On all levels except physical, i am a wizard

Hello! I am like Gandalf, in that my attention wanders all over the place and I have a tendency to walk out of projects halfway through because there's something interesting going on over there and I've gotta check it out/there's a fiery chasm demon I gotta kill real quick. I love all things Arda (which is mostly what you'll find on here) but, whenever my wandering brain lets me focus on things, I like to write Tolkien fics and think about Gondor. I enjoy resurrecting Tolkien's female characters, rage and grief, overuse of parentheses, and unromantic discussions about love and marriage. Loving the Dol Amroth family is as close as I come to specialising.

The Lord of the Rings fics

thank you @inkedmoth for tagging me! <3

I'm currently going super niche and working on a fic about Miryeman, a Haradrim refugee who will one day become Lord Duinhir's second wife. There's a lot of emphasis on the roles that Miryeman is playing, as a mother, as a member of her community and as Duinhir's mistress, and Miryeman's constant worries about how 'well' she's doing it according to both her standards and the standards of those watching her. And there are ever more people watching her.

Her greatest fear had been that he would fall in love with her. Certainly it would make him easier to pry favours from, but that introduced a whole new dimension of instability. A man in love expected a woman to love him in return, and would not react well when he did not receive it. And Miryeman had never been a good actress in that regard. Bakhtiar had been patient and perceptive enough to notice when she loved him, had taken the silent companionship and carefully made gifts for exactly what they were and greeted them with a smile and a kiss. She was not capable of those ludicrous displays of passion expected of a woman in love. It was terrifying really, how few roles would be open to her if Duinhir decided to drag them into the horrifying theatre of romantic love. The blushing virgin was long gone, the handily rescuable whore was beneath her and she had not the unhappy wife’s enviable resources and position which granted her the ability to accept a confession of love without promising herself in turn. When the gifts began to arrive she had been sweating every time, terrified that she would see that telltale warmth in his eyes, of love, or lust deluding itself as love, and that the floor would be ripped out from beneath her feet. Gradually, however, she came to realise that the gifts were not an attempt to win affection, at least not of the romantic sort. She was his mistress and, in that position, she was due certain privileges and means. And she was eternally grateful that he knew better than to give her money; that would have been an unforgivable indignity. Instead fine clothes found their way into her clothes chest, set carefully aside to be worn on the afternoons and evenings they spent together, fine blankets and other practical objects were carefully spread about the house or sold, and jewellery was hidden in the walls to be kept as insurance. It was a big day indeed when she was forced to sell her first piece of jewellery—a silver bracelet—to pay for a variety of catastrophes within the same week including a broken pipe, a hike in rent and a neighbour whose daughter could not produce milk and was in desperate need of a wet nurse and medical attention. The man at the pawn shop had immediately and frankly accused her of stealing. Miryeman's pulse had stuttered, feeling horror and fear wash over her as she felt the eyes of all those in the room turn to her, taking in the colour of her skin, the loose trousers she wore, the blue scarf over her hair. Slowly, taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth and heard herself say, “Very well, sir. You may accuse me of thievery if you wish. I will be happy to wait here while my son goes to find a man of the household of Lord Duinhir to confirm that this is mine.” The man had scoffed, confused and incredulous. “And what business have you with Lord Duinhir?” he mocked. “Well, I’m his mistress, so my business with him is really none of yours.” Her heart was in her mouth when she spoke and she prayed that she was not flushed as red as she felt. It was a horrifying admittance, the word felt like an ill-weighted tool, more an insult to her than a weapon in her favour. Her mother would cover her face in shame to see her now. There are other words. Softer ones. More respectable. And yet are they? Or are they simply pretty drapery, transforming me from a woman without morals to the same but ashamed and seeking to pretend otherwise? No. Better brazen than ashamed.