drank and they feasted and they clad themselves in silver and gold.
In all this the Elf-friends had small part. They alone came now ever to the north and the land of Gil-galad, keeping their friendship with the Elves and lending them aid against Sauron; and their haven was Pelargir above the mouths of Anduin the Great. But the King's Men sailed far away to the south; and the lordships and strongholds that they made have left many rumours in the legends of Men.
—The Silmarillion, “Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age”
Written for Day Seven of @gondorweek: 'Fourth Age, Gondor's past, "I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom."'
And that's a wrap! Wow! I cannot believe that I've published something every day for a week, lol, and I have really enjoyed this event. Thank you so much for all the prompts!
Word Count: 1,016
Rating: Gen
The wind that whipped around the towers of Minas Tirith smelled like salt and the sea, something which Finduilas of Dol Amroth found to be rather ironic. By all accounts, Minas Tirith was a city of white stone and silver metal; beautiful in its own way, of course, and yet wholly different from her home.
It wasn't like she hated every minute of living her. No, it was quite the opposite. But days like today, when she could smell the ocean in the air, it felt almost entirely too tantalizing, opening up all sorts of memories she did not wish to feel. Playing in the water as a child, sitting on the sand with her siblings at any age. Now that was all gone, and not simply because she had gotten older. Sometimes Finduilas wished for salt on her skin and water in her hair, and yet, of course, that could not happen.
Salt and the Sea, fic below cut:
The wind that whipped around the towers of Minas Tirith smelled like salt and the sea, something which Finduilas of Dol Amroth found to be rather ironic. By all accounts, Minas Tirith was a city of white stone and silver metal; beautiful in its own way, of course, and yet wholly different from her home.
It wasn't like she hated every minute of living her. No, it was quite the opposite. But days like today, when she could smell the ocean in the air, it felt almost entirely too tantalizing, opening up all sorts of memories she did not wish to feel. Playing in the water as a child, sitting on the sand with her siblings at any age. Now that was all gone, and not simply because she had gotten older. Sometimes Finduilas wished for salt on her skin and water in her hair, and yet, of course, that could not happen.
The howls of the wind nearly masked the sound of footsteps coming up behind her, but still Finduilas heard them, and she turned around to see her husband. Denethor smiled at her, something held behind his back. "Why do you linger up here, my love?"
She turned from looking at that sky, clouding over with the threat of torrential downpour. "Is there a law saying that I cannot?" she asked, but her voice was teasing and her smile even more so.
"There is not, although I wonder why you would stay in weather such as this."
"It is not raining yet," Finduilas said, and even though rain was perhaps her least favorite type of weather, it felt ... important. Like she had to see it, to bear witness to it. It had been raining and clouding over far more than usual lately as rumors of a risen evil grew, too.
"That is true," Denethor allowed, a slight tilt to his head, and he finally removed his hands from behind his back. He was holding a wooden box, neatly carved with stars and moons. "If you would accept it, I saw this and thought of you."
"It is a gift?"
"Indeed it is."
"Thank you, love." Finduilas reached out for the box and Denethor gave it to her; the small shape of it belied its weight. "Might I guess at what is inside?"
"No, it will be far nicer as a surprise."
"Alright, then." Fumbling with the clasp, she lifted the lid on the carved box, revealing an interior lined with blue velvet and silver thread. And lying inside it was a necklace.
If someone had told her that she was to receive a necklace, FInduilas's initial thought would be one of surprise, and then consideration as to what it would be. Most of the gifts that she had been given over her life — largely by Denethor, but also by assorted family members and friends — were jewelry, and most of that jewelry was necklaces. If her large collection of them was anything to go by, then most necklaces were designed either with the symbol of the swans of Dol Amroth, or, more generally, stars.
This one, however, was the first she had ever been given that was made in the form of the White Tree, and even though, as a rule, she tried never to be surprised by trivial things, her lips parted in confusion. "I love it," she eventually said, looking up at Denethor, whose lips were now pursed.
"Do you? Truly?"
"Of course I do," she said, and the lie rolled more easily off her tongue than it did the first time. "It's beautiful." That, at least,wais not as much of a lie. At least she could appreciate the beauty of the necklace, even though it iwa not the beauty that she would have chosen for herself. The silvery metal used on the pendant and the chain was shining, the tree itself rendered in loving detail.
"It is from the finest jeweler of the citadel," Denethor informed her, mouth now slightly upturned. This was good. This meant he was not angry, or if he was, he did not show it. "He has been working on it for months, only hoping that he can create something to match your own beauty."
"He has certainly outdone himself," Finduilas answered, dimly aware of the fact that she should, perhaps, put the necklace on. The thin chain slipped out of her grasp once, twice, before she was finally able to pick it up and fasten it around her neck. The chain felt heavier than it should have, like the tree itself was tethering her to Minas Tirith. But that was stupid. The White Tree was the symbol used by all of Gondor, not just Minas Tirith, even if that was where it was the most prevalent. There was no reason for her to feel like this.
Of course, though, she knew exactly why she felt like that. She'd felt like that ever since she'd first come to this city, but back then, it was nowhere near as nagging as it was now. No, right now, she felt not only out of place but like she was somewhere she wasn't supposed to be. Like a fish out of the very waters she used to love. And still did.
"It suits you well," Denethor told her, and upon hearing his voice, Finduilas jolted back to the present. "The silver looks nice on you, I think."
"It does," Finduilas responded, and that was not a lie. Silver really was her color, she'd always been told. And even beyond that, the necklace was a fine piece of craftsmanship, something she should feel privileged to have, but the metal around her neck felt less like a chain and more like a shackle. "Once again, this is a truly beautiful gift. It's not even my birthday!"
That, at least, elicited a laugh, however small. "And what kind of a husband would I be if I did not occasionally gift my wife when she is least expecting it, hm?"
Finduilas, too, laughed, and even she could hear the hollowness in her own voice.
Title: To Know One's Enemy
Characters: Boromir, Faramir
Relationship(s): Boromir & Faramir
Rating: Gen
Word Count: 1.8k
CW: Mentions of past human sacrifice, hostages
Tolkientober 2025 prompt: Libraries
Summary: Boromir meets Faramir in the archives of Minas Tirith and learns about the horrific things the Númenóreans did to the Men of Harad. He begins to reconsider Gondor's long-time enemies in the South and becomes less opposed to a treaty with them.
(Also posted on AO3)
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
"And [the Númenóreans] sailed now with power and armoury to Middle-earth, and they came no longer as bringers of gifts, nor even as rulers, but as fierce men of war. And they hunted the men of Middle-earth and took their goods and enslaved them, and many they slew cruelly upon their altars. For they built in their fortresses temples and great tombs in those days; and men feared them, and the memory of the kindly kings of the ancient days faded from the world and was darkened by many a tale of dread." - The Silmarillion, "Akallabêth: The Downfall of Númenor"
"...[A]nd at last when [Ciryaher] had gathered enough strength he came down from the north by sea and by land, and... his armies utterly defeated the Men of the Harad, and their kings were compelled to acknowledge the overlordship of Gondor. Ciryaher then took the name of Hyarmendacil 'South-victor.'
"In his day Gondor reached the summit of its power. ...The Men of the Vales of Anduin acknowledged its authority and the kings of the Harad did homage to Gondor, and their sons lived as hostages in the court of its King." - The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A, "I. The Númenórean Kings, (iv) Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion"
Boromir dodged and avoided colliding with passing servants and loitering nobles with practiced agility. He had been overseeing the soldiers running practice drills when he received a message from Faramir to meet him in the archives. Faramir knew the library of Minas Tirith and the archives below were not places he frequented very often—if he could help it—but for Faramir to invite him there meant that it must have been an important matter.
As he descended the stairs that led down to the archives, the smell of dust attacked his senses. He made a face, already feeling like he was covered in cobwebs and needed a bath to wash off the dust. He found Faramir standing in front of a table with several unfurled scrolls before him, stones and other heavy knickknacks being used to hold down the corners. His brother appeared to be deep in thought, because he did not react when Boromir approached the table.
“Do you think perhaps it is about time we clean this place up a bit, now that we have a king?” Boromir asked. Faramir hummed and nodded, but Boromir couldn’t tell if he had actually heard him. “What are you focusing on so intently? And what did you wish to speak to me about?”
Faramir stepped to the side and gestured for Boromir to read it for himself. Boromir’s brow furrowed but he came forward. As he leaned over the table, he suppressed a sigh. Of course it was written in Sindarin. He knew enough to be dangerous, but he hadn’t engaged in his studies when he was younger, and so a lot of the time he had to make guesses. He saw several mentions of the Númenóreans and the Haradrim, but for the most part he couldn’t make heads or tails about what he was reading, which only made him more frustrated.
“What does this word say here?” he asked as he pointed at a word in one of the sentences regarding the Haradrim.
“'Sacrificial offerings.'”
“So… the Haradrim were sacrificing people to Sauron?” Faramir let out a quiet sigh and shook his head.
“Read it again.”
Boromir scowled but did as he was told. He read the sentence over and over again, trying to remember what his tutor said about sentence structures. Since his original guess had been wrong, he went from there.
“Wait… does it say that the Southrons were sacrificed?” Faramir nodded. “By the Númenóreans?”
“By the King’s Men who followed Ar-Pharazôn. Not the Faithful.”
Boromir’s stomach clenched. They sacrificed the Southrons on their altars. Altars to whom?
“Why would they do that? Did the Southrons attack first?”
“No. And they did it because Sauron had seduced Ar-Pharazôn into worshiping Morgoth, who Sauron claimed was the true creator of the world while Eru Ilúvatar was a false god created by the Elves. The King’s Men started wars with the native people of Harad and enslaved them or sacrificed them after stealing their goods. All of these things, as well as Ar-Pharazôn’s violation of the Ban of the Valar which forbade Men from entering Valinor, led to the fall and destruction of Númenor.”
Boromir leaned forward on his hands and stared unseeingly at the script. For his entire adult life, he had been fighting Southrons and other Men of the South and East who chose to follow Sauron. How many of his brothers had been slain by their scimitars? How many men had he lost to their poison-tipped arrows? It made his blood boil just thinking about it. The Southrons had been attacking Gondor for hundreds of years, and his ancestors had defended the White City and neighboring Osgiliath just as he had. And now King Elessar wished to seek peace with them.
“If Ar-Pharazôn started sacrificing them because of Sauron’s influence, then why did they join Sauron’s side in the war? Did they know he was the reason their ancestors were sacrificed and enslaved?”
“It is unlikely that they knew. Sauron is called ‘the Deceiver’ for a reason. He can manipulate others to do his evil works without them realizing that their actions are not their own.” Boromir’s expression darkened. He knew a little bit about that, he thought to himself as he remembered the pull of the Ring and the moments of time he had lost awareness of. Faramir pulled out another scroll and laid it on top of the first one. “Read this one, as well.”
Boromir groaned and shot Faramir an annoyed look. At least this one was written in Westron. It appeared to be a first-person account written by King Hyarmendacil about his victory over the Men of Harad and how their kings sent their sons to live in his court as hostages. He definitely didn’t remember ever learning this from his tutor.
What he wondered was why they had given up their sons as hostages. Because it happened after King Hyarmendacil defeated them and brought about Gondor’s peak strength, he had to guess that it was appeasement. But even that did not last long, because the fighting picked up again, and he figured that there would be more Southrons living in Gondor. He could not imagine the Kings of Rohan sending their sons to Dunland as hostages, or the Gondorian Kings sending theirs to Harad or Mordor. He did not think that the Stewards would have done it, either. But as he glanced over at Faramir, who seemed to be deep in thought again, Boromir came to a disturbing conclusion—their father might have given Faramir up, or would have at least considered it, if it was his only option to preserve peace.
No, Father would not have done that, even if he did not view Faramir favorably. He was far too proud to resort to such things.
“This appears to have been written by King Hyarmendacil, and it says that the Southrons sent their sons of their own accord instead of the king demanding it. Is that the case?”
“It would appear so, but it is hard to say for certain because we do not have a written account from the Southrons.”
“Who wrote the first one? About the… sacrifices.”
“It was written by someone named Morinehtar.” Boromir frowned.
“Isn’t that a Quenya name?” Faramir nodded. “Was it an Elf?”
“I do not believe so. Although there are Elves dwelling in the East, they are of the Avari who did not make the journey West, and so they did not learn to speak the High Elven tongue.”
“Then who was he?”
“The only individuals I know of who bear Quenya names are the Istari. Like Mithrandir, who is also called Olórin.”
“Then there are other Wizards besides Gandalf and Saruman?” Faramir rolled his eyes.
“Yes, brother. There are five Istari. Did you sleep through all of your lessons?”
“No…!” Boromir’s face flushed with indignation. “Although I may have dozed off during a few of them.”
“Just as I thought. But all jokes aside… what do you think?”
“What do I think about what?”
“The king’s decision to seek peace with the Southrons and Easterlings. Do you agree with it?”
“I think… it will take some getting used to. I have seen so many soldiers die upon their blades and be pierced by their arrows. But I am beginning to understand that they were not wishing us harm because they were inherently evil, but because of what happened in the past, perhaps. At least, I believe that to be a part of it. One day, I might be able to see past the lives they took, but I am not so closed-minded that I refuse to even consider a path towards peace.” Faramir nodded but said nothing. “What do you think?”
“I think I am tired of fighting and taking lives. I wish for the world to heal. Winning a war as momentous as this one and defeating an enemy as formidable as Sauron, only to allow conflict between us to continue is not right.” Boromir offered him a small smile and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I agree. I, too, am tired of fighting. All my life I have been fighting enemies, real and imagined. I just hope that the Southrons want peace instead of war as much as we do.”
“As do I.” Faramir rolled up the scrolls and placed them on the shelves where he found them and followed Boromir up the stairs. After they had made it across the library and into the corridor, he said, “I will inform King Elessar of what you said.”
“Why did he not just ask me, himself?”
“Because he was busy. And because he thought I would have better luck at convincing you to agree to the idea.” Boromir snorted.
“Since he values my opinion so much, then perhaps he will do something about the dust.”
“You could always plug your nose,” Faramir said half-jokingly.
“And breathe the stuff in through my mouth? No, thank you.”
“Does this mean that, if the archive room is tidied up, then you will use it more often?”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, but I would rather clean Gimli’s toenails than hole myself up in the archive room for hours reading dusty old tomes.”
“Be careful what you say. Gimli might take you up on that.” Boromir grimaced.
“Yes, he might. I just hope that Legolas didn’t overhear me and tell him what I said,” he replied with a shudder as they made their way through the Citadel.
After they had gone their separate ways—Faramir going in search of King Elessar and Boromir returning to the training grounds—Boromir thought of something he had meant to ask him. Did the rest of Gondor know about the atrocities that had been committed against the Men of Harad, too? Surely, he would have heard someone speak about it before now. But if it was not common knowledge, then was it because the Kings and Stewards kept it hidden from them? And what would happen if Elessar brought it to light?
Another story I'm reblogging for the @gondorweek day 7 prompt "Gondor's past"
This story talks about the Numenoreans' violent treatment of the Haradrim during the Second Age and later how the Haradrim kings sent their sons to Gondor as hostages in the Third Age, so please be mindful of the TW's.
Title: Uprooted
Characters: Boromir, Borlas, Berelach, Elboron, Barahir, Haldir, Bergil, Faramir, Original Characters
Relationship(s): Boromir & OMC, Boromir x OFC, other background relationships
Rating: Gen
Word Count: 1.7k
CW: Awkward conversations, teen crushes
Tolkientober 2025 prompt: Roots
Summary: While enjoying a family picnic on a beautiful summer day, Boromir and his grandson Vorondil get to talking about their namesakes, and Boromir attempts to give him some advice about love.
A/N: I drop a lot of names here. Even though most of them are only mentioned, I'll make a list.
Borlas (canon) - Son of Beregond, brother of Bergil
Vehta (OC) - Wife of Borlas, daughter of the Haradrim Ambassador
Eilian (OC) - Daughter of Borlas and Vehta
Berelach (canon) - Son of Borlas and Vehta
Lanthiriel (OC) - Wife of Haldir, former lady-in-waiting to Arwen
Aredhel (OC) - Daughter of Haldir and Lanthiriel
Aerdis (OC) - Youngest daughter of Boromir, wife of Galvorn (not mentioned by name) - Steward of Arnor
Vorondil (OC) - Son of Galvorn and Aerdis, grandson of Boromir
Armegil (OC) - Northern Ranger, best friend of Galvorn, adopted son of Halbarad
Boramath (OC) - Northern Ranger, best friend of Galvorn, son of Halbarad
Cirion (OC) - Son of Bergil and Finduilas, grandson of Boromir
Lothraen (OC) - Daughter of Aragorn and Arwen, wife of Elboron, mother of Barahir
Finduilas (OC) - Oldest daughter of Boromir, wife of Bergil
Anael (OC) - Wife of Boromir, mother of Finduilas and Aerdis, grandmother of Cirion, Elenna, and Vorondil
*Elenna (OC) - Daughter of Bergil and Finduilas, granddaughter of Boromir
*Elenna is named after Elenna "Enna" the adopted daughter of Faramir and Eowyn, @annabthesolitarywriter's OC in her fic The Lady of Ithilien; Finduilas was close to her cousin when they were growing up and named her daughter after her.
(Also posted on AO3)
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
Sindarin
Naneth - Mother
June 21, Year 49 FoA
It was a pleasant first day of Summer. A week-long festival had just begun, and many people were outside enjoying the sunshine, eagerly awaiting the sun to set on this longest day to watch the fireworks display. The first day of festivities was more popular among the commonfolk, whereas the nobility would spend the afternoon leisurely relaxing in their gardens. Others had picnics near the Anduin and would dip their toes into the cool water after they had finished eating. This was the case for the Stewards and their families, who had found a spot along the bend of the river, about halfway between Osgiliath and Emyn Arnen.
Also there were Borlas, his wife Vehta, and their two children, Eilian and Berelach, and Haldir, Lanthiriel, and their daughter Aredhel had come with Legolas and some of the Elves who had joined their prince in Ithilien. Boromir’s daughter Aerdis and grandson had come from Annúminas for the festival, which was not something enjoyed in Arnor. Her husband was unable to join them, so he sent two of his best Rangers—and best friends—to accompany them. The Anduin had drawn quite a crowd, and everyone seemed happy. Well, almost everyone.
Boromir hobbled over in the tall grass to where Vorondil was sitting by himself. He had been with Berelach for a while, but now Berelach was being taught the “Northern way” (meaning the right way) to fish by Armegil and Boramath, the two Rangers who had come with them from Annúminas.
“You did not want to try your hand at fishing?” Boromir asked as he lowered himself down onto an enormous log, resting his cane across his lap. His grandson looked at him, the wind blowing his dark hair into his eyes. Vorondil shook his head.
“The current is too strong, so they probably won’t catch anything. And I can fish at home. I prefer to go ice fishing with Father.” Boromir hummed in thought.
“I have only gone ice fishing once, and it was during a visit to Rohan. Up there, the rivers freeze over in the winter, so they are able to do so. But here, one would fall through as soon as they set foot on the ice.”
“Did you catch anything?” Boromir let out a chuckle.
“I am afraid not. But the fish seemed to like Théodred’s line better.”
“You seem to really like Rohan. I have heard you talk about it and the people, and you’ve never had anything bad to say about them.”
“Of course not. I hold the Rohirrim in high regard, even before they came to our aid in the war. In fact, I believe that may be why your aunt named her son after Cirion, who gifted the Rohirrim the lands where they now reside.”
“Is Cousin Cirion like Steward Cirion?”
“Well, I can’t say for sure, since he lived so long ago. What I do know is that he was likely a soldier and not a sailor as your cousin is. He fought on land and, as far as I know, was never at sea, despite the meaning of his name suggesting it ought to be otherwise. And he was the son of my namesake.”
“Are you like him? The other Boromir, I mean.” Boromir hummed and rubbed at his chin.
“In some ways, yes. We were both soldiers and served as Captain-General. And we both defended Osgiliath from enemy attacks with… similar outcomes.” He, of course, was referring to the destruction of the bridges at Osgiliath to keep the enemy from conquering the city.
“I don’t think I’m anything like my namesake.” Boromir turned to him.
“Why do you say that? And how do you know what he was like?”
“Because I am still not very good at hunting, let alone so great at it that it is what I am known for. And I don’t know how to make a hunting horn, like the one you used to have.”
Boromir looked over to where Elboron and Lothraen were sitting with his oldest daughter Finduilas and her husband Bergil. The Horn of Gondor laid next to Elboron on the blanket. He found his wife Anael with Faramir and Barahir, who was showing her something he had written. Boromir shook his head.
“I hope you know that just because you are named after someone, that doesn’t mean you have to be like them. Elboron is somewhat named after me, and we couldn’t be any more different.” Boromir placed a hand on Vorondil’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Vorondil hung his head and started to pick at some grass. “Why do you ask? Did someone tell you otherwise?”
“No. I just assumed that… if you are named after someone then you should try to be like them. As a way to keep their legacy alive. Or something silly like that.”
A noise by the river drew their gazes, just as Eilian and Aredhel rushed into the water, with Boromir’s granddaughter Elenna trailing after them. She was nearly knocked over by the current, but Aerdis was there to take her hand. Berelach got bored of not catching any fish and joined his sister in the battle of splashes.
“Do you want to join them—?” Boromir followed Vorondil’s gaze to the young Elf-maid with silvery-blonde hair. When Vorondil realized he had been caught, he quickly looked away and cleared his throat. “I see. You may not share much in common with your namesake, but it would still appear that the apple does not fall far from the tree.”
“I don’t know what you mean. There aren’t any apples around here.” Boromir laughed.
“Then I will put it this way. You and I are more alike than you realize. We can’t help but be rendered tongue-tied by pretty Elf-maids.” Vorondil groaned and hid his face in his hands, though the faint pink tinge on the tips of his ears gave him away.
“Am I being that obvious?”
“If Merry and Pippin were here, they would have already set to work on bringing you and her together. Just as they did with your parents, and with your grandmother and me.” Vorondil stayed quiet. “Why don’t you go over there and talk to her?”
“And say what? It doesn’t matter, anyway. I live in Arnor and she lives here. She will probably be married the next time I see her.”
“Not if Haldir has anything to say about it.” Boromir smiled when he noticed Vorondil sneaking another look towards the river. “Would it comfort you to know that Haldir holds the Northern Dúnedain in high esteem?”
“It does not matter if her father likes me, only if she does.”
“Well, being in her father’s good graces certainly helps. Trust me, I know what it’s like to have one of his arrows pointed at your heart.”
“All the more reason to stay here.”
As if they had heard him, Berelach and Eilian called his name and waved him over. Boramath and Armegil had also given up on fishing, since their audience had left, and were standing in the water, too.
“Come on, Vorondil, we’re going to have a water fight, and we need one more person to have even teams!” shouted Berelach.
Vorondil sighed and hung his head before removing his boots and getting to his feet, walking gingerly over the sharp rocks near the riverbank. Boromir smiled as he watched him go. As much as Boromir enjoyed spending time with his grandchildren, he knew that being around an old man like him was not their first choice. And speaking of grandchildren, Elenna was racing towards him, with Aerdis a few paces behind.
“Look! I found a crystal!” Elenna showed him a jagged quartz. Boromir grinned and patted her cheek.
“What a good find! It is beautiful.”
“Go and show your naneth,” Aerdis said. Elenna lifted her skirt and ran to the blanket where her parents were sitting. Aerdis looked down at her father and tilted her head at him.
“I have sat for too long. Help me up?”
Aerdis had to do very little beyond grasping under his arm. When he was standing, she continued to hold onto his arm as they walked.
“What were you and Vorondil speaking about?”
“Our names, and others’, and our namesakes. He was under the impression that because he is named after Vorondil the Hunter that he has to be just like him.” Aerdis frowned.
“I only named him that because the Horn was so important to you. And still is, I imagine, even though you are no longer its owner. I do not recall ever insinuating such a thing.”
“He said he made the assumption on his own.”
“I see.”
“I also tried to encourage him to speak to Aredhel.” Aerdis raised her eyebrows.
“Indeed? He has not been able to stop talking about her ever since he first met her when Cirion joined the King’s Ships, two years ago.” They both looked over to where Vorondil was about to join the others… only to slip on a rock and tumble into the water. Father and daughter wore matching grimaces. Armegil trudged through the water to catch up with Vorondil before he resurfaced and grabbed onto him. Vorondil sat up and spluttered, his dark hair now plastered to his face. The others said something to him and he nodded. Aerdis breathed out a sigh. “He seems to be alright.”
Vorondil still hadn’t gotten to his feet, because at that moment, Aredhel approached him cautiously. He stared up at her dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open. She reached a hand towards his face, and he flinched back before going still again. After a pause, she pulled weed from his hair and dropped it in the water, allowing the current to take it away. Armegil hoisted him to his feet and brushed away some imaginary dirt. Something Vorondil said made Aredhel laugh. This time, Boromir breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Well, that wasn’t exactly how I would have gone about it. But it doesn’t always have to be a romantic gesture,” he said as he rubbed the top of his head, remembering another incident involving apples.
Reblogging this story for the @gondorweek day 7 prompt "Gondor's past". It features Boromir and his grandson Vorondil talking about the Stewards they are named after. Boromir's other grandson, Cirion, is only mentioned in this story but he was named after Steward Cirion, the son of Steward Boromir I (Cirion was in the story I reblogged on day 6).
If you have read any of my Garo Estel AU, you'll know that Boromir lives and gets married and becomes a girl-dad. You will also know that Osgiliath is rebuilt, Aragorn makes Boromir and Faramir Co-Stewards, and Boromir is named the Prince of Osgiliath and Lord of Anórien. I left canon alone in the sense that Elboron is still the only (male) heir to the Stewardship, but Boromir names Finduilas as his heir to Osgiliath and Anórien.
The heirs of Gondor:
Finduilas "Fin" - daughter of Boromir and Anael (OC), future Princess of Osgiliath and Lady of Anórien
Eldarion - son of King Elessar and Queen Arwen, Crown Prince and future King of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor
Elboron - son of Faramir and Éowyn, future Steward of Gondor, future Prince of Ithilien and Lord of Emyn Arnen
I kind of struggled a bit with what I wanted to do for the bottom row. I liked the Sun/Stars/Moon theme, but I changed my mind multiple times until I settled on their "weapons of choice."
CHARACTERS : Éomer / Lothíriel
RATING : G┃ WORD COUNT : 850
SUMMARY : Éomer does not like heights, and Lothíriel tests his courage. (Lothíriel is a Swan Knight AU).
For @gondorweek Day 5: Dol Amroth, Cultural Differences, "the great stone city, vaster and more splendid than anything he had dreamed of"
Read on AO3
PREVIEW :
He glimpsed what lay below – people like ants, alleys like pieces of string, steeples like pikes ready to pierce him. His stomach twisted as he grasped the mossy stones. He tried to stagger back but his legs turned to jelly.
“Save your venom for the enemy, Duinhir,” soothed Hirluin, called the Fair, from where he lounged across his seat.
Duinhir cast a withering eye over the Lord of the Green Hills, before apparently deciding that he was below his attention. “Where have you been?” he asked Golasgil abruptly.
“Resting, I should hope,” grumbled Forlong. “You could smuggle a small family in the bags under the poor man’s eyes.”
“I did not know that I must need report my movements to you, Mother Duinhir,” said Golasgil placidly, weaving his eight scarred fingers together. “But I was seeing to my men. They have travelled far and with little comfort or hope. And of course I was praying for courage and fortitude for us all.”
“May Tolog grant us strong arms,” said Dervorin, tapping absently at the wood of his father’s chair with the nimble fingers of an expert (and showy) swordsman. “And may Caundaer grant us trampling feet.”
Golasgil cast him reproving look at the mention of the Wrestler’s dark mirror, which Dervorin expertly ignored.
“You would do better to pray for Angbor,” Hirluin supplied. “He brings courage and fortitude aplenty.”
A darkness fell over Forlong’s face. “Angbor will not come. He has the might of the Southrons to contend with. Why do you think I come with so few men myself?”
Núriel, widow of Castamir the Usurper, seeks to end the Kin-strife once and for all.
for @gondorweek Day 6: Minor Characters, a fic about Castamir the Usurper's wife and sons, and some strife between even closer kin than Gondor's royalty...
Rating: T | Creator Chose Not To Warn
Relationships: Castamir's Wife & Castamir's Sons, Castamir's Wife & Eldacar of Gondor
Characters: Núriel (Castamir's Wife; OC), Airesarno and Ninquo (Castamir's Sons; OCs), Eldacar of Gondor
Word count: 1.6k
"But Valacar far exceeded his father’s designs. He grew to love the Northern lands and people, and he married Vidumavi, daughter of Vidugavia. It was some years before he returned. From this marriage came later the war of the Kin-strife."
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King, "Appendix A, Section IV: Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion"
"His queen had been a fair and noble lady, but short-lived according to the fate of lesser Men, and the Dúnedain feared that her descendants would prove the same and fall from the majesty of the Kings of Men. Also they were unwilling to accept as lord her son, who though he was now called Eldacar, had been born in an alien country and was named in his youth Vinitharya, a name of his mother’s people."
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King, "Appendix A, Section IV: Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion"
@gondorweek day 6: minor characters ❊ VIDUMAVI, QUEEN CONSORT OF VALACAR
[ID: an edit comprised of four posters in shades of medium brown and warm, desaturated green, with some white accents. Each poster is overlaid with the texture of folded paper and has a brown background.
1: A large rectangular image of Dandara Queiroz, a tupi-guarani (indigenous brazilian) model and actor with brown skin and long, straight black hair. She sits with her knees up and her head turned slightly to the left, holding a snake in her arms. White serif text beneath the photo reads "vidumavi," with a thin dotted line filling the remaining space on the left side / 2: Three horizontal rectangular images arranged in a stack. From top to bottom, the first shows a river among misty trees, the second shows a green parrot in a tree, and the third shows forested hills in fog. Small white text at the top left reads "princess" and at bottom right, "of Rhovanion" / 3: Two vertical rectangular images arranged side by side. Left to right, the first shows a jaguar in a tree, looking intently to the right, and the second shows a lush rainforest. Small white text at the upper right reads "brave" and at bottom left, "among her people" / 4: Same format as Image 1, but the photo shows a closeup of Dandara Queiroz lying down, the snake draped over her neck as she looks at the viewer. The text and dotted line are at the top, with the text on the left side of the image reading "the queen" //End ID]
