FORTH EORLINGAS!

indie théoden from the lord of the rings

[warhirrim]

Sometimes I think about the fact that Théoden never wed again after the passing of Elfhild. He was a wonderful father and a kind, just king, loved by the people, but he must have felt lonely? Don't get me wrong, of course he's fulfilled in his family life and he has those he cares for and who care for him in turn, but when the doors are closed and the world's turned to sleep, he doesn't... have anyone by his side to love him as a man.

He'd never remarry because Elfhild was his one, true love and he could never think of anyone else, but 40 years without the comfort, support, and love from the other half of you? That's. Sad. Extending this thought to other muses who survive their lovers or who have even almost forgotten what it feels like to be touched and loved and to touch and love in turn.

[antigonick]

“—my grief was something I could overcome; sorrow was with me still, but not tragedy.”

— Daphné du Maurier, My Cousin Rachel

[warhirrim]

@dunadaneth

In the cool air of autumn night, when crickets chirped and the men returned home and the moon lingered like a ship bobbing in the unending black sea, Théoden King had knelt before a chaise beside a fire, the flame growing dim.

He’d been away from home for too long, to war. Away from him. A boy was there in the middle of the hall, his boots still on like he’d been waiting, a small shield beside him, as though a toy. The king pressed a kiss to his forehead. The boy, lost in stars and dreams, did not stir.

"My son," he said, a whisper. Théoden slipped a blanket up those tiny shoulders, and in the waning glow of the fire, his face turned tender. "It has been long," he told her, "since last you’d come.”

[warhirrim]

elesheir​:

It proved an ache. Long had Rohan warred with tremendous evils, but in those summers so long ago, golden and fragrant upon these rolling plains, the Ranger could recall sharp eyes of wonder – of daring and courage and hope that breathed still.

Stood there, beholding this prince turned king, age and wisdom aplenty along the noble arch of his brows, he saw, still, an abundance of these qualities, but despair had wormed like rot, plunging like roots of old. And so mighty had the tree’d grown, sprawling and tangled with its far-reaching arms… The Lord Ranger thought he’d gleaned no sunlight.

How terrible. He knew, too, the bowing weight of despair, but never had he bowed to it.

“Of that, I had never any doubt. Long is the memory of those children of Rohan, and ever honorable are its horse lords. It is by fate’s hand that they will flourish rightly – as those lands they keep, blessed with promise. Nearby are the flowers in bloom. I have trodden along stirring. I have hope that they will rise here.”

Théoden’s hand was war-calloused. Aragorn watched, and Háma bowed. “The sun rises here still, and with it, a brighter dawn. We need only look.” Had he forgotten the warmth?

Háma returned to the Ranger his shining blade, and then was gone.

But Aragorn, here, must have seen it, slow and imperceptible, the careful touch of dread like the vague, muzzy memory of a dream come morning. A shadow was coming. The flowers were blooming later. The days, seconds shorter. And Théoden King, before him so tall and unbending, shined a little less bright, a little less proud, the shore of his eyes dimming, the pinprick stabs of worry.

Meduseld had no window to gaze out of, but he knew he would see no bloom.

I have hope that they will rise here.

“Rise here...” he echoed. Clear now came the images of fire, then wild, stolen horses, and then at last of graying eyes, half open, starless without sight. “They have come as the thunder before rain. More each day than the last.” Théoden turned quick, the face of grim doubt. "Over the hills, fires burn. Our rivers, red,” he said. “What can be done – if not war."

[warhirrim]

iaurhael​:

       frodo stood in awe there beside théoden king. the thought had not crossed his mind that an early start and a sniff of morning air would lead him sharing the company of a man so great among men. the hobbit was abashed to receive his praise, but more than that his heart swelled an invitation to his hall. frodo turned to him and bowed low. 

       he had only ever travelled along the borders of rohan. land of the horse-lords as aragorn named them. both he and boromir regarded the land and it’s people highly. ❛ 𝐈 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒. 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘, 𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐌 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐑𝐄, 𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐍. ❜

Merry Brandybuck, esquire of Rohan. Merry had stood stricken, wide-eyed and brokenhearted, as a sea of horses filled the widening space between them.

“So it was Meriadoc,” Théoden mused, “who would ride to war with Rohan…”

And not just him. For a moment, he had seemed elsewhere, his face soft as his mind wandered the private halls of a too-recent memory, and then it changed, fond. Frodo bowed, and he touched the edge of his shoulder to rise. "And I would like little more," the king returned, "than to hear the tales of your fathers --- And to one day set upon the gates of their halls."

What had little Merry chimed about? Tobold and his herb-lore. Théoden smiled, small, and looked in wonder at this brave hobbit.

[remusjohnslupin]

50k giveaway winner: eowynsheildmaiden ↳ théoden + lament for the rohirrim (film version)

“We shall have peace… We shall have peace, when you answer for the burning of the Westfold, and the children that lie dead there! We shall have peace, when the lives of the soldiers whose bodies were hewn even as they died against the gates of the Hornberg, are avenged! When you hang from a gibbit for the sport of your own crows… we shall have peace.”

[warhirrim]

starlyht​:

in return,  the dragon offered a forlorn little smile.  feigned ease nor carelessness never suited him.  perhaps his unease,  his distance from the thrum of life about him was more evident than he cared to acknowledge.

there was always an oddness to such ephemeral scenes of joy,  of life and cares far removed from his own.  mal had long accepted he may never cope with nor understand the distant similarity.  the worry buzzed and nipped at him as a fly buzzed and nipped at a horse,  annoyances to be swatted away and forgotten until their return.

perhaps the sickness that permeated the air was his own,  nerves frayed after centuries of pain.  perhaps he knew he could only keep this foolish little illusion alive for so long.  but now surely théoden had noticed his distant strangeness or the disturbed silence in the face of such sweetness.

mal relinquished his gaze only when the king glanced away first.  if any habit had remained with him,  it was a careful refusal to falter.  he had been taught well.  

“as you will,”  he said evenly,  setting down his mug.  he got to his feet,  grateful to relieve the ache in his back from so long seated,  and hastened his pace after the other man.  he moved silent as a shadow in the crowd of finery and mirth.   at last,  not without apology,  he added,  “it was never much at all,  but my spine isn’t what it was,  i’m afraid.”  an easy enough deflection from the unease currently occupying him.

There it was...

The blue of his eyes had dimmed. 

Mal, smiling like a man expected to. Who's forgotten how…

"I have known many men--" he clasped Mal's shoulder, safe and unwavering, but his eyes... "--And few as tall."

His grip was strong. Then he let go.

There was no denying it. If the long story of Mal's life were pressed into the secrets of a book, the page Théoden opened up to would be dog-eared and blank, the ink forever faded, unreadable. There would be no chapters. There would be no middle. No ends. Just a cover, untitled, and the niggling, tucked-away feeling that once, long ago, something used to be here.

Théoden slowed, and followed in step beside him. 

He had never known Mal at all. 

"We are old, and this night is for my son,” he said as though that had stopped them from staying before, like it was a reason to leave. The crowd bumbled and Théoden stopped. “I would see you home," he offered. Then a corner of his mouth lifted, slight, as though he had guessed at Mal's concern. "I have held my own before."

[warhirrim]

@maladum​

For the slow, plodding crawl of eternity, from under the churning sea of clouds, starless and black, he has sat. Curious, he should wonder -- the low rustling of the wind; how it passed softly through the rolling, burnt hills, no longer green… down the sloped fields of withered flowers… through their golden hair, tousled soft…

Théodred. Éomer. Éowyn. 

He brushed their cold faces, and they did not stir.

"What is this." His hush, broken in the wind. He brushed away the hair from her pale cheek. "The dawn has ended as tears in rain," he whispered, "as days in winter... Why do their eyes close."

A dead petal passed, and in the black horizon into oblivion, no more was the glittering gold of Meduseld.

[warhirrim]

@daniwrit​

The night was alive. Colors burst at the seams and like the rush of waterfalls, laughter and pink-blushed singing bubbled from every corner of the White City. There were Merry and Pippin, arm in arm, spinning sloppily around a table with more ale splattering the ground than sloshing in their mugs. There was Legolas, too, fuzzy-fingered. Victorious. Gimli, out cold, and Aragorn, wedded and kingly, the light of the fireflies catching in his bride's bright, smiling eyes… 

Faramir holding Éowyn's.

The Horselord did not look away even as the captain, awash in honey yellows and reds, the glowing paper lanterns, at last parted from her side.

"Your night will come,” he said, softly, appearing before her. “...Éowyn.” Her hands were strong yet soft, pale but bright. Small in his. Théoden patted them, and in the soft echo of song, looked to the white towers. “...You will be happy here."

[warhirrim]

King Théoden of Rohan. Mordor respectively requests the purchase of (black) horses, preferably the best your lands can offer. And for it, we will provide the best prices along with our utmost gratitude.

Respectfully. The air went cold. His voice, colder. "And what will come." 

Black, the hair on this crow's head, the cloth on her body. But her eyes were frost. Midwinter.

"You would have our beasts," he said, his gaze sparking alight, "and see no day come without fear. To ride! and in your shadow, follow Death and Ruin! --- So that when the sun might never again rise where the bodies of our dead lie," he grated, gravelling, "they will know Rohan.”

The world would know. Rohan, aiding the Lord of the Black Land. Rohan, too weak and cowardly to fight back. Rohan, who would sooner bend to Evil and be bought by Death to spare itself, and as all the world turned to black and the dead scattered the earth like leaves in autumn, its king would sit upon his throne a coward, no king at all. Deep in his chest, unease stirred, rising. Théoden’s jaw set. “You will ask no more."

[warhirrim]

‘ there will always be another mercy ’ -mal.

prompts from f.d. soul’s between you and these bones (accepting) 

The green banner waved in silence. The sun had begun to rise. He could hear birds gliding overhead, the whispers of the breeze, and stood bathed in its drowsy pinks and yellows, the grass in dew, morning’s early tender touches. 

His men spread upon the earth. A soldier, so young, lied warm before his feet.

“Who will wait for him? Who will look to his return?” Théoden murmured. “At last, his day has come, that his wife should tend to the comfort of memories. That his children should grow without their father, whose laughter shall ring no more by the hearth of their home.“ 

The soldier, his eyes still open, pale blue, starless. Théoden found the orc butchered beside him, and saw red. “They will have none.”

[fyeahtheraceofmen]

Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day’s rising he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing. Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended; over death, over dread, over doom lifted out of loss, out of life, unto long glory.

[warhirrim]

takes his face in her hands and places a kiss upon his forehead / eowyn

The moon hung high this night, the whole of the world wrapped in her steady rain of gentle silver, the stars that surround her tucked to sleep in her glow, slumbering now, fainter. The king stirred awake like a man washed ashore. And slowly, upon the sea of his bed, he found her.

"Éowyn.” Her name, a whisper on his lips. He touched her cheek, and steadily, unceasingly, the light ebbed again into his eyes. "This is not a dream."

[warhirrim]

starlyht​:

he lived too many moments.  the warmth of the night he’d heard his daughter’s passing.  the warmth of a lover in the delicate hours of morning.  the warmth of sun absorbed by shimmering scales.  the warmth of a horse beneath him,  the warmth of flesh over broken bone,  the warmth of the king’s smile,  the warmth of the hall.  he brought his tankard to his mouth and savored the warmth of ale.

twenty years were heartbeats to the slow scrawl of centuries.  young wyrms did not mature so swift.

he wondered some days if he was anything but a player reciting lines under guise of truths.  he wondered if it was deceptive to slither to a king’s hall and settle at his hearth, regardless of the honor of his intentions.  what do the politics and affairs of men matter to him? some days it froze him and tore at his throat.  he never had been a keen liar.

“i ask myself the same thing,”  the dragon admitted,  leaning back to stretch an ache that had settled deep in his spine.  he was rewarded with a satisfying crunch.  “i understand this   …   is a delicate time for you.”   he hesitated and at last added,  apologetically,   “i hadn’t intended to overstep,  or hurt you.”

"Hurt me?" he echoed. A look washed over him. There for a moment, then no more. "...No." He stepped forward, tall and unwavering, and a firm smile had reached his eye.

“Let no day come," he said, "where we be parted.”

He had never hurt him. Not Mal. But he’d noticed.

While the hall hummed before them, its people turning rosy off honeyed drinks, their laughter, fading, a hazy nothing, Mal was alone. Not just before Théoden arrived, but now. Giving an answer without an answer... turning his thoughts and the light from himself to his king; worried about stirring old memories of a lost love gone two decades ago, slowly healed. A good heart, his advisor wielded. And yet-

"I would only ask," Théoden continued, "that you bear no secret -- To suffer in silence."

His words had been gentler. His gaze, long and lingering. Like he'd hoped to find the truth, perhaps. Or maybe a silent agreement. Théoden looked to the great door, and at once, his gaze was gone. “Come.”

[warhirrim]

minastiriiths​:

              He was no stranger to desires of the heart however this time was unlike any other. Aye Eowyn had her beauty but there was so much more underneath the hair spun of gold. He could see it, even when she could not. Both had met in times of darkness, yet hope had always come easy to him, a guiding light from the shadows. And that was where he led her, back to a world now settling in peace. 

           He had sensed Theoden’s presence. Years of spending time in the company of trees, it had now become instinct to sense another presence, hence why he was not startled when the king emerged from the darkness.

           Faramir glanced to Theoden, a kind smile of his own touched the edges of his lips. “I would have them be as common as flowers in spring.” And he went to great lengths to make her smile, to laugh. His gaze turns for a moment to where she had left. “Do I take that to be your blessing, then?”

Théoden’s eyes fell upon him. A torch, warm in the midnight, glowed. “And freely, I give it.”

This was Faramir, the living son of Denethor, who would have perished in the last battle for Osgiliath. Faramir, kind and noble, who, by a single, wordless glance, saw in Éowyn all that he could not...

Soft and slow, an ocean of silence came between them.

What he could not...  

“There was a time when she was a girl. A child to be kept safe. Whose coming years were spent alone -- and unheard,” he said, drifting. His sister's daughter, forgotten by all who should have heard her. Unseen by her own brother. By him. His eyes fixed on nothing, and the torch, waving, hissed in the wind. "...So it is that I, not Éowyn, should be saved."

Saved twice. He came to, then, and like it never happened, the king squeezed Faramir’s arm. On his face: a happiness, and pride. "I had thought this day might never come.” 

[warhirrim]

elesheir​:

A shade? The Ranger’s eyes, soft despite those evils they had seen, shone with humility.

“The skies cannot look upon themselves to see what light they would shed,” he reminded, “but those that would gaze high upon them would question never their splendor – for they have seen it. And long have they felt it.”

And under their guidance, shared naught but tremendous love.

Aragorn stepped forward.

Tall and humble beneath the carven arches of the hall, he seemed not marked by age save for the greys on his head. They shone, lit like candlewicks as he stepped into the sunlight, her waning drip of noon slanting warm through the windows. The guards dared not budge. Between these wisened men both, great as their plans that roll as seas, they felt in the air that profound weight of memory forged through battles; yet, Strider’s sword belonged in their possession. They watched on as the Ranger bowed his head, young in his body, but weathered in soul.

It wore grievously on his bones. “Memories may be deceiving, my liege. More can you tell in a Ranger’s eyes than the wear on his shoulders or the steel of his blade. Time has touched me.”

Dust settled silent. Théoden, just as wordless.

Here, bowing, stood the son of Arathorn, Isildur’s heir, crownless. From under the high arched ceilings and the glow of spilled evening light, he saw now the grays that weaved through the hair on his head. Faded was the cloth of his cloak, and his skin, worn and darkened. But he had hardly aged. Still an image of the past. Still a memory. Yet in his eyes, dimmer now, starlit gray, the tale of wars and deaths lingered, and all the endless, numbered nights spent in the oblivion of shadows.

Time has touched me, the words drifted. Further away now. Gone.

It has touched him, too.

“And what hope,” Théoden began, “do we have against Time.”

Maybe he could read the king by a glance, know his history by the curl of his fingers, know the battles and the funerals and the glories by the bat of an eye, the creases around his mouth. Théoden reached out. He pressed a hand to the Ranger’s shoulder. “Rest, Aragorn, sword of Rohan,” he said, easing. “We shall ride in the coming days.”

Like the days he did with his father. With Thengel. To war. But not now, tonight. He called for Háma, then, and the doorward came to his lord’s side. “I would see your sword returned,” the king said. “You will have a home here.” 

[warhirrim]

hc: fatherhood. As we know, Théoden entered fatherhood rather tragically with the death of his wife, Elfhild, who passed in childbirth. The conflicting emotions would have been unfathomably difficult to compartmentalize. He would have experienced both the greatest and the worst moments of his life simultaneously --- Théodred was his pride, his bundle of joy, his only son, but Elfhild, his one, true love (he would never remarry). In fatherhood, he was utterly alone.

Then, just two years later, a new obstacle. His father passed, making him the next King of Rohan.

One might expect he would have no time to tend to little Théodred, that he would be absent, what with overseeing an entire realm, no wife by his side. But they would be wrong. Albeit busy, Théoden devoted as much time as possible in being an active, present, and loving participant in Théodred’s life. Undoubtedly, there was his mother, caretakers, servants, and tutors who aided --- it would have been easy to relegate all rearing to them --- but what his son needed was his dad. So he would refuse to miss those milestones and refuse to not watch his boy grow; he would teach his son to walk and talk, tell his son stories at night, teach him right from wrong, and be there with him the first time his little hands clamored up a horse, then onto armor, then a sword. It was exhausting, caring for two worlds. But it was more than Théoden’s duty. It wasn’t enough to just be a father. He wanted to be a dad.

By the time he’d adopted little Éomer and Éowyn to raise, his heart broken by the death of his beloved little sister, he’d already been a father for 24 years. A king, for 22. But as we can see from The Lord of the Rings and how dearly Éomer, and particularly Éowyn, loved their uncle --- even beyond uncle, truly. He was more than that to them, and he loved them as though his very own --- it’s clear that being a single father of three and a king did not interfere with his ability to actually be a dad. What’s more, the two even considered their cousin Théodred to be more like a brother. And who could blame them? The royal family of Rohan was a very tight-knit, loving, and tender family, and Théoden, despite being stretched thin in duties and responsibilities, was absolutely unwilling to sacrifice being a father to these children. He had so much love to give, and given how noble, brave, and kind they all grew to be, Théoden succeeded in both fatherhood and his kingship --- and he was undoubtedly proud of them all.