#éothain

[celeluwhenfics]

My gift fic for @konartiste for Rohan Secret Santa 2025 is finally there!

I had lots of fun with the prompts:

Meet cute with Éothain 😏🙄

A disagreement on condiments 🥫🍯

Ice cream in winter 🍨🥶

And... it turned out to be mostly about goats, and imperfect people falling (maybe? eventually?) in love.

🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐🐐

Happy holidays to all!

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[konartiste]

Day 27 of Tolkientober: Libraries

Click here to read on AO3

Sparks

What is happening?!”

“Quick, follow me.”

Háma was out the door before Éothain could understand.

It had been difficult to sleep after the demise of Théodred and the jailing of Éomer, but he needed his rest to be on guard for daily mischief.

As he followed after Háma, he realised that greater mischief had been done during the night.

The smell hit him before the sight did, but soon he could see nothing but billowing smoke and flickering fire.

“By Béma!” He cried in disbelief.

“Hurry, we must save what we can!”

Two maids from the kitchens had also come, and the four of them laboured quickly to douse the flames and save what they could. As they worked, one of them sobbed out loud, her tears streaking clear down her soot-stained cheeks.

“Milord’s books! Such horror! Is nothing sacred?”

Éothain clenched his jaw, tears of his own threatening to spill from his squinting eyes. “Quiet, Tildra! Keep throwing sand.”

The miscreant Wormtongue was behind this, he thought to himself; he must have had his men gather all the books from Théodred’s study and set them aflame before scurrying off like the weevil he was.

The last of the fire had died out, and the four Rohirrim looked at one another, wiping their faces and cleaning their hands.

“We must not let them defeat our spirit,” Éothain murmured quietly, “we are stronger than any grief they inflict upon us.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“And besides,” Éothain added, “I have a plan to free Éomer.”

Háma quickly hushed him. “Not here. Let’s finish this, and then we will talk. Outside.”

With grim determination, the Rohirrim set to work. By the early morning light, there was neither a trace of the book burning nor of their rebellious plan.

[themoonlily]

How Éomer and Lothíriel's wedding probably went

Éowyn: storms in a month before the wedding and arranges the whole thing, is somehow prepared for and does resolve a dozen various crises behind the scenes while the bride and the bride-groom remain oblivious

Amrothos: annoying pranks during the stag night; is the cause of at least one or two crises, Éothain locks him up in a cupboard somewhere in Meduseld

Elphir and/or Erchirion: a lot of threats aimed at the bride-groom that are progressively less and less veiled; be good to her or else...!

Arwen: emotional support for the bride, the bride-groom, and occasionally father of the bride; will hold the bride-groom's hand to keep him calm

Aragorn: the Dad Friend who will give good advice and maybe help to adjust some piece of clothing just before ceremony; is instrumental to resolving at least a few crises behind the scenes

Éothain: will help to arrange a quick getaway when guests get annoying and has several cupboards ready to act as cells; shares a lot of embarrassing stories but also secretly cries during the ceremony

Faramir: makes a toast everyone will talk about for years to come; will hold the bride's hand to help with the nerves

Imrahil: is happy he doesn't need to deal with the incessant pining anymore; has not had a day off since last year and he is going to just enjoy this, thank you very much

[thethirdtreeofvalinor]

Éomer: Everybody, stay where you are. Chill the eff out. I’m going to ask you this one time. Why are you in this land?

Aragorn: I’ll do you one better, where are my hobbits?

Éothain: I’ll do you one better, do hobbits even exist?

Éomer, grabbing Gimli: Tell me what your purpose is, or I swear to the Gods, I’m going to stab this little freak.

Legolas, drawing his bow: Let’s do it, you kill my guy, I’ll kill yours. Let’s go!

Éothain: Do it, Éomer. I can take it.

Gamling: No, he can’t take it!

Gimli: He’s right, you can’t.

Éomer: Oh yeah, you don’t wanna tell me what you’re doing? That’s fine, I’ll kill all three of you spies and I’ll beat it out of Sauron myself. Starting with you.

Legolas: Wai- what? Sauron? All right, let me ask you this one time: What Master do you serve?

Éomer: What Master do I serve? Obviously, King Theoden.

Aragorn: …You’re from Rohan.

Éomer: I’m not from Rohan, I’m from Edoras.

Aragorn: Yeah, that’s in Rohan, dipshit. What are you hassling us for?

Legolas: So you’re not with Sauron?

Éomer: With Sauron? No! I’m trying to kill Sauron. He’s destroying my land. Wait, who are you?

Gimli: We’re the Fellowship, man.

[infracti-angelus]

Pale Fire, Chpt 4

PALE FIRE, a Lord of the Rings fanfiction

Pairing:  Éomer and Lothíriel

Summary: Lothíriel wasn’t unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-one years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime. But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was entirely different. And it infuriated her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot. No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame.  She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight’s dinner.

Rating: M

Click here for Chapter 1

Click here for Chapter 2

Click here for Chapter 3

Click here for Chapter 5

Chapter 4: The Party

A handful of large, blond men hollered out a hearty welcome to their new King as he and his newly appointed Marshal of the East-mark, Elfhelm, joined them. Though the evening was young and the new King of Gondor had yet to arrive to partake in merry-making, the Rohirrim had wasted no time in establishing themselves at one of the long wooden benches situated near the main table in the great hall. It did not take them long, however, to see the foul mood on their King, nor the weary look on the Marshal's.

The Riders of Rohan shuffled a bit and, with minimal jostled ale, cleared a space in the center of a bench for the two to sit. Éomer King sat down with his arms crossed against his chest and glared at one of the decorative flowers on the table. Léofa and Audra were arguing about which type of dagger was best kept in the boot. Ethelred passed the pitcher of ale to Elfhelm and Aldor while reprimanding Éothain and the twins, Gram and Fram, for shamelessly gawking at some of the Gondorian ladies. When the silence had gone on for several minutes, Ethelred quirked a brow at Elfhelm, who sighed.

"He had another letter from Erkenbrand," Elfhelm offered.

"Is all well?" queried Aldor. The rest of the men looked worried.

"Yea and nay," Elfhelm responded. He looked over at Éomer to see if he would take over the explanation; he rolled his eyes when Éomer did not stir. "First and foremost, Erkenbrand is aggrieved by the news of his sister-son's death. Dúnhere's passing was hard for his sister, who lost her husband at the Battle of the Hornburg."

The men hummed in agreement. A reverent silence fell over the group. They, too, felt the absence of their comrades: Grimbold, who was a valiant captain under the late Prince Théodred, had been crucial in the defense of the Fords of Isen and had taken over the command of the muster of the Westfold; Guthláf, whose grip had been so tight on his banner that it had to be pried from his hands even after death. These were just a few men who would never return to Rohan, who would never see wild horses frolicking in the pastures or hear the wind whipping through the seas of grass. These men would never feel the touch of their mother's embrace or smell the fragrant hair of their lover.

Elfhelm cleared his throat uncomfortably and continued. "Erkenbrand's counsel is greatly valued. Due to his experience, he was meant to guide the Lady Éowyn in guarding Rohan while we've been gone."

"Except she's here," Audra interrupted. Éomer shifted his weight.

"Aye, we did not know then the man we knew as Dernhelm was the White Lady. Thus Erkenbrand has been ruling in her stead by himself. He said that many of the Dunlendings have fled our lands after Sauron's fall. Erkenbrand is troubled that Saruman still lives, even if he is imprisoned in Isengard."

"But surely the old fool can do no harm locked up in the tower and under constant surveillance," Gram argued.

"You would do well to not underestimate him, Gram." Éomer said as he sat up sharply, finally spurred into action. "Gandalf believes so, as well." He heaved a sigh, slouching again. "Erkenbrand is worried of whispered rumors that the Dunlendings are amassing again, lured by the promises made by the wizard. Erkenbrand expects that they will either attempt to rescue Saruman or attack Rohan while we are rebuilding." With that declaration, the scowl on his face reappeared.

"Aye, I understand that the news received was not the most upliftin', but…" Audra said, slowly.

"Béma's balls, what ails ye?" quipped Éothain, jabbing his elbow into Éomer's side and receiving a deathly glare.

"Not. A. Word." Éomer hissed toward Elfhelm. He swiftly shoved the flowers away using his forearm and reached over Erkenbrand to grab the pitcher.

"Ahh," the corner of Elfhelm's mouth twitched, "Erkenbrand's letter may also have contained counsel on acquiring a queen."

Éomer visibly bristled and muttered something about "disobeying direct orders" and "treason." Éothain's guffaws were drowned out by Gram and Fram laughing and Léofa cracked a smile. The tension now abated, the men continued their teasing and conversations. Ethelred and Elfhelm whispered about the future of Isengard. Now on the subject of women, Gram and Fram argued over whether or not the bosom or the buttocks was more alluring in a partner, pointing out passing ladies who fit their fancy.

Gram made a low wolf-whistle and caught the attention of the other soldiers. "She's a real beaut," he said.

"A lady is not a horse, young man," Aldor said dryly.

"Aye, but that's his only comparison, seeing as he's only stuck his cock in one," Fram retorted, laughing while he earned a punch in the shoulder from his brother and a slap on the head from Aldor.

"Mind your manners, boy," he warned.

"Her coloring reminds me of a Dunlending," Audra commented, his eyes hard.

"If ye mean that her skin's darker than yours, then aye. But that's where the comparison ends," interjected Léofa.

"Look at those curves," Gram remarked, throwing a biscuit at Éomer who remained focused on his drink. "I'd love to feel her pressed up against me, moaning my name."

Aldor now slapped the back of Gram's head. "Remember where we are. She's clearly highborn, and your lecherous words can get us into trouble."

"She's definitely a lady," Ethelred agreed, breaking his conversation with Elfhelm, "though she seems not to adhere to the rest of the court's practices. Her style of garment and choice of color clearly indicate that."

Fram hummed in agreement, "As for the style, I certainly don't mind."

"What do you mean 'color?'" asked Gram, oblivious of all fashions unless it was to comment on which dresses were easiest to unlace.

"Take a look around," responded Léofa. His singular lifted eyebrow implied his lack of confidence in Gram's observational skills. "All the other ladies are in lively colors."

The men looked around at the people in the hall. All of the servants were clad in various shades of blue to represent Gondor. Most of the female partygoers wore in softer colors of spring, like periwinkle or chartreuse, light lavenders, sunny yellows, or pale purples. Some of the nobles who could afford the cost of the rarer dyes wore vivid vermilion, flashing fuchsias, and other attention seeking shades.

Éomer, who had been tuning everything out, twitched violently as Éothain threw an elbow into his side. "What was that for?"

"What do you think of her?"

"Who?"

"The lass that Gram pointed out."

"Don't care."

"Béma, Éomer. You used to jump at a chance to look at a pretty skirt."

"That was before."

"Before what?" Éothain asked exasperatedly.

"Before, when I wouldn't be immediately expected to give her a crown and entrust my people to her."

Éothain snorted. "A quick glance won't tie ye down to the lass, and I think she's worth the look."

"How so?" Éomer sighed, looking in the direction that Éothain pointed in. All he saw were a few tall men in Dol Amroth apparel next to a woman in a rosy pink dress holding a child.

"Ach, they're blocking her from view!" Éothain grumbled.

Éomer rolled his eyes and stood suddenly, startling Éothain. Éothain looked up and saw the Lady Éowyn approaching, her pale gold hair elaborately pinned to her head according to Gondorian custom. Slender and tall she was, as ever, in her white robe and a circlet of gold and silver with green jewels upon her brow. Her strength was no longer stern as steel and unyielding, but she was still undeniably a daughter of kings. Once fair and cold like a morning of pale spring, she had transformed into a sunny afternoon of mid-season, fully blossomed and yielding of its bounty. Her grey eyes nearly glowed with peace and joy, and the transformation was apparent to any and all who had known her prior.

Éomer offered his seat to her and she smiled gratefully. She swept her skirts into one hand to allow for the ability to climb over the bench, before situating herself between Elfhelm and Éothain. The men cheered at her presence, and drinks were once more passed around.

Éomer felt a presence behind him to his right before a firm but warm hand fell on his shoulder. Éomer instinctively reached for his sword on his hip before realizing it wasn't there.

"Peace, Éomer King," The Prince of Dol Amroth, Imrahil, smiled kindly at him. His long dark hair, greying at the temples, was intricately braided to twist around a silver coronet featuring a swan at the center. His tunic was dove grey, with blue and silver thread stitched into the velvet fabric in the shapes of swans over the sea. A mantle of steel blue clasped on his shoulders matched the thread in his tunic and flowed to the ground. Whirls and flourishes in shimmery silver thread edged the mantle. Though shorter than Éomer, the prince's posture was straight as a sword and gave him the air of regality that was his birthright. The corner of his eyes crinkled with his warm smile.

"Forgive me, Prince Imrahil," Éomer apologized, reaching his empty hand to clasp the forearm of the prince's in a warrior's greeting.

"There is nothing to forgive," he replied. "I know that peace can make one feel anxious."

Éomer grunted in agreement, letting his arm fall back to his side, his hand flexing awkwardly at the lack of his sword. He shifted his weight uneasily as he stood there. "I have no memory of peace."

"Then it is time to make memories," Imrahil responded. "My wife, too, knew the apprehension I felt when the Corsairs of Umbar were too quiet, or the thoughts that haunted me after battle. The best way to forget is to embrace the ones you love. At least, that is what my wife always said, before she passed."

Éomer was silent for a moment as he pondered what Imrahil said, looking fondly at the table accommodating his sister and brothers-in-arms. "If only it were that easy," he sighed, taking a few steps away from the table so that they could speak more privately. "I cannot forget the ones who are lost to me, nor the responsibility they have left to me."

"Nay, to do so would be dishonorable. But," he paused, "the responsibility need not be so great."

Éomer frowned. "Imrahil, you and I share a bond forged in war and bloodshed. You are a brother-in-arms to me, and I greatly respect your opinion. I also owe you a debt that can never be repaid, for saving my sister on the battlefield. But I implore you to speak plainly, for I perceive you have something you wish to say, and I do not have the willpower to discern it."

Imrahil looked at Éomer, weighing something in his mind before deciding to speak. "As you wish, Éomer. The responsibility you face is great, but can be easily lessened with someone by your side. The running of Dol Amroth was a great undertaking, and my burden was halved when I married my wife."

Éomer's jaw clenched, but Imrahil continued. "You say you respect my opinion, and I urge you to heed it. Do not allow your grief to prevent you from considering this, for that it what it is: grief. You are grieving not only those you have lost, but the future and freedom you may have once had, as well as the difficult course in front of you."

Éomer's nostrils flared and his eyes flashed, "And who would you choose for me?"

A few people looked up from their table, alarmed at the tone and volume from his statement. A particularly worried glance from Éowyn caused him to lower his voice and whisper furiously: "Would you have me wed a widow from my own country, to further acknowledge the cost of war and declare my commitment to my people?" He scoffed. "Nay, I'm sure you would have me forge an alliance with Gondor. Shall I take my pick of one of the ladies here? One whose station, until recently, has been superior to my own? A station that has been only one of comfort and frippery? Perhaps now they will deign to lower themselves to wed a warrior-turned-king, because the lure of a crown will cause them to forget they consider my country to be one of barbarians? Shall I choose a woman who has no knowledge of what this war has cost my people, nor of what it will take to rebuild?" He breathed heavily as his rant finished, looking at Imrahil who stood stoic and silent next to him. Éomer felt better now that the feelings he had been ruminating over had been released into the world, but felt more ashamed as the silence stretched on longer than comfortable. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Imrahil spoke before he could. Éomer had to strain to hear what he said, for his voice was so quiet.

"I know the responsibility you bear, but I know little of the weight it must cause to have it placed there so suddenly. I had hoped you would listen to my counsel, for I give it from my own experience."

"Imrahil, I-"

"Nay, please hear me out. I did not intend to offend you, for I would wish for nothing to break the bond we have forged. I, too, respect you, Éomer King, and wish for you to succeed."

"Forgive me. I know you had no ill intent, nor were you aware of the pressure I have been given in this matter from others."

Imrahil smiled, graciously. "If you would allow it, I'd like to clarify one thing." "Please," Éomer nodded, hopeful to push past this incident.

"Not all the women of Gondor are as you describe, though I may be biased," Imrahil said, smiling affectionately. At Éomer's look of confusion, he continued, "My own daughter is among those here."

"My lord, I never meant to imply-"

"No, no!" Imrahil laughed, waving him off. "I know you were only aware of my three sons. But my daughter is also a force to be reckoned with, and she would not take kindly to being described as one who is unaware of the cost of war, or one obsessed with frippery. She was charged with the care of Dol Amroth and its kingdom while her kin were away at war. Of course, that is not to say that she has been living a life of comfort while we were gone. In her charge, she has fought the Corsairs and contended with the Haradrim and, if what some of the servants say to be true, battled a few units of Men of Khand. She stretched out the food stores and risked her safety to provide for the entire village. She also didn't reveal to me some of the things she has forfeited to provide for others , resulting in her less than ideal wardrobe selection for the next few weeks. All of which, while I'm proud, I still need to seriously reprimand her for. But my point is that there are women in Gondor capable of being your equal and up to the task of being a queen of Rohan."

Imrahil paused, and then pointed across the room. "That's my Lothíriel over there."

A young woman stood next to a lord offering his hand to her. She was tall, like the rest of her family, towering over most of the other women and standing equally to some of the men. Her dark hair was not pinned up like the rest of the women in the court, but rather fell down her back in soft curls, similar to the style worn in Rohan. The color of her gown reminded Éomer of being on a compaign, camping under the night sky full of glittering stars. The deep, midnight blue was interrupted by small stones catching the light in constellations. Her shoulders were bare, revealing her tanned naked flesh; and, while the neckline wasn't dangerously low, the pull of the gown across her bosom revealed enough cleavage that Éomer could see it from across the room. In fact, the gown fit her so snugly it revealed curves that made it seem indecent. For a split second, her lashes lifted and her eyes met his.

Éomer felt lightning in his blood, his loins tightening at the image. He let out a string of curses at the reaction, which was fortunately misconstrued as concern by her father because at the very moment the lord next to Lothíriel grabbed her wrist and wrenched her towards him.

Éomer was already half the distance from them before he realized he had even moved.

Additional Context:

Dunlendings (or Gwathuirim) - ferocious, tall and vicious men that lived in Dunland, close to Rohan. Also called the Wild Men of Dunland, these dark-haired reclusive folk had long been enemies of the Rohirrim, because they were jealous that the rich lands of the old Númenórean province of Calenardhon were granted by the Gondorians to the Rohirrim instead of them.

The Corsairs of Umbar - sea-raiders and pirates of the Haven of Umbar. The corsairs were recognizable by their red sails, adorned with a black star or eye. Umbar, who would welcome exiles from Gondor suspected for treason or conspiring against the King, attacked Gondorian ships and raided its coast at every opportunity, threatening the coastlands and all traffic on the sea and contested the possession of Harondor. For most of the Third Age, Umbar was reclaimed, rebuilt, and occupied by the Haradrim. It became a home for a new generation of 'Corsairs of Umbar', cruel slavers who often raided the coasts of Belfalas and Anfalas in Gondor. During the War of the Ring, Umbar could still send 50 "great ships" and a number of smaller vessels "beyond count" to raid the coastlands of Gondor, and draw off major forces from the defense of Minas Tirith.

The Haradrim (or Southrons) - a proud and warlike people of the Harad. Ancient enemies of Gondor, they allied with Sauron during the War of the Ring. They were tall and dark-skinned with black hair and dark eyes. Many warriors were seen in bright clothing, such as scarlet robes, and were decorated with golden ornaments, such as collars, earrings, corsets of overlapping brazen plates; they braided their hair with gold. Some tribes painted their bodies. Scarlet and red was also the color of their banners, tips of their spears, and body paint. Their shields were yellow and black with spikes. They tamed the massive Mûmakil (Oliphaunts) and used them in warfare, strapping towers to their backs to be used by archers and spearmen.

Khand was the name of a land which lay to the south-east of Mordor and to the east of Near Harad. Little is known about Khand or its people, other than that they were allied to Mordor, making a coordinated attack against Gondor as early as T.A.1944. It is unknown if Khand was ever conquered by the reunited kingdom or if they remained independent. It is also unknown if they ever warred with the folk of the West after Sauron's demise.

[konartiste]

Day 11 of Tolkientober: Sting

Footprints in Parallel

Click here to read on AO3.

He could recall the first time he saw her like the day it was yesterday. And it had seemed that their meeting would follow the same storyline as had been the case for so many others.

A young man meets a young woman, they talk and maybe argue a bit, but eventually they become friends, then more than friends, and then they choose to be a family together.

And vainly Éothain had thought that he too would have this predictable but blessed fortune with her.

Granted, he had not expected it to start with the tip of her sword nicking the skin of his throat, but he was a simple man.

He saw her and he knew that he could love her.

She, on the other hand, did not seem to feel in kind.

Her dark straight hair was tied back in a severe knot. Her skin was different. It was not dark like the Dúnedain or pink like most of the Rohirrim, nor were her features anything like had seen before, but the world was great and so too could someone like her exist.

(click below to read more)

“Who are you? These are the private quarters of Lady Ermendys,” she had spoken harshly, “you have no business here.”

“If you do not know who I am, then how do you know whether or not I have any business with her Ladyship?”

Apparently she had deemed him harmless, for in the next moment she had dropped her sword and had pushed him out through the door.

He had been about to say something when she had slammed the door shut in his face.

And she had shut the door on him and his advances ever since.

He would have given up, but every time their paths did cross, his heart would leap and she would often stumble through her otherwise rough words or looking away with flushed cheeks.

He would have called himself delusional, but she somehow managed to appear near him whenever they were in the same area of Rohan.

He would have found someone else to admire, but he had been permitted to touch her in unguarded and quiet mornings in Aldburg.

And so he did not marry.

And neither did she.

He stayed by Éomer’s side to serve him and she remained just behind her mother to follow in her footsteps.

[siljascribbles]

Some designs I made and forgot to post here! First is my trashy pirate man Casey and then another shady man called Éothain.

I did do a proper sketch of Eo as well, but I didn’t like the sketch that much to post it here. I’m sure I’ll get more comfortable drawing these dudes over time as I keep drawing them though :>