#the evenstar

[girlblogherbooks]

I choose a mortal life.

[agentem]

Hey, ASOIAF nerds,

Another question. Reddit says George RR Martin said Duncan had "four" descendents in the main series. I don't see any sourcing on this. Where does this number come from? Is it real?

Also, if it's just four aren't Brienne and her dad are two? Do the dead siblings count?

ETA: And everyone guesses tall people. It'd be hilarious if George just picked a normal sized character who took after their mother not Dunk.

[howling-medic]

King's Facade

Summary: A look at the beginning of Aragorn's rule as King Elessar that the public never sees

Word Count: 1718

Pairing: Aragorn x Arwen

T/W: light angst, anxiety attack

Rating: General

A/N: Vanimelda is Sindarin for beloved. Also, This was initially written for a Hurtcember challenge....and now I'm posting it in February. Thank you for all your help @wisheduponastar! All mistakes are my own, and I’m sure there are at least a few I missed on my last pass.

King's Facade

The candle splutters, sparks, and then goes out with a wisp of smoke swirling up towards the ceiling. The room goes dark with it. Books and papers clutter the desk. Laws and traditions of a bygone age coupled with outdated and contradictory records of resources litter the floor on which the High King of the Reunited Realm sits with his head in his hands. Aragorn’s breaths come in staccato gasps. He prepared to rule his people. He studied their cultures, learned of their woes and fears, and walked amongst them. Long years he spent mastering the craft of war and leading men. He apprenticed under Elrond to learn the art of healing. With his kindred, he learned the ways of governance and self sufficiency.

None of it prepared Aragorn to heal an entire nation. Never did he dream of taking over from a man so young he could be his son who had only just assumed the stewardship from his father - a man driven mad by machinations of Sauron. Day after day Aragorn struggled to face his subjects and direct them in the process of rebuilding. He guessed at the best course of action with little knowledge of the feasibility of any order he gave. Each night he studied documents outlining accounts paid and owed, stores held, and gold in reserve that failed to add up. “Forgive all debts…recount…but time…men…can we?” Aragorn mutters. He fumbles to find a blank single scrap of parchment amongst the piles surrounding him upon which to scribble another note. Then he stops. His vision swims. He chokes back a sob. Ruler of men. You can’t even make ledgers add up. If only your people could see you now. The nightly refrain echoes in his mind. The mocking voice had become a constant companion in his darkest hours.

What if his people could see him, indeed. Ever calm and optimistic in court, ever steady in a crisis - and crises there had been. Each day seemed to bring something - be it big or small - new and unforeseen. The ash from the battle fouled several water supplies. Stores of grain and salted meat are short from housing the Rohirrim and decreased crop yields after years of burnt fields and waning populations to tend the farms. Each day a new problem. To the comfort of all, the King smiles and produces an answer. Then the doors close to his study, and the dread overwhelms him.

To whom could he show this side, after all? Arwen, of course. But who else? His friends have scattered to the winds, and in court he trusts none sufficiently. If he chose to reveal his state of disquiet to the wrong person, the repercussions would be catastrophic. Trust in Gondor’s recovery would perish before any headway could be made. Which leaves nights like this the only option: where Aragorn stifles his cries lest his guards hear him.

This night’s battle is reckoning and resolving the records of Gondor’s debts. Years of invoices conflict with the numbers logged in last quarter’s ledger. Faramir had attempted to reconcile the two in the few short weeks he served as Steward after the Battle of the Pelennor. The young man gave a detailed report of the discrepancies in their days cloistered together following the coronation. The two of them had spent many hours working together to make sense of Denethor's accounting, yet his descent into madness and toll of war left no piece of the realm unmarked. Months later the matter remained unresolved. “Gondor’s citizens desperately need payment, my lord,” the accountant’s words still ring, hours later, in Aragorn’s mind. The accountant he begged to stay well past dark had long since left, yet his words remain. Still he sits, shaking, on the floor.

A trembling hand grasps the edge of the desk. Aragorn rises to unsteady feet only to collapse into his chair and face his cluttered desk once more. Only the light of the moon illuminates the papers before him now. His notes from earlier mock him. They hold more riddles than when he first sat down, and very few answers. Just as he reaches for his flint, there is a quiet knock at the door. It opens a crack, and Arwen slips into the room. For just a moment, the room is flooded with the light of the hallway, and then only that of her candle remains. “Estel, vanimelda, will you not return to our chambers?”

There is no reproach in her words, only tenderness and concern. Aragorn responds by ducking his head to obscure his face. He knows without looking, and despite the fact he cannot hear her skirt around the mess covering his floor, she will kneel beside him.

Just as he expects, her smooth hands grasp his. They begin the familiar dance. Aragorn leans to the side and rests his head upon hers until the tears stream down his cheeks. Once they drip down onto Arwen, she guides him to the ground next to her, and her embrace envelops him. He need not tell her what plagues his mind tonight. It does not matter. He knows there will be time for that later. For this moment, he simply lets himself rest in her arms. He has no obligation to make a decision or take charge. She guides his movements. Aragorn has no notion of time, but eventually he hears Arwen counting, and he matches his breathing to it. The tears subside. Each time he loses the rhythm, she picks it up again. Time and time again, he tries. “There you go, mêleth,” she says when he can finally look at her. He isn’t sure when, but at some point Arwen had adjusted her hold to place two fingers on the pulse in his wrist. “How about we sit a moment?”

Aragorn shakes his head. He begins to reach for a paper beside them. Arwen gently clasps his hand in hers to stop him. For a moment, Aragorn resists. But only for a moment, then he yields, and she draws it to her lips and kisses his palm. “The world and its troubles will be there when the sun rises. Sit with me. Let me tell you of the latest news from Elrohir.”

Aragorn swallows the lump in his throat and nods. When it is clear he has abandoned his attempt to reach for his notes, Arwen releases his hand. Then, with a gentle smile, Arwen nods and launches into a full recounting of Elrohir’s letter, which arrived earlier. Apparently, Elladan had managed to set fire to the curtains in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell. No serious damage had been done to the structure or any occupants of the room, but it had caused quite the stir. Now that the fuss had died down, Elrohir thought the whole debacle the height of comedy. By the end of the tale, Aragorn finds himself laughing despite himself. He leans down and presses a kiss to Arwen's forehead. “Thank you, vanimelda.” The words are no more than a whisper carried by a sigh. There’s an uncharacteristic tremble to his speech. Something no one else would ever hear.

“Do not thank me for that which is the barest minimum of care to give the one I love.”

“Thank you nonetheless. When your father declared I must become King should I wish to wed you, I do not believe he envisioned a king behaving in this manner.” Bitter self loathing lace the statement. They were words he had said before, words he promised not to repeat. Arwen only sighs.

“In his many millennia, Aragorn, he saw man, elf, and dwarf handle tumult far less honorably than this. To struggle is to exist. To doubt oneself is to rule. Have you not seen that in your years amongst your fellow man?” Her words hold no malice, no judgement. The questions earnestly beg for self reflection, for remembrance.

The tension in Aragorn’s shoulders releases at length, and he sags. Exhaustion finally makes itself known. “Yes, I have, yet I never imagined such trivial matters as ledgers would best me.” His are eyes downcast - unwilling to face her in his defeat.

“Are the accounts of our realm, the debts to our subjects and neighbors, trivial? Should they be, I do not believe you would linger these many nights over them in favor of my company.”

“I…..suppose you may speak the truth.”

“That I do. A truth you have known and understand. While they may not be trivial concerns, however, they will all still be here come first light, which is in precious few hours. Come, we have a few things that must be done. Then, and this is nonnegotiable, Estel, you must sleep.”

“But I -” Aragorn starts, but he lifts his gaze to find a such finality in Arwen’s gaze that he stops mid-protest.

“I shall not be dissuaded. You meet with your minister of agriculture here just after you have breakfast - which is just after you are to meet Beregond for a morning sparring session I cannot postpone again without being rude - so the room must be tidied. Would you like to do so, or shall I?”

When Aragorn begins to feel shame rising in him, which must show somewhere on his face that he cannot feel, Arwen adds, “I do not mind, truly. If it is more manageable for you to direct me than it is to tackle this - be it alone or at all - then tell me.” Her tone and expression hold no judgement, they never do, and yet every time he expects it. Many nights he accepts the offer, but not tonight. Tonight he shakes his head and rises to his knees.

Without a word, he sorts the loose papers on the floor into piles based on their year and subject, then the books of ledgers and history are sorted in similar fashion. When the floor is cleared, Aragorn does the same to his desk. Nothing is fully filed away. This is a battle he still must win, but it can wait to be faced with a clear mind after a few hour’s rest. “There. Now. To bed with you,” Arwen says and playfully pushes him towards the back door to the office that passes directly to the Royal Chambers. None need see the King after such a night.

[theworldsoftolkein]

Arwen Evenstar - by Achen089

[literallyelrond]

Arwen Undómiel

Click for better quality!

[amuelia]

Felt like drawing Brienne’s family :)

Baby Brienne, her mother, and Selwyn Tarth / Selwyn Tarth and Brienne

[eerieechos]

“For I am the daughter of Elrond. I shall not go with him when he departs to the Havens: for mine is the choice of Luthien, and as she so have I chosen, both the sweet and the bitter.”

Elladan & Elrohir | Elrond & Celebrían

[violetnatelley]

Arwen Undómiel | The Evenstar

Aka. Elenníca Ettelëa, Lady of Rivendell, Queen of The United Kingdoms of Arnor & Gondor, Daughter of the Eternal, Descendant of Lúthien.

'So it was that Frodo saw her whom few mortals had yet seen; Arwen, daughter of Elrond, in whom it was said that the likeness of Lúthien had come on Earth again; and she was called Undómiel, for she was the Evenstar of her people.'

- From Many Meetings, Fellowship of the Ring by JRR Tolkien.