if you're still looking for Éowyn drawing ideas, I'd love to see some fourth age Éowyn... what's she doing and wearing while hanging out in the woods of Ithilien, or in her gardens?
fourth age éowyn gets to live a happy soft life with her family <3
my hc is that her arm never quite heals from killing the witch king of angmar, but she learns to fight with her other arm and doesnt let it stop her from being the coolest most badass loving mom ever :)) (and faramir takes good care of her, of course)
This art is gonna be called "Let's Garden with Mama!" (haha, very original name I know I know), and is basically Eowyn teaching and sharing the love of gardening and horticulture with her young son, Elboron, to distract him from the fact that papa is off at war :')
it'll be kinda semi-comic format? I have a bunch of illustration ideas planned for this particular post :) some sequential, some just related to the two of them gardening.
I'm not sure who has or hasn't been tagged yet, so I'll cheat (sorry!) and put in a wild card of YOU dash passerby, I tag you 🫵
Eldarion is tired oldest brother to five or six younger sisters and gives the blandest look when people say he’s ‘lucky it’s not boys.’ I mean. Have you met their parents? The girls are total terrors when they want to be.
Identical twin daughters. Need I say more?
One of their daughters has silver hair courtesy of Celebrian, and the other a beautiful gold from Gilraen. Their hair *gleams* in lamplight to something definitely not human.
Eldarion is Responsible Older Brother TM but leave him with Elboron and Elfwine and all hell breaks loose. Best friend chaos trio since they were born.
One of the girls takes a liking to Rohan and spends several years there with Éomer and Lothíriel
Elrond’s foresight allowed him to see all of Estel and Arwen’s children and he wrote several letters to each of them before he left so they know their grandfather loves them.
All of them learn healing fighting and battle strategy. Plants are easier for tiny kids to handle than wooden swords. And it’s important to emphasise that yes their job is to keep the kingdoms safe, but more importantly to help heal their people.
Éowyn is the only one who can wrangle all of them other than their parents. Faramir tries but collapses under ‘pleeeaaaase Uncle Faramir!’ *insert puppy dog eyes*
All the parents look after all the kids. Éomer, Lothíriel, Éowyn, Faramir, Aragorn, Arwen. They’ll close with all the children and collectively parent them
Legolas is a common visitor. Gimli comes as much as he can. They’re both enablers for chaos and subsequently favourites.
Elladan and Elrohir can’t visit as often as they like, now managing Rivendell’s final affairs. But the kids do visit Imladris a couple of times and whilst it’s a little emptier than in Aragorn’s youth, it still holds the warmth of the Last Homely House. Eldarion is particularly taken with it.
Glorfindel and Erestor are vindicated Elrond’s children have to deal with their own chaotic kids. They are also enablers. Glorfindel trains them while they’re there and follows them back to Gondor for some time until he’s happy with their progress. He comes again when they’re older and heading out.
Eldarion’s a history nerd. I take no argument.
Yes his sisters make fun of him for it. But Eru help anyone else who dared do the same
Elboron and Elfwine, and their siblings are the exceptions
Agree? Disagree? Got any of your own? Add them on! I’ll probably make a pt2 at some point.
Elboron is the only named child of Eowyn and Faramir, and because of that I tend to headcanon him as their only child.
I imagine Eowyn struggling a great deal with pregnancy. The limitations on her body and the hormones puts a great strain on her mental health.
Eowyn actually has a subconcious terror of death in childbirth, because as part of Wormtongue's grooming, he planted ideas and suggestions in Eowyn's head of her family being told they must choose between saving her or saving the child, and for the sake of the bloodline, they choose to save the child.
She's actually had nightmares of this exact scenario, planted there by Grima, that she doesn't recall fully in the day, but leave her with a lingering dread and distrust of those around her during her pregnancy.
Faramir would never allow such a thing (nor would Eomer or anyone else), and the standard practise in Gondor is always save the mother first, but the unspoken terror that Eowyn can't quite articulate takes its toll on her and her relationships.
Elboron's birth is difficult, with Eowyn nearly dying at one poin. She is told that it is unlikely she will ever have another child, and Eowyn thinks she's a bad person for being relieved.
Eowyn's recovery takes a long time, and she is stuck on bed rest for weeks. Even once she's allowed out of bed, her strength has diminished and it takes a long time building it back up.
She hates how even now her body still isn't her own, and finds it difficult to bond with Elboron immediately, whereas Faramir takes to fatherhood right away. This causes Eowyn a great deal of shame and further unhappiness.
Theoretically she knows Elboron is her son, and that she loves him, but she doesn't feel it. Her feelings towards motherhood are dominated by her experiences with pregnancy and childbirth, and her shame that she cannot feel an instant affection for her son.
She ends up resenting Elboron because she liked it being Faramir & Eowyn as a unit, and now suddenly there's this child taking up time and attention. And because she can't bond with him like Faramir does, she feels excluded in her own family, a sensation she's very vulnerable to.
Eomer arrives at Emyn Arnen shortly before or after the birth, and adores his new sister-son. This doesn't help, and Eowyn feels herself supplanted not only in Faramir's heart but also in Eomer's. Once more, her male kin folk have created a unit and shut her out.
Everyone is delighted with the Steward's new son and heir, and great celebrations are held, while Eowyn can barely get out of bed. More and more she feels like a vessel for the Prince of Ithilien's heirs, who can be forgotten and discarded now that she has fulfilled her purpose.
Eowyn's family can tell she is struggling. They try to cheer her up by assuring her that she will be out of bed soon, and by talking about how wonderful Elboron is. This is rather the opposite of what Eowyn needs to hear, but she can't possibly say such a thing, because what sort of mother doesn't want to talk about her own son? What sort of mother doesn't allow her whole existence to revolve around her son?
(What sort of mother regrets becoming a mother at all?)
Eowyn is slightly comforted when she tells the midwife a little of what she is feeling, who tells Eowyn that many, many mothers struggle to bond with their child right away, and that Eowyn's exhaustion and unhappiness is very common after the travails of childbirth. This eases some of Eowyn's shame, and she's able to confide in Faramir and Eomer a little more, allowing them to help her feel not quite so neglected.
Faramir is somewhat concerned at Eowyn admitting her own lack of interest in their child, remembering his own strained relationship with his father, but he abides by the midwife's instructions to allow Eowyn to bond with their child in her own time.
Once Eowyn has recovered her strength enough for her to start going about her former duties and interests, herblore, settling law and land disputes, training horses, and she is reminded of who she is beyond Elboron's mother, once she is treated as someone other than Elboron's mother, she starts to recover her own sense of self.
Eowyn and Faramir's duties have the pair working together and mixing together away from the nursery, allowing Eowyn to feel like they are a partnership again.
As Elboron grows more active and starts forming more of a personality, Eowyn takes a greater interest in him, and finds it easier to grow close to him. He's a very bold, curious child, which Eowyn finds enchanting.
According to customs of the Mark, Eowyn has him riding with her before he can even walk. Riding with him in a satchel across her chest is the first time Eowyn is really struck with that fierce, maternal love everyone had promised her. Before that moment, Elboron seemed more like a vaguely sweet and amusing child who now lived in her house. Now he felt like her son.
Eowyn is able to form her own bond with Elboron, as well as entering into a family unit with Elboron and Faramir, and retaining a partnership with Faramir, and an identity of her own through her work and her passions.
The first time Eowyn joins an orc hunt and returns with an orc head on her spear is really bloody cathartic, for sure, and she returns laughing, feeling completely herself at last.
As Elboron grows, Faramir is the more present of the two parents. His emotional intelligence and innate gentleness means he is ideal for working out the needs of a child, and in time, a young man. He takes a more active hand in arranging Elboron's upbringing, and most of the decisions made for Elboron are made by Faramir.
Eowyn is happy to let Faramir take a lead in Elboron's upbringing, but when she insists on something, or feels strongly about some decision or other, they work it out like equals. Eowyn is also very pro-active in passing down the customs of her homeland to Elboron, and Elboron grows up with a very strong sense of his identity as a child of the Mark, as well as of Gondor.
If Faramir is the parent Elboron goes to, or is sent to, when he needs to talk, then Eowyn is the one he goes to when he needs not to talk.
Sometimes if Elboron is angry, or throwing a tantrum or frustrated about something, and Faramir is struggling to talk him through it, Eowyn will say "right, stables" or "you're coming to the stillroom", and she will set him some simply, physical task, such as cleaning tack, watering plants, cleaning potion flasks or weeding a flower bed. She will work beside him, but at a distance, and give him the chance to cool off.
Eowyn knows this works because this is what Theodred did when she got into a state as a child.
Eowyn is also the one who will burst into Elboron's schoolroom and declare that he is riding with her today, or assisting her in some official business regarding the villagers, or checking out some plants growing in the forests. They always justify these adventures by telling Faramir what Elboron learned on them.
Faramir does sometimes mourn that they never gave Elboron a younger brother, or that he never had a daughter, whom he would have doted on, but he does not grieve overmuch and mostly takes joy in his family as it is. Eowyn cannot develop feelings for a child that doesn't yet exist and never will, and quite frankly she is relieved that she will never have another child. Pregnancy was a horror, and there's no guarantee she will like her next child as much as she does Elboron.
You are a scholar sent to Ithilien after the War, tasked with explaining the land’s refusal to heal.
You write observations, take samples, argue with elves who listen to the land instead of measuring it. Somewhere between data and silence, an attachment forms; never fully recorded, later reduced to myth.
What remains are your notes, and the winter moths returning.
A/N: Here are a few headcanons about the sons of two of my favorite chaotic menaces. This quite literally kept me up. I went to bed thinking about these fools, and I woke up still thinking about them - an hour before my alarm. Yes, I am salty about that bit of it. As such, it's not edited the best, and it's far from my best writing. However, it is up because I want it out of my WIPs folder, and I need to cry with other people about how much I love these characters.
Credit to @emilybeemartin. Their artwork inspired these deranged ramblings. Please check out the original post. I am not kidding when I say that the first time I pondered this I was scrolling, stumbled on her artwork, my jaw dropped, and I ran to my laptop to jam out a few notes. I am still in awe of this art. Go give her all the love.
Hey you know how Pippin and Diamond had a son and they named him Faramir? And then they introduced him to his namesake and he immediately ga
With all that said, here are some headcanons about Faramir Took and Elboron. Guest appearances of their fathers along with Aragorn and Eldarion:
Faramir Took would love to learn like his father and namesake alike. We know Pippin later assembled the Tale of Years, and Faramir aided in continuing the tradition as he grew up and took over as Thain. As was noted in the original post, Faramir would also be the spiciest lionhearted hobbit - just like his father. There would be no foe too big for him. He would train with the Rangers of Ithilien and the Knights of Gondor to hone his swordsmanship at every opportunity. Pippin would train with him back in The Shire. Watching his son learn to fight would remind Pippin of learning from Boromir in Eriador. One night after training, Pippin would sit Faramir down and tell him all about his namesake’s brother and how Boromir saved his life. Faramir would have heard this story many times before, but he would listen to it all again in rapt attention.
Elbooron grows up to be slightly more reserved than Faramir (the younger), but he gained a bit more mischief than his father - for which Pippin is absolutely responsible. He never causes any lasting damage or harms anyone, unlike Faramir the younger who may or may not have accidentally blown up a shed with a firework, but he plays small pranks when he gets the chance. Well, no lasting damage unless you count the premature gray hairs he puts on Faramir’s head. Faramir (the younger) loves to join in on the fun whenever he is around, and he makes everything ten times worse, in the best way. Nothing is safe in the kitchen, no fireworks can be left unsupervised. The problem is Faramir Took knows far too much about how to be sneaky to be caught by a few guards. After all, he had to learn to best his dad, who stole the palantir from Gandalf. Pippin takes great pride in how sneaky his son is, and Diamond has to remind him to be serious when son is in trouble for his latest mischief.
As the two boys grow, Elboron eagerly shares all his latest findings and pieces of knowledge with his dear friend from the time they are children - whether in person or in letters. When he is very young, he will beg Éowyn or Faramir - whoever happens to be closest - to write letters for him about the new flower he found or the new game he played. He works twice as hard to learn to his letters to be able to write Faramir on his own, so he never has to wait for his parents again.
Faramir looks forward to these exchanges more than almost anything even when it’s the most mundane of facts or theories that hold little interest for him. Elboron’s excitement is infectious. (I am simply ignoring the fact that it would take at minimum 3ish months to travel from The Shire to Ithilien, which would make it a six month process to get a response to a letter; time and distance mean nothing)
As adults, both Elboron and Faramir would be treasured advisors to the other - Elboron leaning on Faramir when unsure if a situation calls for military action and needing reassurance that it is the correct decision as well as leaning on his friend to be his more impulsive and hot headed half in general, and Faramir leaning upon Elboron to temper his more fiery nature.
The two fathers love nothing more than watching their boys play together and learn from each other when they're young.. They sit together and reminisce on their younger and wilder days. Some days one of them will get a far off look in their eyes and wonder aloud what Boromir’s children would be like. The other would sigh and say “would that he could share in these moments with us.” “He lives in us, and then in them, my friend,” the other would answer. For a long while they would both fall silent and gaze out towards the Falls of Rauros and Amon Hen. [expanded below]
Aragorn and Eldarion make a point to watch over all the children of Faramir and Pippin as they age, promising them both to keep them out of trouble and keep them safe when their fathers pass, serving as a godfather and older brother respectively. The assurances bring a degree of peace that neither knows they need, but what surprises them most is that the promise to look after their friend’s son is almost more reassuring than the promise to look after their own. Both know their own son will manage, but they fear for their friend’s son losing them, for they know they have become a confidant and comfort to them over the years.
The task is a challenge, but they mostly succeed. Faramir takes to calling Aragorn 'Strider’ even when not appropriate, just as Pippin did. Thankfully for all, where Pippin became more of a menace as he aged, just was smarter about it, Faramir seemed to learn at least a little bit from his namesake about mellowing...and got smarter about his mischief like his father did. He never did stop calling Aragorn 'Strider.' Elboron, while as quiet natured and scholarly as his father, also inherited his father's keen perception and ability to read people. With it, he inherited Faramir’s propensity for mischief and teasing (we saw Faramir in Ithilien with Frodo and Sam, he likes to mess with people; the man is a bit of a menace) that would only exponentiated by his close relationship with Pippin and Faramir. Rarely does it get Elboron in trouble, but every once in a while it lands him in a tight spot when he's a little too on the nose with his teasing or calls out the wrong noble for ill intent with no concrete proof other than vibes. Eventually, he does master both causing mischief and being politically savvy with the help of his gift. It gives Aragorn a few gray hairs, Faramir the younger loves it, Eldarion loves watching his father fall victim to a new generation of chaos and remembers fondly his days spent with Pippin and Faramir the older.
I am impossible and simply cannot let a good chance for some angst and feels to go, so here. Let me annihilate your emotions as I did my own! (aka I made myself sad, so now you all have to be sad with me)
What can never be
Faramir and Pippin sat on a bench along the edge of the Garden of the Fountain. So rare were the days they could spend like this, especially in the White City. There were times, however, they both reported back to Minas Tirith. Over the years, those trips had become precious gifts, and occasions for their families to visit, as much as they were political events.
The sun had begun to set on this day, and on this visit. Elboron and Faramir played in the grass, some game involving chasing each other and periodically freezing, of which only children could fully comprehend the intricacies. At one break in the action their fathers had asked and became rapidly baffled, but they were giggling with such glee that it warmed both Pippin’s and Faramir’s hearts too much to fret the details.
While the sun continues its descent, they reminisced on the old days, their younger and wilder days. They keep their voices hushed for fear of encouraging their children to engage in exactly the same mischief they themselves did. Pippin snickered. “Did I ever tell you of the time that Merry and I stole one of Gandalf’s fireworks? Surely I have.”
“Many times, Pippin,” Faramir assured him, “But tell me again. I was just thinking of how much I miss Mithrandir and his wisdom.”
“Well, I cannot say this was one of his wisest moments. It certainly was not Merry’s or mine, but…” and with that he plunged into the familiar tale. Faramir grinned. He wondered how many times Boromir heard exactly this story. Well, not exactly. Pippin never told the same tale more than once. They always shifted and grew in their retellings based on what effect the hobbit wanted to have. This one felt as though it might be close to the truth. It was a quiet retelling, private, meant to hold onto the memory of a dearly missed friend at a time when things were simplest for the Pippin.
Faramir wasn’t sure when Pippin fell silent, or when his own gaze had gone distant, but he blinked twice and came back to himself. He found Pippin looking much the same as he was sure he had moments before. Neither of their eyes were trained on their sons, who played on utterly unaware of their fathers’ distraction. Instead, both of them stared out at a spot that was far from visible, but they could both see it with perfect clarity. When Pippin spoke it was barely audible and his focus never came back to the moment. “What would his kids be like, do you think?”
Faramir had no need for Pippin to say of whom he spoke. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, they had this conversation. Faramir sighed, a deep and pained sigh. “We will never know with any certainty, my friend, but he lives on in us, and then in them.”
Silence hung between them until Pippin uttered what they both were thinking. “Would that he could share in these moments with us.”
They fell silent once again. It was an easy silence. One of shared pain, which gave comfort to them both. The sun had nearly fallen past the horizon, and both sons sat in their own quiet conversation. Their fathers gazed out towards the Falls of Rauros, Amon Hen, and beyond to Parth Galen lost in memories and wondering about what could never be.
////////////Tagging @ @elevensiesexpert at their request///////////////
Summary: On a sunny afternoon, Faramir settles on one of the balconies of his Ithilien home to draw.
Words: 1,349
Theme: Grief
Read on Ao3 here.
Charcoal scrapes against taut canvas in short, sharp strokes. It curves, underlines, darkens, crosses, laying the foundations of an image, line by line. Raking, rough sounds are born from the touch between tool and medium yet faint enough not to disturb the landscape. After the rough sketch is determined, two silhouettes appear.
One, sitting on the left, is turned to the observer, hands folded on its lap. It is elegantly feminine, with a wise but lonely gaze lost into the observer’s. It is as if she looks yet sees not. Her fingers lay loose on top of one another — a customary gesture engrained in her mind, devoid of mindful intention. Her hands rest there as though they are expected to and she has neither the influence nor the willingness to resist it.
In her eyes, there is no glimmer. No excitement nor peace. Onlookers behold empty pupils, not from a lack of talent and portraiture from the artist, but because it seems a defining trait of hers. The smile lines on her cheeks are barely perceptible, if even they exist. The world weighs upon her sagging shoulders, which break the etiquette of her hardly calculated pose. She appears… distracted. As though not an ounce of her being desires to sit in such a manner, to be observed and analysed without mercy, fated to remain shackled by woven linen threads.
Yet she is disarmingly beautiful. How could one avert their gaze? As the charcoal pursues its endeavour, the cascading hair darkens into a pitch-black shape framing the lighter tone of her skin. She is not pale as Elves tend to be. The artist has made it clear through the generous use of blended greys, hinting rather at a sun-kissed complexion that has merely lived under rainclouds for too long.
The other figure, standing on the right, places a hand on the woman’s shoulder. Its stance is already assured and confident, yet protective. So much emanates from this simple base already, but it is not yet enough. Further detailing reveals the rugged traits of a man, older than the woman, but not so old that he has become feeble or borne the gravity of witnessing the passing of time. Wrinkles remain etched into the corners of his eyes, testifying of the years lived and the many smiles gifted. The lines around his mouth, creasing his cheeks, dig deeper into his features. On this regard, he and the woman contrast so starkly with each other.
His stare is more intent on the onlooker. The slight parting of his lips make him resemble an animal perking up as its hideaway is being found. But there is no vulnerability, no fear, and no animosity. He merely squints, ever so slightly, more in surprise and thoughtfulness than in anger or defensiveness. He appears as though the observer is interrupting a tranquil moment with the woman beside him, simply by stepping in front of the drawing.
While she wears a long court gown, he displays a simple set of armour. A long belt resting on the hip ties an ankle-length leather surcoat over a red velvet coat with gold embroideries, itself covering maille sleeves. Engraved vambraces secure the cold material against his forearms. In his free, gloved hand, which rests against his thigh, he holds the other brown glove. The hand resting on the woman’s shoulder is left bare. Perhaps he wishes not to soil her garment with dirt encrusted into the leather. Or perhaps he wishes that the brutality of combat would not reach her, even through his own touch. Another possibility is that while he appears as a soldier to anyone else, he can be his true self with her, vulnerable and without artifice.
Hours pass. The shadows have shaped the figures’ features in finer detail. A fingertip has blended some of the darker patches to smooth out textures and hair. All around the woman and the man, hiding their feet, tall flowers have sprouted and bloomed from the bottom of the canvas. While they previously seemed to pose within the confines of a palace, they now seem to stand in a garden, brightly lit by a spring sun.
Faramir leans back to inspect his work one more time — perhaps the thousandth. His mouth hangs slightly open in concentration, similarly to the man he has drawn. His eyes look beyond the easel, onto his own garden below his balcony. As he beholds a flower bed, memorising the manner in which the petals reflect light, a kiss comes to rest on the crown of his head. It pulls him out of his contemplation and focus, but the smile that instantly lights up his traits testify his lack of resentment for it.
‘Are you still not finished, Father?’
Faramir wraps an arm around his son, pulling his small frame to him to kiss his hair in turn.
‘Not yet, Elboron, but soon.’
‘May I see?’
Elboron climbs onto his father’s lap, straddling his knees as though they were a saddle. His bright grey eyes marvel at the art before him, admiring the details even though he does not yet possess the wisdom and knowledge to interpret what he sees.
‘It is beautiful,’ he gasps. ‘They look real.’
He cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the area behind the easel but sees nothing but the marble baluster with its pot-bellied columns. The boy turns back to the portrait and points at the two figures.
‘Who are they?’
Faramir grins and leans his head until his cheek rests atop his son’s head. His black-stained fingers hover towards the man first.
‘This is my brother, your uncle Boromir. And this…’
His palm seems to find its place onto the woman’s.
‘… is my mother, Finduilas.’
‘You draw them often, don’t you? I recognise them from another drawing upstairs.’
‘You are right. I suppose I do.’
‘Why?’
For a second, Faramir’s gaze loses focus, his attention fluttering to the two people whose likeness he has captured as often as he could. How long has it been? Thirty-six odd years since his mother succumbed, and now ten years since Boromir was slain. Ten years already…
Time has flown by much quicker than he anticipated. He could easily recall the moment that he found his brother floating on the Anduin, broken sword clasped to his chest and the dew making the long locks of his hair stick to his waxen skin. No booze, concussion nor illness of age could erase this memory. The bloodied wounds peppered across Boromir’s body, the splintered shield propped up above his head against the white planks of the barque, and the lifeless expression upon his beloved face. It was the Boromir he always knew, yet one he struggled to recognise. Although he sometimes witnessed his brother’s anxiety, sorrow and despair, he remembers him as a playful and coy man. The first thing he recalls is the wide smile and the sound of his roaring laughter, now lost to time. Few now possess the privilege to reminisce about the real Boromir, the man within the captain.
‘I fear I might forget their faces,’ he says pensively, ‘that time may rob it from me. I have no way of immortalising their voices for posterity, which pains me greatly. But their faces… that I can still conjure. For now.’
Elboron listens, leaning back into his father’s embrace to show his support.
‘Did your mother look this beautiful?’
‘She did,’ Faramir responds, the fond smile growing on his cheeks reverberating in his words. ‘Even more so. I fear that my hand has produced an insult to her actual physique.’
‘It did not.’
The son wrapped his arms around his father’s, still in awe before the portrait. But as silent seconds pass, a crease forms onto his young brow.
‘You said you draw to remember,’ he comments, ‘but I do not see your own father in the portrait. Have you forgotten?’
Faramir’s smile stills and erodes.
‘No, Elboron.’
He adjusts his grip around his son, pressing him to his heart in a cherishing gesture.
‘Him I remember all too clearly.’
