#daerdan

Thanks for asking! This is a LOTRO post-canon rebuilding-of-Annúminas fic that I have been working on-and-off on for EVER. It may eventually get finished, but either way it's fun.

The basic premise is that the Rangers are all super excited about the rebuilding of Annúminas--- the king's city! rebuilt again! with actual people living in it!--- but the logistics of it are kind of beyond their skill level. They're good at figuring out how to live in ruins and make them defensible. Actually rebuilding the city for long-term use by Regular People is totally new.

So we have some stonemasons/architects/city planners brought in from Bree and Gondor, some Dwarves Gimli brought in and a few curious Elves from Ered Luin and Rivendell. Those people all (mostly) know what they're doing. And then you have their extremely enthusiastic self-appointed apprentices in the Rangers, who are all various levels of Scruffy Dirtmen but who the king apparently trusts so??? They roll with it!

There's also some stuff on how a first step in a lot of places in Annúminas is to tear some/all of the previous architecture down. This is exactly what the Rangers have been protecting against for several decades now, and there's some adjacent angst.

Here's an excerpt!

"This is all my fault."

The voice was soft, barely a whisper above the sound of the falls. The frogs did not add their voices, and the snakes made no passage and no sound. She could not help him now, not the way he needed.

"My fault..." It was a small, despondent repetition. Gwindeth stepped around the bodies of the others, some still in hurt or slumber, some shifting in pain or confusion. She found him and crouched down. This one she knew from the city. This one watched over the places of his ancestors and his living kin alike. This one was good.

He couldn't see her with his face creased like that. Contorted in pain and guilt. She didn't like being seen, not always, but this one was lost. He did not need to suffer so. Gwindeth ran a hand just over his forehead. Water ran freely off his face and moved his hair from his eyes. It fell into the grass from the cloak and shoulder-guard pressing so heavily on his neck.

One of the others would come around soon. Not many in her halls were in grave danger. A few. She would see to them before it became worse. But this one needed her, if only for another moment. His despair was heavier than the water draining back into her ponds. Water could do so much good and so much harm to Men. Heal or hurt.

"I should have... now we're all..."

He was still in the throes. Guilt or pain or guilt and pain. The losses could have been heavier. He did not know. A frog croaked. Gwindeth turned and saw the largest Man roll onto his stomach. His cloak ran with water and with blood, but still he tried to get to his knees. He would stumble in another moment. Untended, he would die in another minute.

"No," she finally said. Softly, for his ears alone. "It is not yours. It is mine, and not wholly mine. Will I guard Elendil's tomb but not his children?"