I Wonder How Long It Took Them To Find Celebran.

I wonder how long it took them to find Celebrían.

So either she went by herself, which is implied, or Elrond sent a few guards with her, or she travelled with some of Galadriel's people that came over specifically to escort her to Lothlórien. Was the trip planned in advance? Was it a regular thing, that she went to Lothlórien once every few years to see her parents? Did she take Arwen or the twins with her occasionally? Obviously not this time, otherwise they would have been "waylaid" too. If anyone else was with her they would have been killed, no doubt, and the only reason Celebrían herself survived her "poisoned wound" and whatever else the orcs did to her was because of whatever high-elf ancestry light-of-the-two-trees Daughter of Galadriel inner powers she had going on.

So it took the Fellowship approximately two months to get to Lothlórien from Rivendell, but that's accounting for their massive detour through Moria. Celebrían took the Redhorn Pass (side headcanon: the Redhorn Pass became impassable only after this incident), and because she was an elf and (presumably) by herself we can knock off about a month, if she was on a horse.

So in the Appendices Celebrían is referred to as Daughter of Celeborn, not Daughter of Galadriel, which seems more likely given Galadriel's importance in the Lord of the Rings and the history of Middle-Earth in general. That leads me to assume that Celebrían took after her father way more than her mother - it's likely she couldn't mind speak to the same extent, perhaps she didn't even have the same level of Foresight.

Assuming she would have sent Elrond a letter the moment she was in Lothlórien, and Elrond was expecting this, it would have taken maybe a week or two or maybe another month more for Elrond to think something was wrong - maybe she was delayed somehow, by weather etc, maybe the letter was lost on the way, whatever. If her parents were expecting her, it would have taken them equally long to suspect something was wrong.

So then I'm guessing Elrond mind-spoke with Galadriel if he hadn't done so before to ask if Celebrían had arrived, maybe Galadriel saw something in her mirror and alerted Elrond the same way, whatever. Then finally, after about two months to my reckoning - the 24 hours you wait to file a missing persons report converted to Elf conceptions of time - Elrond sent out the search parties.

(By the way, if her horse somehow survived and found its way back to Rivendell, it would have taken a similar time).

Anyway, if it took her approx. 3 weeks (3/4 of the way from Rivendell to Lothlórien) to get to the Redhorn Pass, it took the rescuers the same amount of time - less if they were in a hurry, but they also had to physically look for her. Then they had to bring her back to Rivendell, and I read somewhere (maybe a fanfic, don't quote me on this) that it was the twins that found her - traumatic enough, but imagine travelling home for a few weeks with your half-dead mother beside you on your horse.

Maybe the eagles helped. Idk.

In conclusion, I believe Celebrían was lying poisoned and half-dead from torture in a cave (presumably without food or water) for at least two or three months before she was found and taken back to Rivendell.

This whole scenario is based on the assumption that nobody saw the attack coming, which, unlikely as it seems, must have been the case as there is no way either Elrond or her parents would have let her travel (alone or otherwise) if this outcome was an option.

This is my Roman Empire.

POV: You, a figurehead of a nation, have travelled to another land for a meeting as a messenger of your nation’s status of the captivity of a prisoner you were entrusted with. You were relatively calm before your presentation, your speech practiced, and your spirit as light as your feet on the ground. However, before you conceived to give your testimony, a friend of yours (who had diplomatic immunity in the land) drew all the attention in the meeting to himself. He regaled his hardships with traveling as a man set to govern one day. He spoke of the nearly two decades he had spent tracking your prisoner, a War Criminal in many of the other representative’s territories, at the behest of the wisest in your vicinity, a martyr of your generation. You learn of the struggle to capture the murderer that constantly evaded him. A priceless heirloom is brought up in the conversation, as how could it not be? It was the cause of the very meeting. Several nations were called upon to contemplate its destruction as none could escape its manipulation, its corruption greater than that of money could ever tempt. And it was your convict that held possession of it before his imprisonment. Your friends admits that he is glad that the fiend is in chains, not hounding after the nephew of a treasured comrade of a sovereign kingdom, a friend of its King before his untimely death in battle. You shake in your seat unnoticed as you begin to realize that maybe the daily walks for your detainee through the forest should not have existed. You are next to speak. Your tongue feels heavy. You are shitting your pants. You are Legolas Greenleaf, Crown Prince of Mirkwood.

Thanksgiving headcanons for the Lotr crew

Its hosted in Rivendell but Elrond lets people extend the invite to others so everyone comes

Sam is in the kitchens from 6am cooking a million things-he also brought several side dishes premade

Frodo is all over the decorations and setting the table but he also made some cookies

Arwen is also very particular about this particularly the table

She has made a seating chart which she hopes will minimize squabbling

She has also set some ground rules like no dissing on your child’s interracial marriage (for Elrond and Thranduil)

Bilbo helps Sam cook in the morning but then he starts drinking around midday and doesn’t stop til he is dragged to bed by Frodo and Erestor

While Elrond is hosting he doesn’t do much just sits around and judges

He and Thranduil will be breaking Arwen’s rules

Thranduil and Gloin out drink Bilbo. They are having a silent drinking contest which has not been spoken of. Each one just decided to out drink the other

Thranduil wins cause he drinks like three bottles of a wine a day

Gimli and Legolas are just trying to avoid their parents

Thankfully Arwen sat them at the opposite end of the table

Unfortunately near Elrond who asks several awkward questions about how elf/dwarf sex works (he’s curious from a medical standpoint)

Bilbo drunkenly tells them how he had a dwarf boyfriend once so he totally understands what they’re going through at which point Frodo cuts off his wine supply

Frodo is actually trying to slow down Bilbo’s drinking all evening but with little success

Elladan and Elrohir have bonded with Merry and Pippin who introduced them to pipeweed. The four of them are stoned out of their minds and consequently eat more than everyone else. Arwen doesn’t understand what’s wrong with her brothers.

Aragorn is in charge of the turkey. Its excellent

He is mostly trying to hide from Elrond the whole time

Boromir tries to assist him with helpful turkey roasting tidbits but Aragorn would rather just do it himself

Eventually he assigns Boromir to the stuffing- its actually not bad

Erestor keeps Elrond occupied, they hang out and play chess in the middle of all the chaos

Glorfindel is the guy who is just ready for the holiday season to start

He keeps pestering Maglor to play Yule carols but Elrond’s rule is not until after dinner

Gandalf sits around and smokes and occasionally yells at Pippin. He takes turns hanging out with Bilbo and getting him drunker, hanging out with Elrond and Galadriel

Galadriel intimidates everyone no one knows where she was before or after dinner

Celeborn brought lembas rolls and cranberry sauce

Faramir makes a mean pumpkin pie

He’s just happy to be included. He fangirls over all the elves who indulge him mostly

Eowyn is enjoying watching the antics. She can’t cook for shit so she doesn’t bother to help with that but she does help clean up

So do Merry and Pippin but only because Gandalf forced them

Eomer brings “traditional Rohirric appetizers” and its smoked horse meat. Pippin and Sam are horrified to learn this.

Everyone has their favorite: Sam’s is obvs PO-TAY-TOES. Frodo likes cranberry sauce. Merry inhales stuffing. Pippin loves rolls.

Drunkest in order of most to least would be: Thranduil, Gloin, Bilbo, Gimli, Merry, Pippin, Legolas, Aragorn (but you can’t tell), Eomer, Eowyn, Glorfindel, Sam (he would’ve drunk more but he was busy cooking), Elladan, Elrohir (they’re so high they don’t drink much) Arwen (not a big drinker), Frodo(alcohol fucks with his anxiety so he just has one glass of wine) Faramir (who’s a teatotler cause he thinks if he did drink he’d become an alcoholic).

Lots of songs are sung before people start to retire for bed

Legolas and Gimli have sex really loudly between their fathers’ rooms to annoy them

Galadriel shows up around midnight and helps finish cleaning up

The clean up crew includes Eowyn, Merry, Faramir, Pippin, Gandalf, and Legolas and Gimli. They have a great time.

Prompt: language | culture | beauty

One-shot for Day 2 of #lotrweek

There it was, that little shiver of delight that came whenever the new policy was missing a detail, or contained an error. King Elessar had asked him to review it, write a second draft - an improved trade manifesto to Dol Amroth. Faramir had spent days poring over the old one, deciphering the heavy legal language and comparing it to the King's hurried first draft.

His study was in a very quiet corner on the second floor of the Tower of Ecthelion - the very room, in fact, where Mithrandir had taught him as a child, struggling through lessons of geography and history while his mind wandered. The traditional Steward's rooms were just off the King's receiving hall and throne room, but Faramir had opted to use these only for ceremonial purposes. They brought back too many unpleasant memories of his father. King Elessar had understood at once, and given his official blessing for Faramir to retreat to this hiding place to do his more thorough administrative work as Steward, when his business brought him to the White City.

The only noise in the room was the soft scrape of his quill against paper, interrupted periodically when Faramir dipped it into the ink. He already had a pile of scrolls, half unravelled and scattered across his desk, copies of letters from various Gondorian lords, and books spilling from cupboards and shelves, that he used for reference on his document. Yet - he read it again, just to be sure - there! An omission on a proposal that hadn't been resolved in the new policy.

Faramir stood up and stretched, going over to the window for a moment.

A shaft of sunlight streamed through, the sun almost at its peak in the bright blue sky. Good day for a hunt, Faramir thought, despite himself, and smiled. He'd take Éowyn out to the forest the moment this draft policy was finished, if this glorious weather persisted.

For now, though, he took his ring of keys from a hook on the back of the study door and set off for the archives.

They were like a sanctuary for him, even now, when the days of his youth were long past. He felt a sense of importance - the physical act of looking for a book, or a scroll, in the candlelit gloom and towering shelves and shadowy nooks of the Old Archives of Gondor, made him feel as though his work was not purely theoretical. Someone, sometime, had made the effort to document all this information; spent lifetimes working on the lives of the people of Gondor, recounting everything from laws (made or broken) to land boundaries from hundreds of years ago. It was hard, sometimes, to imagine anyone other than his father - or now, King Elessar - presiding in the throne room, throwing feasts in the Merethrond, holding counsel and court alike in the Great Hall, despite generations of kings doing so previously. In the archives however, Faramir got a true sense that people had lived here long before his time; meticulous records of their actions, hundreds of years old, crowded these narrow, dimly-lit halls. The evidence of the truth of all the old legends lived here.

It was incredible.

Faramir held up the flaming torch closer to the bit of paper he’d scribbled the location of a potential source on, to get a better look, and set off down the aisles. He stopped here and there to gaze longingly at some of the volumes, the dusty scrolls - one day he’d have the chance to read them, to discover their secrets. Now he was on a mission.

The sorting system of the Old Archives worked, more or less, but it was very complicated and hopelessly outdated. The first scroll he had in mind was nowhere to be found, at least on the shelf it was supposed to be, according to the archive guide (whose author, long-dead, had had the worst handwriting Faramir had ever seen). The second source was a book of figures with over a thousand pages - even the newly-minted Steward, with all his love of books and hopes and dreams for the archives, recoiled from that.

Finally, Faramir stopped by a cupboard of scrolls with a layer of dust an inch thick on the top. He sneezed about seven times before he finally found the one he was looking for amongst a mess of others, and the result was worth his watering eyes. It was labelled Land laws of Lamedon, dating back about a few hundred years. With their close ties to the princedom of Dol Amroth - it was perfect.

A quick glance showed Faramir that it was written in some form of elvish - only a minor setback. Due to his noble upbringing, he could read Tengwar runes without much difficulty, and translation of official documents into Sindarin had still been mandatory until the time of his grandfather Ecthelion despite the language not being spoken as frequently. Mithrandir had been very thorough in teaching Faramir these elvish languages, though he was not quite fluent.

However, upon closer inspection, Faramir realised to some consternation that the scroll was written in a form of elvish he did not understand. He made a halfhearted attempt to find some of his old rune charts, but some of the characters he was certain he’d never seen before.

Faramir thought about it. He couldn’t simply leave his policy as it was - Prince Imrahil would be sure to spot the omission even if it was minor enough for King Elessar to let it slide. Imrahil was a decent man, a great soldier, but would not stand for loopholes in trade agreements if it showed Dol Amroth in a bad light. After the war he was trying his utmost to secure the future of his princedom for his sons, which was why he had called in a few favours to get this policy settled so soon.

Faramir rummaged about some more trying to find a different scroll - or at least a translation into something he could work with. This stirred up even more dust, which caused him to sneeze so violently he banged his head on the top of the cupboard and had to sit back and swear quietly to himself for a bit before starting again.

It was all in vain. This scroll, in a language he did not understand, was his best - and only - option.

Then something fell into place, and Faramir hopped up from his position on the dusty archive floor, laughing out loud. Why had he not thought of this before? He put the scroll into one of the protective cases that were available at the warden’s desk, and set off to find Queen Arwen.

Faramir found the queen in her audience chamber - a large, spacious room lined with curtains of soft white silk that fluttered in the gentle breeze, blowing in from the courtyard outside, and large, comfortable chairs. Queen Arwen was sitting in one of these, listening to a young lady pouring her heart out. Lingering in the open doorway, Faramir recognised the young lady as Meluieth, newly married to Elphir, son of Prince Imrahil - perhaps she could also provide some feedback on his policy, if she had the time. The queen spotted him in her peripheral vision and gestured for him to come in.

“I understand your concerns,” she was saying, gravely. “However, I would advise you to be more open about them. Share your grievances with your husband. It is likely he does not realise your anxiety.”

“Oh, I know you’re right,” Meluieth sighed. “It’s just so hard.”

Arwen looked into the young lady’s eyes - Faramir knew how daunting that was, having been on the receiving end a few times. His queen’s eyes were like nothing of this world - depthless grey, like crystal. However, Lady Meluieth squared her shoulders in a show of real determination as Arwen spoke.

“I can see the strength you possess, even if you cannot,” she said. “Coming to me was the first step - that alone took courage. I’m glad we had our talk now, instead of in twenty years when change would be a thousand times more difficult.”

Meluieth hopped up, and dropped a deep curtsey, finally smiling. “I’ll talk to my lord tonight. Thank you, your Grace. Good afternoon, my lord Steward,” she added, hurrying from the room before Faramir could stop her.

“What was that about?” Faramir asked, curious.

Arwen tilted her head slightly. “I don’t want to break her confidence. Suffice it to say, when Princess Lothíriel leaves for Rohan, Meluieth will be the first lady of Dol Amroth and she is feeling rather nervous about it. In her own words, her mother raised her to run a household, not a whole city, and certainly not both at once. What can I help you with, mellon-nîn?”

“I need your help with a translation, your Grace,” Faramir said, bringing over the scroll. Arwen unravelled it on her lap as Faramir took the chair Meluieth had just vacated.

“This is for the new trade agreement, is it not?” Arwen asked, running her fingers over the lines of elegant script and smiling slightly.

Faramir nodded. “What language is it, and why on Earth was it used to write out a list of land laws from Lamedon, of all places?”

“It is a form of Noldorin, one that I have not seen in a long time,” Arwen said absently, engrossed in the text. “And any reason I can think of for this particular translation is only speculation. Perhaps a party of elves was passing through the area, and stayed with the Lord of Lamedon for a time; or perhaps some scholar translated a few random documents to improve his limited knowledge of the language. The latter is probably more correct, as there are some grammatical errors.”

Faramir’s face fell. “Then I probably can’t count on its accuracy in my policy draft.”

Arwen nodded, sympathetically, though she smiled. “No matter how much you love the Old Archives, Lord Faramir, perhaps it would be best to write to Lord Amarthon and ask for the current land agreements between Lamedon and Dol Amroth - or at least their own historical records.”

The Steward of Gondor looked wistfully at the scroll, one last time, before rolling it back up and putting it back into the case. “I probably ought to have done that to begin with, your Grace. Thank you for your help. One of these days I will sort out the Old Archives properly.”

“The whole archive, by yourself?” Arwen’s lips twitched with amusement. “That would be a fierce undertaking indeed.”

Faramir laughed. “With the help of as many scholars as I can find, naturally.”

“And your queen, as resident identifier of strange languages,” Arwen inclined her head. “Now go, my lord Steward, and hurry back to your draft before a storm breaks out over the forests of Ithilien, and the Lady Éowyn brings forth her wrath upon your desk for keeping you away from her for too long.”

Faramir laughed again, bowed, and hurried. He had a letter to write, and sunshine to enjoy, - the war was over. Life had meaning once more.

Oneshot for Day 1 of #lotrweek on tumblr

Prompt: memory | history | home 

This oneshot is inspired by these lines from Seeds of the White Tree by @GreenScholarTales :

"When she had first come to him in Minas Tirith, Aragorn discovered his bride to be both joyful and restless. No longer was the elvish reverie enough for her to fully replenish herself, but neither did a human's sleep come easily. It had taken time, and many long nights spent lying awake in Aragorn's arms after he nodded off before she learned to sleep and dream as he did."

•●•●•●•

The memory of smoke still lingered in the air.

It was a pale morning, one of Arwen's favourite kinds. The city of Osgiliath was just about visible, with a combination of distance and morning haze obscuring its ruins. The sun had not quite risen yet, but the sky was light, light blue, with distant clouds a rosy hue that heralded dawn.

Arwen knew the meaning of the rising of a red sun, and shivered, wondering how many of the wounded soldiers had died in the night. The number was decreasing day by day - in fact, for the last few weeks, nobody had died at all, and the remaining wounded were healing, slowly but surely. Even so, the old elvish saying remained in the back of her mind.

She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and looked to the mountains beyond the fields of Pelennor, still darkened where horses' hooves had trampled blood into the earth, of orcs and men alike; black indentations where the Mûmakil carcasses had been burnt still dotted the landscape.

Last night, Gimli had regaled them all with a song in his deep bass voice about the Misty Mountains, a melody passed down to him from his father about the quest to reclaim Erebor. The Misty Mountains could not be seen from Minas Tirith, but the Ephel Dúath were a good imitation, reminding her of the view of the Misty Mountains from the Hidden Valley - tall grey peaks, blurring into shadow. Gimli's song was a reminder that they were grim, and cold, and very, very dangerous.

Now however, they were at peace. It was a sensation they were not quite used to, Arwen could sense that, but now the mountains slept, knowing the evil they held was banished from this world.

Arwen felt a hand on her shoulder then, and knew without looking that it was Aragorn, leaning back against him even as his free hand slipped around her waist. The easy way in which they slipped into such shows of affection, as in Lothlórien in times of old, was a testament to both the endurance of their love, and relief at its survival into this new world.

"Your hands are cold, meleth-nîn," he noticed, his voice low and warm. Arwen smiled at his concern.

"I have been here for some hours already," she explained. "Sleep eludes me, even now. I feel its pull, but it is such a fleeting thing. I confess, Estel, I am used to a different, darker feeling than mere tiredness - a weariness of the soul, where lying still with my eyes closed, or wandering dreams, would not bring much relief. Now that weariness has vanished - and thank the Valar for it -"

"Thank the Valar for it," Aragorn repeated into her hair, so quietly that she could hardly hear him, even as his arms trembled slightly. The Evenstar had been made anew, but Arwen knew that her husband was still plagued by visions that haunted the darkest corners of his dreams; visions of her life smashing into countless pieces as if it was crystal on a cold marble floor.

"What need do I have to sleep? The Enemy had been defeated, and even the Ephel Dúath radiate a serenity they have not felt in generations. Now my weariness has vanished, and I feel so light, that sleep seems so trivial an occupation."

Aragorn laughed. "You have a great many things to learn, rían-nîn. The mortal body does not function very well when it lacks sleep."

Arwen nodded slowly. "That stands to reason. I went to see Éowyn last night - she has been moved from the houses of healing, you know - and was told she was asleep. I was confused, because Adar always told me that sleep is the greatest healer - why then would she be taken away, if she still needed to heal?"

"He was right," Aragorn said, taking hold of Arwen's hands properly and rubbing them gently within his own. The increased blood flow restored some warmth, and he guided her over to a nearby couch where they sat and observed the view together. "However, you and Éowyn and every woman and man in the world still need to sleep - to be mortally wounded is not a requirement."

Arwen yawned, despite herself, and leaned her head onto Aragorn's shoulder once more, settling into his warm tunic. "What about you, meleth-nîn? You are the king. You need rest at this time more than anyone."

He ran his fingers softly through his wife's hair, the strands as soft as the blossoms of the White Tree even as its jetlike darkness reminded him of the night sky. Even more so when she wore white gems in it, or the queen's diadem, that sparkled like starlight. In his youth he had dreamed up a thousand songs about his lady's hair, or her endless grey eyes, or her soft white skin like silk - more than he cared to remember, as his skills at poetry had improved somewhat since then. Even so, a thousand songs would not be enough to do her justice. To say nothing of her endless patience and wisdom, her kindness and steadfast loyalty, and her love - her love, her love, her love. 

To hold her in his arms like this was unbelievable, yet he could think of no other possible reality. Finally, they were together - he was hers and she was his, after a lifetime of patience and despair.

"Estel?" Arwen could tell he was lost in thought. "What of your sleep?"

Aragorn came back to reality slowly, and laughed softly, answering with a question, as he had in the days of their courtship in Lothlórien where they spoke in nothing but riddles and song. "Do you know what home means to a human, a mortal human?"

"Home." Arwen thought about it. 

Just then the sun graced the eastern horizon and crept over the balcony rails, slowly and steadily bringing light to the White City. Soon the haze that lingered in the distance would be dispelled; soon the daily work of rebuilding the city would begin. Arwen would find herself in high demand again, surrounded on all sides by men and women who sought her guidance and leadership as their queen. She loved it, being the one these people needed the most, being able to help those in need and provide the support that her people needed in this time of regrowth and renewal.

"Home is where a person feels safe," Aragorn explained. "Safe enough to build a family, safe enough to have a fire and not worry about attracting orcs or other beings of evil with its light. Home is where you feel safe enough to fall into helpless sleep, where you can curl up and rest without fear."

Arwen only half heard him. The edges of her vision were blurry, her head was heavy, and Aragorn's rhythmic stroking of her hair was making her feel very sleepy indeed. It was hypnotic, and would be an almost frightening sensation, were it anybody but Aragorn.

"Then -" just before darkness consumed her entirely - "home for me is with you."

Thus, the newly crowned High Queen of Gondor fell asleep in her husband's arms on the morning of the one-month anniversary of the Fall of Sauron, finally safe in the knowledge that she could be helpless - just for once.

•●•●•●•

<3