Tolkien Horror Week is back for another year of celebrating all the terrifying and unsettling bits of Tolkien's work! The event will run from October 25–31 and accepts all types of fanworks. There is an AO3 collection for the event here.
Below are some suggested prompts for each day of the week. They are not mandatory; feel free to combine them or disregard them entirely.
Day 1: Angband, Utumno, and Tol-in-Gaurhoth | older and fouler things | made and unmade
Day 2: Angmar, Minas Morgul, and Númenor | like shades of night | devoted and damned
Day 3: Mordor and the Dead Marshes | a dark cloud of fear | dead and undead
Day 4: The Barrow-downs and the Old Forest | out of the mist | awake and asleep
Day 5: Mirkwood, Nan Elmoth, and Taur-nu-Fuin | the depths of the wood | hunter and hunted
Day 6: Nan Dungortheb, Ered Gorgoroth, and the Girdle of Melian | weaving webs of shadow | light and unlight
Day 7: Isengard, Moria, and the Paths of the Dead | the deep places of the world | sworn and forsaken
Please mention @tolkienhorrorweek in the body of your post and tag #tolkienhorrorweek and #tolkienhorrorweek2026 in the first 10 tags. You may also submit a post. Please tag any content warnings/gore and place any NSFW content beneath a read more/link to AO3.
For more information, see the FAQ. If you have any questions, drop them in the ask box.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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"And the deeps rose beneath them in towering anger, and waves like unto mountains moving with great caps of writhen snow bore them up amid the wreckage of the clouds, and after many days cast them away upon the shores of Middle-earth. And all the coasts and seaward regions of the western world suffered great change and ruin in that time; for the seas invaded the lands, and shores foundered, and ancient isles were drowned, and new isles were uplifted; and hills crumbled and rivers were turned into strange courses."
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, "Akallabêth"
@esotolkienweek day 1: lands ❃ REMNANTS OF BELERIAND
[ID: an edit comprised of four banners in various shades of muted, desaturated grey, brown, and green. From top to bottom, they show:
1: A lone boulder on a rocky outcropping amid sparse grass. White gothic-style text at the center of the image reads "Tol Morwen" in all caps, and beneath it, in a smaller white serif font, "morwen's isle" / 2: The shores of a mountainous, forested island beneath an overcast sky. Same format as Image 1, but the text reads "Tol Fuin" and "the dark isle" / 3: The ruins of a stone building overlooking a small, rocky inlet, looking out to sea. Same format as the previous images, but the text reads "Himring" and "the ruined fortress" / 4: A stone castle built out into a harbor. Text reads "Lindon" and "the last city"//End ID]
Prompt: Work and craft for day 4 of @tolkiengenweek
Summary: In which Finrod remakes Nargothrond, and Nerdanel remembers her losses.
Sequel to Renewed.
Rating: G
Word Count: 1k
“Tell me of Nargothrond,” Nerdanel says in the morning cool of her workshop, warming clay between her hands.
“It was—” Finrod begins, falters. His hand seizes upon air, upon words, and closes empty. A silence stretches.
“Not all that is remembered need be spoken,” says Nerdanel gently. He is not the first to return to her workshop without words with which to speak the memories that ache within.
Finrod’s brow furrows, and images half-shadowed slip through the doors of her mind, hesitant. A glimpse of a garden beneath stone starred with lanterns; the coronet of a pillar shaped like living leaves, ever unfurling; ceilings rising into darkness domed with stars; waters falling from shadows into rivers runnelled through rock; the emerald eyes of serpents gleaming above a throne—
He sighs, ragged, and sags against the table.
Nerdanel presses the clay into his palms and cups his hands in hers. “Not all that is remembered,” she says again, “need be spoken.”
I think a lot about Aerin’s legacy. Her story is mostly told through word of mouth, often quietly. It’s a complex matter I think. She endured so much dehumanization in life and the turning of someone into a symbol, into a story, however well intentioned, is often somewhat dehumanizing itself.
There is another tragedy in that Aerin has no say over how she’s remembered, and so many parts of her, especially of her before the Nírnaeth, are forgotten.
But of course Aerin was not the last person to be subjected to forced marriage or abuse, whose people were oppressed or enslaved. In all likelihood she was not the last person who chose to burn down her oppressor’s halls.
Aerin as a whisper, a warning, a promise, a threat.
I think about fires that are lit in her memory, and of men’s houses that are burned with her in the shadows of someone’s mind. I think of those seeing the fires from far away like Túrin saw that red light and those beside him knew at once who set it. I imagine the story of that red light becomes something in itself.
I just also think about the people who remained enslaved in Hithlum and who escaped to Sirion who remember her. Some of them might have survived because of her defiance and loyalty. Dírhavel, the man who wrote the Lay of the Children of Húrin of course died in the third kinslaying at Sirion.
There are a couple depictions in the late first age and early second age made from descriptions of her from survivors of occupied Hithlum who managed to escape to Sirion. Some of these depict her with goldenrods, a species not common in Hithlum but common in the later years, their flowers appearing almost like flames
Tolkien Horror Week is back for another year of celebrating all the terrifying and unsettling bits of Tolkien's work! The event will run from October 25–31 and accepts all types of fanworks. There is an AO3 collection for the event here.
Below are some suggested prompts for each day of the week. They are not mandatory; feel free to combine them or disregard them entirely.
Day 1: Angband, Utumno, and Tol-in-Gaurhoth | older and fouler things | made and unmade
Day 2: Angmar, Minas Morgul, and Númenor | like shades of night | devoted and damned
Day 3: Mordor and the Dead Marshes | a dark cloud of fear | dead and undead
Day 4: The Barrow-downs and the Old Forest | out of the mist | awake and asleep
Day 5: Mirkwood, Nan Elmoth, and Taur-nu-Fuin | the depths of the wood | hunter and hunted
Day 6: Nan Dungortheb, Ered Gorgoroth, and the Girdle of Melian | weaving webs of shadow | light and unlight
Day 7: Isengard, Moria, and the Paths of the Dead | the deep places of the world | sworn and forsaken
Please mention @tolkienhorrorweek in the body of your post and tag #tolkienhorrorweek and #tolkienhorrorweek2026 in the first 10 tags. You may also submit a post. Please tag any content warnings/gore and place any NSFW content beneath a read more/link to AO3.
For more information, see the FAQ. If you have any questions, drop them in the ask box.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
@esotolkienweek day one: lands ༝ the witch-realm of angmar
1 "the kingdom of angmar was founded in the far north of the misty mountains by the lord of the nazgûl, who was then aptly named the 'witch-king of angmar.' rising in TA 1300, angmar was established with the purpose of quelling the dúnedain of the north and the remains of arnor."
2 "the capital of angmar was carn dûm. it was the realm’s greatest fortress and served also as the seat of its king; it stood on the northwestern hand of the mountains of angmar. a mountain fortress of evil, carn dûm was inhabited by dark-willed men, orcs, and other fell creatures in service to the witch king of angmar."
Prompt: Work and craft for day 4 of @tolkiengenweek
Summary: In which Finrod remakes Nargothrond, and Nerdanel remembers her losses.
Sequel to Renewed.
Rating: G
Word Count: 1k
“Tell me of Nargothrond,” Nerdanel says in the morning cool of her workshop, warming clay between her hands.
“It was—” Finrod begins, falters. His hand seizes upon air, upon words, and closes empty. A silence stretches.
“Not all that is remembered need be spoken,” says Nerdanel gently. He is not the first to return to her workshop without words with which to speak the memories that ache within.
Finrod’s brow furrows, and images half-shadowed slip through the doors of her mind, hesitant. A glimpse of a garden beneath stone starred with lanterns; the coronet of a pillar shaped like living leaves, ever unfurling; ceilings rising into darkness domed with stars; waters falling from shadows into rivers runnelled through rock; the emerald eyes of serpents gleaming above a throne—
He sighs, ragged, and sags against the table.
Nerdanel presses the clay into his palms and cups his hands in hers. “Not all that is remembered,” she says again, “need be spoken.”
Prompt: Work and craft for day 4 of @tolkiengenweek
Summary: In which Finrod remakes Nargothrond, and Nerdanel remembers her losses.
Sequel to Renewed.
Rating: G
Word Count: 1k
“Tell me of Nargothrond,” Nerdanel says in the morning cool of her workshop, warming clay between her hands.
“It was—” Finrod begins, falters. His hand seizes upon air, upon words, and closes empty. A silence stretches.
“Not all that is remembered need be spoken,” says Nerdanel gently. He is not the first to return to her workshop without words with which to speak the memories that ache within.
Finrod’s brow furrows, and images half-shadowed slip through the doors of her mind, hesitant. A glimpse of a garden beneath stone starred with lanterns; the coronet of a pillar shaped like living leaves, ever unfurling; ceilings rising into darkness domed with stars; waters falling from shadows into rivers runnelled through rock; the emerald eyes of serpents gleaming above a throne—
He sighs, ragged, and sags against the table.
Nerdanel presses the clay into his palms and cups his hands in hers. “Not all that is remembered,” she says again, “need be spoken.”
Summary: In Aman, Frodo meets Finrod and learns something of the Elves and of himself. (Or, on the sharing and lightening of burdens.)
Part two of As the Elf-friends of Old.
Rating: G
Word Count: 6.7k
Gulls wheeled and cried overhead as Frodo made his way down the sea path, one hand upon the wall of the cliff face. Loose rocks skittered from under his feet and clattered over the cliff edge, spattering the drifts of madder and sea thrift, battered by wind and clumsy Hobbit feet, that clung to the cliff face. It was not a wholly treacherous path, but it required all his attention, and there was no other path he had yet found that offered such a view of the sea, nor of the cliffs, stippled in yellow gorse. But that was not to say that it was an easy descent.
Tol Eressëa, he thought not for the first time, was not made for Hobbits. Rather, it seemed even the land itself—not to speak of the architecture—had fashioned itself for the sure, fleet feet of the Elves.
But it gave him a task to occupy his mind with other than thoughts of Bilbo, which pressed more worryingly upon him with each day and shadowed even his happiest moments. Celebrían, glimpsing the shadows that clouded his silence, had bade him leave Bilbo with her and Elrond for the day, waving off his concerns and protests.
“Not even Elrond would tend to those in his care without rest and respite,” she had told him, kindly but firmly, “and you have borne a burden greater than was ever laid upon him, and have but recently been relieved of it. Do not burden yourself unnecessarily when there are others now who might help you bear this weight. And,” she had added with a smile as she steered him to the door of her house, “you may rest assured that Bilbo can find no better care in all of Aman than in the house of Elrond.”
Celebrían, he was finding, had something of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ stern spine in her.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: In Aman, Frodo meets Finrod and learns something of the Elves and of himself. (Or, on the sharing and lightening of burdens.)
Part two of As the Elf-friends of Old.
Rating: G
Word Count: 6.7k
Gulls wheeled and cried overhead as Frodo made his way down the sea path, one hand upon the wall of the cliff face. Loose rocks skittered from under his feet and clattered over the cliff edge, spattering the drifts of madder and sea thrift, battered by wind and clumsy Hobbit feet, that clung to the cliff face. It was not a wholly treacherous path, but it required all his attention, and there was no other path he had yet found that offered such a view of the sea, nor of the cliffs, stippled in yellow gorse. But that was not to say that it was an easy descent.
Tol Eressëa, he thought not for the first time, was not made for Hobbits. Rather, it seemed even the land itself—not to speak of the architecture—had fashioned itself for the sure, fleet feet of the Elves.
But it gave him a task to occupy his mind with other than thoughts of Bilbo, which pressed more worryingly upon him with each day and shadowed even his happiest moments. Celebrían, glimpsing the shadows that clouded his silence, had bade him leave Bilbo with her and Elrond for the day, waving off his concerns and protests.
“Not even Elrond would tend to those in his care without rest and respite,” she had told him, kindly but firmly, “and you have borne a burden greater than was ever laid upon him, and have but recently been relieved of it. Do not burden yourself unnecessarily when there are others now who might help you bear this weight. And,” she had added with a smile as she steered him to the door of her house, “you may rest assured that Bilbo can find no better care in all of Aman than in the house of Elrond.”
Celebrían, he was finding, had something of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ stern spine in her.
Summary: In Aman, Frodo meets Finrod and learns something of the Elves and of himself. (Or, on the sharing and lightening of burdens.)
Part two of As the Elf-friends of Old.
Rating: G
Word Count: 6.7k
Gulls wheeled and cried overhead as Frodo made his way down the sea path, one hand upon the wall of the cliff face. Loose rocks skittered from under his feet and clattered over the cliff edge, spattering the drifts of madder and sea thrift, battered by wind and clumsy Hobbit feet, that clung to the cliff face. It was not a wholly treacherous path, but it required all his attention, and there was no other path he had yet found that offered such a view of the sea, nor of the cliffs, stippled in yellow gorse. But that was not to say that it was an easy descent.
Tol Eressëa, he thought not for the first time, was not made for Hobbits. Rather, it seemed even the land itself—not to speak of the architecture—had fashioned itself for the sure, fleet feet of the Elves.
But it gave him a task to occupy his mind with other than thoughts of Bilbo, which pressed more worryingly upon him with each day and shadowed even his happiest moments. Celebrían, glimpsing the shadows that clouded his silence, had bade him leave Bilbo with her and Elrond for the day, waving off his concerns and protests.
“Not even Elrond would tend to those in his care without rest and respite,” she had told him, kindly but firmly, “and you have borne a burden greater than was ever laid upon him, and have but recently been relieved of it. Do not burden yourself unnecessarily when there are others now who might help you bear this weight. And,” she had added with a smile as she steered him to the door of her house, “you may rest assured that Bilbo can find no better care in all of Aman than in the house of Elrond.”
Celebrían, he was finding, had something of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ stern spine in her.
This is only *checks notes* nine months late, but we made it! Thanks for the ask! (Also on AO3 here.)
Sunlight spilled over Éowyn’s shoulders as she examined the sketches she and Faramir had drafted of the entry of their future home: wide double doors of black lebethron, upon which would be set the White Tree, and columns of white stone, carved in the vining fashion of the Mark, flanking the doors. Beneath the tracework of sunlight, she could see the abandoned lines and ideas that littered the sketches—the blots of ink where they had stalled in thought and the haphazard jots where their quills had fallen forgotten as their conversation ceased in speech.
“We shall have to provide a cleaner sketch,” she said, sharing a smile with Faramir.
“There is one thing more I would have you consider.” He withdrew a piece of parchment, neatly folded, and spread it before her on the small table they had carried out into Meduseld’s garden. Drawn on the parchment was a sketch of another house, similar in fashion to theirs, but smaller—a house of work or of craft. “Your wedding gift,” he said. “It shall be solely for your use, to be named and given purpose as you will. You need not decide its purpose now, but I wished for you to see it before I give the order to begin construction.”
Éowyn spread her hands over the parchment, silent. Tall windows filled the walls of the house, from eave to floor. She thought of the narrow windows beneath the eave of Meduseld’s eastern wall, where the sun touched but briefly on the shadows of morning and then fled, and of the small louver in the ceiling of the hall and its narrow net of stars, and of the pooling darkness of her chambers, pricked only by candle and hearth.
In this house, the sun would walk in every window, and the moon and stars would unspool their glimmering strands in the night’s shadows. In this house, no shadows would cling to her steps, and with them the ragged remnants of memories.
“I have yet to survey the land myself,” said Faramir, “but Beregond says he has found a fair place, near to the main house. A grove of lebethron trees will shade the house from the noon sun, and a stream lies near at hand, from which you may fetch water. There is room for a garden, too, if you wish for another beyond that which will grow in the courtyard of our home.”
“I do not know to what purpose I will put it,” she said at last. “I know so little still of healing.”
Faramir smiled. “Then it is well that I do not seek your purpose, only your consent. Beregond is eager to begin. He wishes greatly to please the Lady of the Shield-arm.”
Éowyn looked sidelong at him, a smile upon her lips. “Does he indeed? Then you may tell him he has.”
Faramir leaned and pressed a kiss to her brow. “He will be glad to hear it.”
— — —
Faramir left with the coming of winter and would not return until spring was in its fullness, and the grasses of the Mark rose to Men’s knees and the winds of spring ran streaming upon their green shoulders, and their wedding would be held in the long hall where Éowyn would dwell no more.
Our house and your wedding gift continue apace, he wrote to her in the months after he had left. Winter here is mild, and the rains have not yet come in full. Already much of the house has been laid down, and already it gleams like a pearl cupped within the palm of the hills. If the weather holds, all shall be ready when we return here from our wedding.
I have one last request of you. Think of what sign you would have placed above the door of your house to be the symbol of the Lady of Ithilien. I do not need your answer now, but the stonemasons will wish to have it when you arrive, for they wish to have you witness them place it in the stone. May the days until then pass swiftly!
In his offices in Minas Tirith, Faramir still displayed the signet and white standard of the Stewards, but for his newly constructed house and seat, he would display the symbols of his princedom. A new age ought to have new symbols, and the House of Mardil is no more, he had told Éowyn during the months of waiting and building in Meduseld, and together they had set the sickle moon above the Tree and sent the sketch to Aragorn, to be set in the annals of Gondor as the signs of the princedom of Ithilien.
Éowyn had not given thought to what she would choose as her symbol, but she thought long upon it now—of horse and grass and sword and shield, and of the moonlit hills of Ithilien, and the trees that clad hollow and hillock, and of the tools and work of the healer. And she thought of the days of darkness and dread, and the shade of the dawnless day, and of the sun shining in the Tower of the Sun.
And when spring came, Faramir came through the rippling grass clad in white and sable, with the sun streaming through the pennants of his house, and set his hand in hers before the throne of Meduseld, and the light of the setting sun shone through the doors of the hall and fell upon their hands.
When they rode at last to their new home, to be wedded again in the manner of Gondor amongst the blooming myrtles, their house already rose white and fair from the hollows of the hills, a pearl set amongst the tamarisk and terebinth. Hammer and chisel rang as the stonemasons set the new symbols of the Prince of Ithilien in the lintel above the door.
Bar-en-Ithil they had named it, House of the Moon, for it lay in the heart of the land where the moon went walking over the climbing woods and falling streams, shining upon bough and pool. It was built of the same white marble as Minas Ithil-that-was, so that it shone above the hills like the cresting moon. But it was not the imprisoned moonlight that welled through the marble walls of Minas Ithil long ago, but the gleam of the moon as caught in a mirror, fair and radiant in the hollow of the hills.
It was neither a garrison nor a keep nor a castle, but a simple house, low and sprawling, for they would have no symbols of war, nor of power over Men. No shields lined its halls; no banners of war fell from its walls; no trophies of valor hung above hearth or seat. Through its tall windows, the moonlight welled upon its white floors, polished and plain, for it was a house of work, not of office or rank. In its center was a courtyard in which grew the gardens of Éowyn: herbs for the healing of hurts, and others for the easing of minds and hearts.
And upon its eastern flank, as Faramir had promised, stood Éowyn’s house, shaded by a grove of lebethron trees and girded by a stream. The morning sun shone upon its eastern walls in a wash of gold, and the glass of the windows caught the light and gleamed.
As Faramir led her to the door, he asked, “Have you chosen a symbol?”
Éowyn turned upon his arm to face the dawn and tilted her face to its light. “I shall have the sun,” she said, “for as I stood in the Tower of the Sun and saw the end of the Shadow and knew at last my own heart and was renewed, so now shall I bring renewal. And this shall be the House of the Sun, Bar-en-Anor, and all who come here shall find themselves renewed.”
“So shall it be,” said Faramir with a smile, and he bent and kissed her beneath the morning sun.
This only *checks notes* nine months late, but we made it! Thanks for the ask! (Also on AO3 here.)
Sunlight spilled over Éowyn’s shoulders as she examined the sketches she and Faramir had drafted of the entry of their future home: wide double doors of black lebethron, upon which would be set the White Tree, and columns of white stone, carved in the vining fashion of the Mark, flanking the doors. Beneath the tracework of sunlight, she could see the abandoned lines and ideas that littered the sketches—the blots of ink where they had stalled in thought and the haphazard jots where their quills had fallen forgotten as their conversation ceased in speech.
“We shall have to provide a cleaner sketch,” she said, sharing a smile with Faramir.
“There is one thing more I would have you consider.” He withdrew a piece of parchment, neatly folded, and spread it before her on the small table they had carried out into Meduseld’s garden. Drawn on the parchment was a sketch of another house, similar in fashion to theirs, but smaller—a house of work or of craft. “Your wedding gift,” he said. “It shall be solely for your use, to be named and given purpose as you will. You need not decide its purpose now, but I wished for you to see it before I give the order to begin construction.”
Éowyn spread her hands over the parchment, silent. Tall windows filled the walls of the house, from eave to floor. She thought of the narrow windows beneath the eave of Meduseld’s eastern wall, where the sun touched but briefly on the shadows of morning and then fled, and of the small louver in the ceiling of the hall and its narrow net of stars, and of the pooling darkness of her chambers, pricked only by candle and hearth.
In this house, the sun would walk in every window, and the moon and stars would unspool their glimmering strands in the night’s shadows. In this house, no shadows would cling to her steps, and with them the ragged remnants of memories.
“I have yet to survey the land myself,” said Faramir, “but Beregond says he has found a fair place, near to the main house. A grove of lebethron trees will shade the house from the noon sun, and a stream lies near at hand, from which you may fetch water. There is room for a garden, too, if you wish for another beyond that which will grow in the courtyard of our home.”
“I do not know to what purpose I will put it,” she said at last. “I know so little still of healing.”
Faramir smiled. “Then it is well that I do not seek your purpose, only your consent. Beregond is eager to begin. He wishes greatly to please the Lady of the Shield-arm.”
Éowyn looked sidelong at him, a smile upon her lips. “Does he indeed? Then you may tell him he has.”
Faramir leaned and pressed a kiss to her brow. “He will be glad to hear it.”
— — —
Faramir left with the coming of winter and would not return until spring was in its fullness, and the grasses of the Mark rose to Men’s knees and the winds of spring ran streaming upon their green shoulders, and their wedding would be held in the long hall where Éowyn would dwell no more.
Our house and your wedding gift continue apace, he wrote to her in the months after he had left. Winter here is mild, and the rains have not yet come in full. Already much of the house has been laid down, and already it gleams like a pearl cupped within the palm of the hills. If the weather holds, all shall be ready when we return here from our wedding.
I have one last request of you. Think of what sign you would have placed above the door of your house to be the symbol of the Lady of Ithilien. I do not need your answer now, but the stonemasons will wish to have it when you arrive, for they wish to have you witness them place it in the stone. May the days until then pass swiftly!
In his offices in Minas Tirith, Faramir still displayed the signet and white standard of the Stewards, but for his newly constructed house and seat, he would display the symbols of his princedom. A new age ought to have new symbols, and the House of Mardil is no more, he had told Éowyn during the months of waiting and building in Meduseld, and together they had set the sickle moon above the Tree and sent the sketch to Aragorn, to be set in the annals of Gondor as the signs of the princedom of Ithilien.
Éowyn had not given thought to what she would choose as her symbol, but she thought long upon it now—of horse and grass and sword and shield, and of the moonlit hills of Ithilien, and the trees that clad hollow and hillock, and of the tools and work of the healer. And she thought of the days of darkness and dread, and the shade of the dawnless day, and of the sun shining in the Tower of the Sun.
And when spring came, Faramir came through the rippling grass clad in white and sable, with the sun streaming through the pennants of his house, and set his hand in hers before the throne of Meduseld, and the light of the setting sun shone through the doors of the hall and fell upon their hands.
When they rode at last to their new home, to be wedded again in the manner of Gondor amongst the blooming myrtles, their house already rose white and fair from the hollows of the hills, a pearl set amongst the tamarisk and terebinth. Hammer and chisel rang as the stonemasons set the new symbols of the Prince of Ithilien in the lintel above the door.
Bar-en-Ithil they had named it, House of the Moon, for it lay in the heart of the land where the moon went walking over the climbing woods and falling streams, shining upon bough and pool. It was built of the same white marble as Minas Ithil-that-was, so that it shone above the hills like the cresting moon. But it was not the imprisoned moonlight that welled through the marble walls of Minas Ithil long ago, but the gleam of the moon as caught in a mirror, fair and radiant in the hollow of the hills.
It was neither a garrison nor a keep nor a castle, but a simple house, low and sprawling, for they would have no symbols of war, nor of power over Men. No shields lined its halls; no banners of war fell from its walls; no trophies of valor hung above hearth or seat. Through its tall windows, the moonlight welled upon its white floors, polished and plain, for it was a house of work, not of office or rank. In its center was a courtyard in which grew the gardens of Éowyn: herbs for the healing of hurts, and others for the easing of minds and hearts.
And upon its eastern flank, as Faramir had promised, stood Éowyn’s house, shaded by a grove of lebethron trees and girded by a stream. The morning sun shone upon its eastern walls in a wash of gold, and the glass of the windows caught the light and gleamed.
As Faramir led her to the door, he asked, “Have you chosen a symbol?”
Éowyn turned upon his arm to face the dawn and tilted her face to its light. “I shall have the sun,” she said, “for as I stood in the Tower of the Sun and saw the end of the Shadow and knew at last my own heart and was renewed, so now shall I bring renewal. And this shall be the House of the Sun, Bar-en-Anor, and all who come here shall find themselves renewed.”
“So shall it be,” said Faramir with a smile, and he bent and kissed her beneath the morning sun.
This is only *checks notes* nine months late, but we made it! Thanks for the ask! (Also on AO3 here.)
Sunlight spilled over Éowyn’s shoulders as she examined the sketches she and Faramir had drafted of the entry of their future home: wide double doors of black lebethron, upon which would be set the White Tree, and columns of white stone, carved in the vining fashion of the Mark, flanking the doors. Beneath the tracework of sunlight, she could see the abandoned lines and ideas that littered the sketches—the blots of ink where they had stalled in thought and the haphazard jots where their quills had fallen forgotten as their conversation ceased in speech.
“We shall have to provide a cleaner sketch,” she said, sharing a smile with Faramir.
“There is one thing more I would have you consider.” He withdrew a piece of parchment, neatly folded, and spread it before her on the small table they had carried out into Meduseld’s garden. Drawn on the parchment was a sketch of another house, similar in fashion to theirs, but smaller—a house of work or of craft. “Your wedding gift,” he said. “It shall be solely for your use, to be named and given purpose as you will. You need not decide its purpose now, but I wished for you to see it before I give the order to begin construction.”
Éowyn spread her hands over the parchment, silent. Tall windows filled the walls of the house, from eave to floor. She thought of the narrow windows beneath the eave of Meduseld’s eastern wall, where the sun touched but briefly on the shadows of morning and then fled, and of the small louver in the ceiling of the hall and its narrow net of stars, and of the pooling darkness of her chambers, pricked only by candle and hearth.
In this house, the sun would walk in every window, and the moon and stars would unspool their glimmering strands in the night’s shadows. In this house, no shadows would cling to her steps, and with them the ragged remnants of memories.
“I have yet to survey the land myself,” said Faramir, “but Beregond says he has found a fair place, near to the main house. A grove of lebethron trees will shade the house from the noon sun, and a stream lies near at hand, from which you may fetch water. There is room for a garden, too, if you wish for another beyond that which will grow in the courtyard of our home.”
“I do not know to what purpose I will put it,” she said at last. “I know so little still of healing.”
Faramir smiled. “Then it is well that I do not seek your purpose, only your consent. Beregond is eager to begin. He wishes greatly to please the Lady of the Shield-arm.”
Éowyn looked sidelong at him, a smile upon her lips. “Does he indeed? Then you may tell him he has.”
Faramir leaned and pressed a kiss to her brow. “He will be glad to hear it.”
— — —
Faramir left with the coming of winter and would not return until spring was in its fullness, and the grasses of the Mark rose to Men’s knees and the winds of spring ran streaming upon their green shoulders, and their wedding would be held in the long hall where Éowyn would dwell no more.
Our house and your wedding gift continue apace, he wrote to her in the months after he had left. Winter here is mild, and the rains have not yet come in full. Already much of the house has been laid down, and already it gleams like a pearl cupped within the palm of the hills. If the weather holds, all shall be ready when we return here from our wedding.
I have one last request of you. Think of what sign you would have placed above the door of your house to be the symbol of the Lady of Ithilien. I do not need your answer now, but the stonemasons will wish to have it when you arrive, for they wish to have you witness them place it in the stone. May the days until then pass swiftly!
In his offices in Minas Tirith, Faramir still displayed the signet and white standard of the Stewards, but for his newly constructed house and seat, he would display the symbols of his princedom. A new age ought to have new symbols, and the House of Mardil is no more, he had told Éowyn during the months of waiting and building in Meduseld, and together they had set the sickle moon above the Tree and sent the sketch to Aragorn, to be set in the annals of Gondor as the signs of the princedom of Ithilien.
Éowyn had not given thought to what she would choose as her symbol, but she thought long upon it now—of horse and grass and sword and shield, and of the moonlit hills of Ithilien, and the trees that clad hollow and hillock, and of the tools and work of the healer. And she thought of the days of darkness and dread, and the shade of the dawnless day, and of the sun shining in the Tower of the Sun.
And when spring came, Faramir came through the rippling grass clad in white and sable, with the sun streaming through the pennants of his house, and set his hand in hers before the throne of Meduseld, and the light of the setting sun shone through the doors of the hall and fell upon their hands.
When they rode at last to their new home, to be wedded again in the manner of Gondor amongst the blooming myrtles, their house already rose white and fair from the hollows of the hills, a pearl set amongst the tamarisk and terebinth. Hammer and chisel rang as the stonemasons set the new symbols of the Prince of Ithilien in the lintel above the door.
Bar-en-Ithil they had named it, House of the Moon, for it lay in the heart of the land where the moon went walking over the climbing woods and falling streams, shining upon bough and pool. It was built of the same white marble as Minas Ithil-that-was, so that it shone above the hills like the cresting moon. But it was not the imprisoned moonlight that welled through the marble walls of Minas Ithil long ago, but the gleam of the moon as caught in a mirror, fair and radiant in the hollow of the hills.
It was neither a garrison nor a keep nor a castle, but a simple house, low and sprawling, for they would have no symbols of war, nor of power over Men. No shields lined its halls; no banners of war fell from its walls; no trophies of valor hung above hearth or seat. Through its tall windows, the moonlight welled upon its white floors, polished and plain, for it was a house of work, not of office or rank. In its center was a courtyard in which grew the gardens of Éowyn: herbs for the healing of hurts, and others for the easing of minds and hearts.
And upon its eastern flank, as Faramir had promised, stood Éowyn’s house, shaded by a grove of lebethron trees and girded by a stream. The morning sun shone upon its eastern walls in a wash of gold, and the glass of the windows caught the light and gleamed.
As Faramir led her to the door, he asked, “Have you chosen a symbol?”
Éowyn turned upon his arm to face the dawn and tilted her face to its light. “I shall have the sun,” she said, “for as I stood in the Tower of the Sun and saw the end of the Shadow and knew at last my own heart and was renewed, so now shall I bring renewal. And this shall be the House of the Sun, Bar-en-Anor, and all who come here shall find themselves renewed.”
“So shall it be,” said Faramir with a smile, and he bent and kissed her beneath the morning sun.
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